3
We had the choice of an impressive plethora of pools, seven to be precise, each offered something unique. We walked the resort before breakfast to gain some understanding. It was overwhelming. I wasn’t sure two weeks would be enough time to get to grips with everything the hotel had to offer.
We followed a series of walkways shaded with bamboo before opting for the pool in the middle section. The Bali beds made our decision. There were eight in total with four on either side of the cross shaped pool. The dark grey padded daybeds were elevated on thick wooden bases. A broad tree trunk table sat to the left of each one with a large square canvas umbrella shading from the right. The backdrop of bamboo palms, sea grape plants, thatch palms, as well as numerous other native greeneries created a jungle experience.
“This is beautiful,” I said.
“I know.” Sarah launched herself onto the second bed.
“Is it bad if we take two?” I asked.
“I’m not playing three in a bed with you two; it’s way too hot for that!” Billie chirped.
“Take your pick, Harps. You can share a daybed with either one of these fine specimens right here.” She wiggled her eyebrows, gesturing back and forth between her and Sarah. She sprawled out across the cushioned haven, her white cover up revealing everything from the waist down.
“You should tip the girl who does your bikini wax. She’s done good.” I smirked. Billie almost broke her ribs to get a better look at her own bikini line.
“She has actually. I’m impressed. I’m dolphin smooth now,” Billie said with a straight face.
Sarah chuckled. “I’m just glad you started shaving your moustache.”
“Hey! We don’t talk about Dastardly.” Billie rubbed at her top lip. Dastardly Whiplash was the famous villain Billie named her nonexistent “moustache” after.
“You’re so dramatic.”
It really wasn’t that bad. So, she had a bit of lip hair, like most women did. The little blonde hairs became slightly more prominent when she had a tan, hence the full pre-holiday waxing routine.
I dropped my natural-coloured straw beach bag down on the bed next to Sarah. It was the most practical fifteen pounds I’d ever spent. It saw me through at least six holidays: being washed out to sea, several burst bottles of sun cream, and enough cocktail spillages that if I squeezed it, she’d probably still have the remnants of a pi?a colada from the last holiday. I did wash her, occasionally.
“Oh, it’s like that is it?” Billie eyed my bed of choice; she stretched her whole body in a star shape position. “More room for me.”
Sarah was less invasive than Billie. The last thing I needed in thirty-five-degree heat was Billie clambering on top of me to reach the sun cream on the table. A simple, Can you pass me the sun cream ? was an unreasonable request. I’d been on enough holidays with Billie to know her sunbathing habits .
There was a dark wooden shelving unit at the entrance to the pool area. It was full to the brim with rolled up beige towels. The towels were professionally folded like someone had spent three hours preparing them for a photoshoot for the Victorian Plumbing website.
It was a simple thing, providing towels, most hotels did, but I’d never been to a hotel where you launch them into a large wicker laundry basket at the end of the day and collect a new one the next morning. There was no lugging them back and forth to the hotel room. There was no worry I might lose a towel and therefore lose the deposit I’d paid to get the towels in the first place. I’m not sure the hotel would be classed as a green hotel, per se. There were no signs asking me to reuse the towels for the sake of the planet and no threatening appeal to cut pressure on the environment, but they probably saved the planet in other ways. It was only day one; I had a lot to learn.
“I know I’ve said it fifty times already, but this place is unreal,” I gushed.
“It’s only day one and I think we’ve discovered the word of the holiday,” Sarah said. “Hey, maybe we should get it tattooed? Something like... Unreal Mexico 2K2...”
“Eww. We’re not twelve, and our body’s aren’t the inside of a bathroom cubicle.” I settled my towel on top of the bed. It took me several seconds to straighten the ends; the whip of wind curled the edges in a way that made me cringe. I’m not saying it’s a diagnosed disorder, but it’s certainly not normal.
“Pfft.” Sarah removed her T-shirt to reveal a white sporty bikini top and a body covered in tattoos .
