Sunday, 6pm

No way am I going to sleep. The train is a slow, relaxed one and it’s almost deserted. There’s sun pouring in, making my knees pleasantly warm as it bakes the denim of my jeans. I should be getting drowsy by now, but I can’t keep my thoughts from racing ahead of me.

Instead, I sit with my hands clasped together, hunched forward and probably frowning. I look at the soft black travel bag I’ve brought, which sits on the seat opposite me. There’s really not a lot in there for two weeks, I think to myself for the twentieth time.

I’m paranoid that some stranger is going to want to chat, ask me where I’m off to, why my bag is so small. Ludicrous: this is England. Strangers do not chat. And anyway, there’s only one other person in this carriage. An elderly man with a dog on a lead. Just back from Sunday lunch and a walk in the fields, I’m sure. I glance at him, but his nose is still buried in The Times.

I sigh. Are we there yet? Do I want to arrive at all? I chew even harder on my gum and stare out of the window as Cotswolds idyll slides past in the softening summer light. Some sheep, the odd cow, plenty of yellow flowers. Even the horses seem to be feeling lazy: I spot several lying on their sides in the paddocks. I wonder if they’re judging me. Shut up, Emma, you idiot. Horses mount each other in full view of everyone.

There’s a crazy nightmare thought that won’t leave my head: what if my parents climb aboard? For fuck’s sake Emma! Mum and Dad never take Sundays in the country by train. Dad will be watching the football and Mum will be badgering him to do some chore or other. Ugh. The whole image makes me glad I’m doing this experiment: no way to I want to get into that kind of domestic bliss.

Only Martin knows where I’m going. Parents and friends alike have been sold the line that I’m taking a holiday on a very small Greek island. One that has no phone signal. The folks took some convincing that my cottage didn’t have a landline or anything, but eventually they had to accept my incommunicado trip. I’d just lost my job after all – who wouldn’t want to get away from everything for a couple of weeks? It would have to do, anyway. I’d rather die than tell my folks where I am headed.  

I keep wondering if any of the other girls starting tomorrow are on this train, but I’ve hardly seen a soul at any of the country stations we’ve stopped at. I wonder if they will have brought more than I have. But the letter said we wouldn’t need to bring much clothing other than a couple of casual outfits. It had said most clothing would be supplied, ‘where necessary’. Ever since I started packing yesterday, I’ve been wondering what that meant.

Apart from that I’ve just got my toothbrush and toiletries, a couple of books and my iPad. But if this train ride is anything to go by, then I won’t be doing much reading in the next two weeks. I tried reading once but I just can’t seem to focus. Images keep invading my head: Charles sitting in a plush, comfortable armchair, beckoning me to him; my handsome high school maths teacher calling me to the front of the class and instructing me to bend; feeling the tight cling of a close-fitting black dress as I ring the doorbell of a Mayfair apartment.

The man with the newspaper folds it up and rises as we pull into another deserted station. His spaniel, head down, strains at the leash as they walk towards me. The man nods casually at me as he passes, giving one of those awkward half-smile, half-grimace greetings we English like so much. I flush in response. What if he knows?

I’m alone in the carriage now. Next stop, I’m off.

Sunday, 6.30pm

The end of the line. Trains do not penetrate the Cotswolds beyond this station. I stand up and brush myself down. Silly, really: I’m only in a baggy black t-shirt and jeans, and my hair’s such a mess I’ve bunned it up. But I’m being met. By someone. And that nervous, first-day-of-term feeling has come back to me.

I take a deep breath as I gather my bag and make for the door. Cautiously, I open it and climb down the steep drop onto the platform. Only a handful of people are spilling out of the other carriages. The train’s motor has been switched off, and the sounds of chirping birds are louder than the footsteps of my fellow passengers. The turbocharged trot of high heels that follow me everywhere in London is conspicuous by its absence on a Sunday evening in the country.

I was a long way down the train, and most people have reached the platform exit already. From what I can see, most of the people on board were a lot older than me. The sort of people who might have gone to a museum in Oxford for the afternoon, or taken tea in one of the small towns on the way. But I notice one young woman who stands right out. She’s my age…no, younger. Maybe only twenty. That’s a short skirt. Fuck, she’s gorgeous. Oh my God. I bet she’s one of us. I’m so not going to fit in here.

She’s messing with her phone as she walks, but I can tell that she has spotted me. I keep my eyes down. She reaches the doorway before me. I follow her through the small ticket office and blink as I emerge into the bright sunlight. There’s little more than a patch of gravel outside. Typical country station: they’d built it well outside the village.

A car has pulled up just to the right of the doorway. It’s a Jaguar, but I’d guess it’s one from the sixties. British racing green. A smart chauffeur stands next to the passenger doors, both of which are already open. I’m relieved we’re just about the last ones off the train: this was not the low-key pickup I’d have chosen. I thought this school place was meant to be discreet?

