The Club(35)

Obviously when you were as rich and successful as Jackson Crane, this was just the way things went in life. Someone else always there to make sure you had whatever you wanted within reach, the instant you needed it. Someone else always there to tidy up your mess.

The last three hours had not been simply a matter of returning the room to its factory settings, so to speak. Just as with every other guest on the island, Jackson Crane’s Home records contained detailed instructions on how a room was to be prepared for his arrival. For every member there were notes specifying their preferred ambient air temperature, their favourite flower, their preferred brand of soap and shampoo and moisturiser and hand sanitiser. All their requirements, all their requests, everything from scented candles to black-out blinds, salt lamps to charged crystals (whatever they were). Some of these lists went on for pages.

Jackson and Georgia Crane’s had been the very first Jess had read.

The note on Jackson Crane’s specified that any room in which he was staying was always to be provided with: one bottle of Midleton Very Rare Irish whiskey, decanted into heavy crystal, one bottle of Rhum Clément, two bottles of Dom Perignon Vintage 2008, a half-dozen Diet Cokes. It also noted that the room should be kept at a temperature of thirteen degrees Celsius at all times, that his pillow should be rock-hard, that there should be a copy of The Catcher in the Rye on the bedside table, and that unless he had issued specific instructions to the contrary, he was under no circumstances ever to be disturbed.

According to Georgia’s notes, she liked a medium-strength massage, hated flowers in her room (the pollen) and required there to be twelve large bottles of Tasmanian Rain mineral water in her fridge at all times. A weighted cashmere face mask was to be left on the dresser, her pillowcases made of silk. Three sets of size-two Lululemon workout gear were to be left in her wardrobe, along with a cushioned yoga mat. The notes also specified that she was always to be given separate accommodation from her husband – and that she was never to be asked about his whereabouts.

Jess had been expecting that.

Working at The Grange all these years, living just down the road from Country Home, she had heard all sorts of rumours about Jackson and Georgia Crane. About his drinking. About their marriage. While their house in London was being refurbished, a few years back – by the same designer who had revamped Venice Home, naturally – they had actually lived at Country Home.

‘We were so excited,’ Jess could remember one of their bar staff – a pretty girl she had vaguely known at primary school and had bumped into at the supermarket and invited for a catch-up drink – telling her over a bottle of wine one evening. ‘I mean, we were used to famous members, but both of them at once, staying for months? That was different.’

‘So what are they really like?’ Jess had asked.

Georgia, apparently, was even more beautiful than she looked onscreen, very down to earth, surprisingly friendly.

‘And Jackson?’

The girl’s expression had wavered slightly.

‘He’s very charming, too, the first time you meet him. Then charming in the exact same way the second time. And the third. Same jokes. Same questions. I mean, I get that. I know he meets a lot of people. Still, by about day three, it got . . . kind of weird.’

Jess had topped both their wine glasses up, pressed for more details. What about the Cranes as a couple, she had asked. Did they seem happy? Was it true they never actually shared a room?

‘I mean, it’s not unusual for married members to have separate suites. I sort of think you would, if you could afford it. I would. We all kind of got the impression they were going through a bit of a bad patch, though. They hardly seemed to spend any time together at all. She would jog around the lake every morning, he would go for a run in the gym. She would go for a swim and learn some lines by the pool in the afternoon, he would go for a horse-ride or use one of the meeting rooms to make calls in.’

It was the same childhood acquaintance who told Jess about the precision and care with which every guest’s personal preferences were catered to at Home. About the whiskey and the champagne and the Diet Cokes, all of which needed replacing every single day. The bottle of rum that needed replacing every two. All this on top of the wine Jackson would put away with dinner, sometimes with Georgia but more often alone, the drinks he would get through in the bar afterwards, sitting there by himself in a corner of the room in his baseball cap, his dark glasses, night after night.

It was strange to think that conversation – how many years ago now? – had planted the seed in her mind that was on the cusp of germinating now.

Jess checked the time on her watch. She was now the last person left in the spotless cabin. If everything was running according to schedule, everyone should be at lunch now. She inspected the drinks cabinet. She inspected the fridge. She tested the pillows with her hand, smoothed the ironed-in creases. She adjusted the lighting slightly, rechecked the room temperature and allowed herself a little rush of excitement. It was hard not to feel excited, the way things seemed to be falling into place.

From one of her pockets she removed the plastic sachet into which earlier that morning she had ground not just the sleeping pills she had taken from Kyra Highway’s room, but the various – and numerous – tablets and capsules she had obtained before coming to the island. Combined, they had produced a surprising amount of white powder, but it was a new bottle of Midleton and there was more than enough whiskey to dissolve it all.