“It’s also a five-star resort, not Blackpool. I think they’d pay us not to get that tattoo,” Billie sassed. She grabbed another two towels from the stand on top of the one I’d already got for her.
“Why do you need three towels?” I questioned.
“One for the bottom, one for a pillow, and one for when I’m wet,” Billie said. She displayed her towels like she was about to receive a spa massage.
“You’re excessive,” I joked. “It makes perfect sense. You use all four towels when you have a shower, which I still can’t wrap my head around.”
“You use four towels when you have a shower?” Sarah interjected. She was now lathering her whole tattooed body in the SPF 15 oil I warned her against purchasing at the airport. The sun-kissed glow the bottle promised was more important to Sarah than the pain of burnt skin. I forced her to purchase the large bottle of aloe vera gel as a compromise.
“Yes.”
“How?” Sarah asked.
“One big towel for my hair, one small towel to semi-dry my body. I don’t think it’s hygienic to use the same towel for your naughty bits, so I use another small hand towel for that, and then I put body lotion on and wrap the large towel around my body whilst it soaks in,” Billie said without taking a breath.
“I bet the cleaners will love you,” Sarah said sarcastically.
“Do you see this...” Billie used her index finger to draw a circle in the space around her sun bed. “This is a judge-free zone.”
Sarah shook her head, a familiar smirk appearing on her lips .
They continued to bicker whilst I unpacked my trusty beach bag; inside were two different lotions, my Air Pods, the complimentary mosquito spray from the hotel bathroom, a deck of cards for when boredom struck, and my ten-year-old holiday purse I purchased from TK Max. I purchased three new bikinis, two new pairs of flip-flops, and three pairs of shorts for the holiday, but I still had the same purse and bag from prehistoric times—go figure.
I liked to think I led a humble life. I didn’t have a great deal growing up. I came from a single parent household, and with that came its challenges. The moment I could leave school and get a full-time job I did. I’d always been independent and self-reliant. I knew the value of money. I knew what it was like to have very little, and that motivated me to forge a career, work hard, and build a life for myself. It wasn’t luxurious by any means. I had to work hard, and I saved for the better part of twelve months to afford the holiday we were so lucky to be experiencing. I intended to appreciate every luxury from the towels to the complimentary amenities. Even the free cotton buds.
The hotel was filled with Americans. It only took half a day exploring the grounds to realise other English holidaymakers were few and far between. The many American dialects were hard to decipher. I started to play a game with myself— Guess the Accent —not the most original title. At lunch the guy ordering a fresh taco sounded like a midwestern newscaster. I guessed Minnesota, or maybe even Michigan, but I couldn’t be sure. The woman sat at the table next to me asked the waiter for a cawfee and missed every r from every word she used; it was a clear giveaway for the Boston accent, and the easiest by far to identify.
When we resumed our places by the pool, the bed to the left of me and Sarah was now occupied. A plus-size lady in a bright blue bikini squeezed one boob at a time as she emptied the contents of the pool from her bikini top. She had on a straw hat and a pair of sunglasses dangling from her neck on a piece of string. The woman to her left had thick blonde hair with speckles of grey; she wore a baseball cap with the words I love Cancun written in fluorescent colours. I was yet to visit the resort gift shop, but I’d seen several people donning a similar cap. I listened to the two women converse for a few minutes, it wasn’t until the pronunciation of the word about that I realised they weren’t American.
“Are you guys from Canada?” I asked.
“We sure are. Where are you guys from?” The lady in the blue bikini asked.
“England.”
“Awesome. We love England. I’m Christina. This is Tracey.” Christina had a powerful voice; it was deep but high-pitched at the same time.
We all introduced ourselves; Sarah and Billie obliged. If it were up to them, I knew they’d never go out of their way to make conversation. Unfortunately for them, they were on holiday with me.
“Where in Canada?” I asked, absolutely not out of politeness, I was intrigued.
“A small town in Alberta, total population of about eight-thousand people,” Christina said whilst sipping through not one but two straws she had poking out of a watery cocktail .
