‘We can’t let her down,’ Marji persisted, anxious as she sensed her lack of enthusiasm. ‘To be honest, she’s somewhat fragile. Last minute nerves. I don’t have to tell you how important this is and I believe that Crystal would be comfortable with you.’
Oh, right. Now they were both being patronised. Tarred with the same ‘not one of us’ brush, and for a moment she was tempted to tell Marji exactly what she could do with her wedding and to hell with the consequences.
Instead, she said, ‘You’ll run a piece in the next issue of the magazine mentioning that I’m taking over?’
‘It’s Serafina’s design,’ she protested.
‘Of course. Let’s hope she’s fit enough to travel tomorrow—’
‘But we will be happy to add our thanks to you for stepping in at the last moment, Josie,’ she added hurriedly.
It was a non-committal promise at best and she recognised as much, but everyone would know, which was all that mattered. And in the end this wasn’t about her, or Marji, or even the wedding queen herself.
If Sylvie had taught her anything, it was that no bride, especially a bride whose wedding was going to be featured in full colour for all the world to see, should be left without someone who was totally, one hundred per cent, there for her on the big day. Josie let out a long, slow breath.
‘Courier the files to my office, Marji. I’ll email you a contract.’
Her hand was shaking as she replaced the receiver and looked up. ‘Email a standard contract to Marji Hayes at Celebrity, Emma.’
‘Celebrity!’
‘Standard hourly rate, with a minimum of sixty hours, plus travel time,’ she continued, with every outward appearance of calm. ‘All expenses to their account. We’ve picked up the Tal Newman/Crystal Blaize wedding.’
As Emma tossed notebook and pen in the air, whooping with excitement, her irritation at Marji’s attitude quite suddenly melted away.
‘Where?’ she demanded. ‘Where is it?’
‘I could tell you,’ she replied, a broad grin spreading across her face. ‘But then I’d have to kill you.’
‘Dumela, Rra. O tsogile?’
‘Dumela, Francis. Ke tsogile.’’
Gideon McGrath replied to the greeting on automatic. He’d risen. Whether he’d risen well was another matter.
This visit to Leopard Tree Lodge had taken him well out of his way, a day and night stolen from a packed schedule that had already taken him to a Red Sea diving resort, then on down the Gulf to check on the progress of the new dhow he’d commissioned for coastal cruising from the traditional boat-builders in Ramal Hamrah.
While he was there, he’d joined one of the desert safaris he’d set up in partnership with Sheikh Zahir, spending the night with travellers who wanted a true desert experience rather than the belly-dancer-and-dune-surfing breaks on offer elsewhere.
He was usually renewed by the experience but when he’d woken on a cold desert morning, faced with yet another airport, the endless security checks and long waits, he’d wondered why anyone would do this for pleasure.
For a man whose life was totally invested in the travel business, who’d made a fortune from selling excitement, adventure, the dream of Shangri-La to people who wanted the real thing, it was a bad feeling.
A bad feeling that had seemed to settle low in his back with a non-specific ache that he couldn’t seem to shake off. One that had been creeping up on him almost unnoticed for the best part of a year.
Ever since he’d decided to sell Leopard Tree Lodge.
Connie, his doctor, having X-rayed him up hill and down dale, had ruled out any physical reason.
‘What’s bothering you, Gideon?’ she asked when he returned for the results.
‘Nothing,’ he lied. ‘I’m on top of the world.’
It was true. He’d just closed the deal on a ranch in Patagonia that was going to be his next big venture. She shook her head as he told her about it, offered her a holiday riding with the gauchos.
‘You’re the one who needs a holiday, Gideon. You’re running on empty.’
Empty?
‘You need to slow down. Get a life.’
‘I’ve got all the life I can handle. Just fix me up with another of those muscle relaxing injections for now,’ he said. ‘I’ve got a plane to catch.’
She sighed. ‘It’s a temporary measure, Gideon. Sooner or later you’re going to have to stop running and face whatever is causing this or your back will make the decision for you. At least take a break.’
‘I’ve got it sorted.’
Maybe a night spent wrapped in a cloak on the desert sand hadn’t been his best idea, he’d decided as he’d set out for the airport and the pain had returned with a vengeance. Now, after half a dozen meetings and four more flights, the light aircraft had touched down on the dirt airstrip he’d carved out of the bush with such a light heart just over ten years ago.
It had been a struggle to climb out of the aircraft, almost as if his body was refusing to do what his brain was telling it.
His mistake had been to try.
The minute he’d realised he was in trouble, he should have told the pilot to fly him straight back to Gabarone, where a doctor who didn’t know him would have patched him up without question so that he could fly on to South America.
Stupidly, he’d believed a handful of painkillers, a hot shower and a night in a good bed would sort him out. Now he was at the mercy of the medic he retained for his staff and guests and who, having conferred with his own doctor in London, had resolutely refused to give him the get-out-of-jail-free injection.
All he’d got was a load of New Age claptrap about his body demanding that he become still, that he needed to relax so that it could heal itself. That it would let him know when it was ready to move on.
With no estimate of how long that might be.
Connie had put it rather more bluntly with her ‘…stop running’.
Well, that was why he was here. To stop running. He’d had offers for the Lodge in the past—offers that his board had urged him to take so that they could invest in newer, growing markets. He’d resisted the pressure. It had been his first capital investment. A symbol. An everlasting ache…
‘Are there any messages, Francis?’ he asked.
‘Just one, Rra.’ He set down the breakfast tray on the low table beside him, took a folded sheet of paper from his pocket and, with his left hand supporting his right wrist, he offered it to him with traditional politeness. ‘It is a reply from your office.’ Before he could read it, he said, ‘It says that Mr Matt Benson has flown to Argentina in your place so you have no need to worry. Just do exactly what the doctor has told you and rest.’ He beamed happily. ‘It says that you must take as long as you need.’
Gideon bit back an expletive. Francis didn’t understand. No one understood.
Matt was a good man but he hadn’t spent every minute of the last fifteen years building a global empire out of the untapped market for challenging, high risk adventure holidays for the active and daring of all ages.
Developing small, exclusive retreats off the beaten track that offered privacy, luxury, the unusual for those who could afford to pay for it.
Matt, like all his staff, was keen, dedicated, but at the end of the day he went home to his real life. His wife. His children. His dog.
There