“Miss Carling! Miss Stoycheva! Welcome!”

He gestures towards the car doors. The blonde in front of me, who I gather must be Eastern European, barely nods at the chauffeur, and makes for the front seat. She’s carrying even less than I am. Still hasn’t said hello.

“Err, hi…” I say.

“I’m Chris and I’ll be taking you girls through to the school. Pleased to meet you!” He offers a hand and I shake it. He is smart in his uniform, and his easy manner has a calming effect on me.

“Good journey?” he asks as he motions me towards the back door.

“Yeah, it was OK…probably did too much thinking though…”

“Ah, don’t worry,” he said, closing the door after me and making his way to the driver’s seat. “That’s normal enough, although we get all sorts of reactions here.”

He looks over his shoulders at me and rolls his eyes towards the blonde, still tapping away on her phone. I smile back at him. I like Chris already.

“This is already an unusual experience,” I say to him as he turns the key and the engine bursts into life with a throaty rumble. “First time I’ve had a chauffeur or ridden in a car like this…I wasn’t quite expecting it…”

“Well I’m not sure how much you’ve heard,” says Chris as we pull out onto a narrow country lane. “But you can expect to be treated very, very well. It’s all….you know….part of getting used to some of the circles you might be moving in when you’re done.”

I stay silent. The leathery interior is warm and comfortable, but I’m not quite ready to pursue this conversation with a man I’ve just met. There’s still a paranoid part of me worrying that I’ve got the wrong end of the wrong stick, or that the whole school-for-hookers things is a big practical joke. I change the subject.

“Lovely out here, isn’t it? I’m a city girl really, never been out this way much.”

“Oh, you poor thing! The countryside is gorgeous round here, and in this weather there’s nowhere I’d rather be. I’m from these parts so I would say that, but I bet you’ll agree soon enough! Where we’re going is one of those well-kept secrets – a long way from any trains or big roads – you’ll love it out there!”

I smile, roll down my window and nestle into the back seat. I feel better now than I did on the train.

“We’ve got about 40 minutes through the back roads,” says Chris. “Just relax and enjoy the ride.”



Sunday, 7.15pm

“We’re just about here, ladies.”

I sit up and take in my surroundings. True to Chris’s word, it’s gotten quieter and quieter as we’ve driven closer to our destination. We’ve been mostly on single-track roads, and passing traffic has been rare. Once or twice we’ve had to pull into a lay-by to let somebody squeeze by, but what cars there have been have mostly deferred to our stately Jag.

The road we’re in now is very shady, with willow trees hanging low on the left hand side. They brush my window as we motor past. To the right, a hedge, and beyond that a field of sheep, still drenched in sunlight. Now Chris has his flicker on, and I feel a pulse rise in my throat. We must be here.

The car takes a left at a break in the willows, and pulls up in front of iron gates framed by two grey-stone pillars. Curious, I lean forward between the front seats for a better view. There’s a stone bird of prey atop each pillar. Our chauffeur presses a button somewhere on the dash and the gates begin to open.

We pass through onto a gravel driveway. Even the bitchy blonde seems interested now. Chris swings the car to the right and I gasp.

Holy shit. There’s a mansion in front of us. No, wait, a chateau. It’s built in a French style, not the usual Cotswolds way, although the masonry is as beige as the rest of the houses in this part of the country. Two wings extend out towards us, like big arms waiting to gather us in to the front door. The wings are longer than the middle section is wide: more eccentric than beautiful, but certainly imposing.

I can see two stories of enormous windows, seven on the front and eight on the side wings. That’s a lot of rooms. Now I notice more windows, small ones protruding from a dark roof reminiscent of the Louvre’s in Paris. Attic rooms, maybe. I even notice a couple of haphazard turrets, with tiny windows of their own. I wonder where I’ll be sleeping.

This is no school. This is a manor house. A country place for someone very, very rich. And a lot of servants.

Chris lets me out of the door and I raise my eyebrows as I take in the full scale of it all while I stretch and try to look comfortable. I somehow expected something a little more institutional, but if there really are only 12 of us then there’ll be room to spare. I smile at the thought that this will be my home for two weeks.

“Welcome to Cranleigh House. Like what you see?” says Chris.

“It’s like…well, it looks a lot more spacious than my flat in London!”

“I think you’re right there. And the grounds are endless. Just watch out for the ghost!”

I blanch. Even the other girl gives Chris a worried look.

“Only kidding, girls! Probably…”

He winks at me, but not her.

“But Chris, this looks like someone’s home! Whose is it? Do they actually live here?”

“Ah, that would be telling. Actually even I don’t know, Miss Carling. Honestly. These things are kept secret, and I’m sure you can understand why. But clearly he’s not short of a penny or two. And he must like his home being used for…training purposes.”

He clears his throat and beckons us towards the front door.

“I’ll be leaving you here, ladies. You’ll be in good hands.”

Before I can say anything he touches his fingers to his cap, turns on his heel and makes for the Jaguar.

For a moment I am alone with the other girl, stranded on the doorstep and wondering what will happen next. I try to give her a smile, but her blue eyes flit past mine and look away. I am not even sure if she speaks English. She snorts impatiently and pulls out her phone again. I’m sure it’s just avoidance: the letter made it quite clear there was no signal out here.

Now the heavy door begins to open. It creaks, and all I can see at first is gloom beyond it. But now a woman appears. She has a kindly, bespectacled face, like that of a favourite aunt. She must be in her fifties, and wears a long dress. If she’s meant to look like a teacher, she’s got it spot on.

“Hello girls! Lovely to see you – that’s everyone now!” She beams with delight. “Come in, please! Both so beautiful! I’m Miss Honeywell, I’m the housekeeper. Now, which of you is which?”

I like this lady.

“I’m Emma Carling…”

She shakes my hand warmly, then looks at the other girl.

“You must be Petra then!”

“Yes.” It is the first time I have heard her speak, and one word is enough to confirm that she does have a thick accent. They shake hands and we follow Miss Honeywell into the mansion.

“You must be tired from your trip! I’d best show you two to your room.”

Room? I have to share with her? I sigh inwardly as I bite my tongue. I’m not going to get into any arguments. I’d had my fill of those at my last job.

“The house is pretty empty tonight,” continued Miss Honeywell as we head toward a grand central stairway. “The main staff don’t arrive till morning. But you can leave your bags here, Wilfred will bring them up in a moment!

“It’s my job to get all of you girls settled in. I’ll be here throughout your stay, and I’m in charge of your day-to-day care and your time outside of classes. You can always come to me if you need anything.”

We’re climbing the staircase now. Petra is ahead of me, and I can’t help noticing the golden strip of skin between the bottom of her close-fitting blouse and the top of her skimpy skirt. Her butt is right at my eye level, and it’s very cute as the cheeks bobble up and down in time with her leg movements. I’m feeling decidedly unglamorous, and wonder what the other girls have chosen to wear today.

We turn left at the top of the vast oak staircase, then follow the hall around to the right. It feels like we must be moving down one of the wings, but it’s hard to tell because the doors are all closed and I can’t hear a sound. We walk to the very end, passing beneath a couple of elegant chandeliers, and stop before a solid-looking wooden door with a gold knob.

“Girls, this is to be your room,” says Miss Honeywell as she pushes it open. “As you can see, there is plenty of space.”

I stop and stare. This room is, in all seriousness, bigger than my flat. I can see two vast double beds, thankfully they’re far apart. Petra, of course, has already claimed the one furthest from the door by trotting across and dumping her handbag on it. Could be a long two weeks…

It looks like we won’t have to share very much, at least. There are two dressing tables, two full-length standing mirrors and two chests of drawers, one with an old-fashioned ticking clock on it. I notice one beautiful free-standing bath in the corner near the window. Well, it’s not so much a window as a French door with a cast-iron railing beyond it.

I walk over to the window and take in the view. I can see the willows, the road we came in on, and beyond that the verdant fields. Nothing but rolling countryside. We must be miles from the nearest neighbour. I shiver slightly at the thought. Maybe it’s the evening drawing in. Maybe something else.

Miss Honeywell interrupts my thoughts: “I should point out the walk-in wardrobe,” she says as we troop after her to a door between the two chests of drawers. “We have stocked it up according to the measurements each of you sent us last week. Everything on the left is yours, Emma, and everything on the right is for Petra. Starting tomorrow, you will always dress, where necessary, from this wardrobe. Please keep it tidy.”

There it was again. Where necessary.

Even from the doorway I can see it’s like a small clothing shop inside there. I feel myself gaping at the sheer volume of it all. I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do. “You’ll have plenty of time to look through all that this evening. Let me show you your underwear.”

She waves to the chests of drawers. “You’re not to wear any of your own underwear after tonight. You will find everything you could ever need in those drawers. Again, yours is on the left, Emma. Everything in there is brand new…you’re such lucky girls to be young enough to wear what’s in there, that’s all I can say!”

I smile at her. I like her attitude and couldn’t have asked for a friendlier welcome. Apart from my icy room-mate, that is.

“Girls, we like to let you rest on your first night. Wilfred will bring you your bags and an evening meal shortly. Tomorrow you’ll get properly briefed and shown around. The bathroom you’ll use is just at the top of the stairs. Please don’t stray beyond there until after your tour tomorrow.

“I’ll say good night to you for now. If you need anything, you can call Wilfred or me with this buzzer button, but I should imagine you’ll be alright getting to know each other. And get an early night: you’ve got a big day ahead.”

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