“Canada is attached to the US, right?” Yes, I was widely aware my geography skills stopped within a fifty-mile radius of my hometown, but I saw it as an opportunity to learn.
“Yes, it’s classed as North America.”
“So, it’s like a state?” I questioned.
Christina chuckled. “Not quite. Canada is the second largest country in the world. I think America is fourth?” She turned to her friend for confirmation.
“Yeah, that’s right, but America has ten times the population. Canada is very remote,” Tracy confirmed.
“Oh, wow.”
I was the first to admit my general knowledge wasn’t the best. Nobody wanted me on their team at quiz night, unless the quiz was about the TV programme Married at First Sight , Animals, 2000s R on those topics I might stand a chance. I had a strong sense of smell and an extraordinary talent for guessing the fragrance notes of almost any candle.
The two women began comparing sun tans. Christina was a clear winner.
“I had to go on the tanning beds for two hundred minutes to get a base tan because my usual skin colour is luminous green,” Tracy projected around the pool area. I chuckled. She was funny.
Christina climbed into the pool to soak her sunburnt shoulders. “I’d be asking for a refund,” she bellowed.
“Have you guys tried the buffet restaurant for dinner?” Tracy directed the question at Sarah, who’d reluctantly removed a headphone to join in.
“No, is it good?”
“It’s so good. They have nachos, and they have that nice hot cheese, you know, the one that’s like a sauce, and they have fresh guacamole and salsa. I think the guacamole is homemade. I make guacamole, and that certainly wasn’t store bought. I could eat it again right now, maybe not for breakfast though! I’ll wait until lunch.” The words came out in a hurry. I liked Tracy. She seemed sweet.
“Nachos covered in hot cheese?” Billies ears pricked up. “I like nachos.”
Billie remarkably managed to cram the food intake of a three-hundred-pound bodybuilder into her slender, sporty, five-foot-five frame. I’d seen it firsthand, and she made sure she got her money’s worth when it came to the all-inclusive food.
A short, rounded, middle-aged waiter approached. He had a kind face and flawless skin. It must’ve been the Mexican sun because I was yet to see a member of the hotel staff with a blemish.
“Can I get you some drinks se?oritas ?” He directed the question at the group, but Christina spoke first.
“Yeah!” she proclaimed.
“Yes, please,” Tracy corrected.
“Sorry, please.”
“She gets excited,” Tracy excused her enthusiastic friend. I got the impression she did that often.
“Have you guys tried the Caesar?” Christina asked.
“Yes, I love a Caesar salad,” Sarah proclaimed. “They’re my favourite.”
Tracy and Christina laughed. “No, not the salad, the drink.”
My face was just as confused as Sarah’s.
“The drink?” I asked.
“It’s a cocktail we have in Canada; it’s my favourite. It’s basically vodka, clam-infused tomato juice, hot sauce, and Worcestershire sauce. It’s so good.”
It sounded like a punishment.
“It sounds interesting. I guess it’s a bit like a Bloody Mary, right?” I asked.
I tried a Bloody Mary once, never again. It reminded me of the kind of drink you’re forced to inhale during a fruit cleanse and not the nice kale and apple one, which I could just about stomach. I tried a juice cleanse when I was twenty-three and failed miserably. It started off great; I managed to neatly stow away the bottles; I even managed to defrost them in time; that was the extent of my success. After the initial ginger shot that was supposed to boost my metabolism and awaken my tastebuds, I gave up. It did the complete opposite. It didn’t make my breakfast more enjoyable because all I could taste was ginger roughly making its way down my throat and clinging on to every tastebud I didn’t know I had.
“I’ll have whatever that is.” I pointed towards a different waiter on the other side of the pool. He made his way around the disorganised sun beds with a large hurricane shaped glass filled with an orange and red liquid.
“That’s a mango-tango; we had one earlier, also, fantastic,” Christina added. She reached up from the pool handing her empty glass to the waiter. I liked mango and I liked tango, regardless of whether either of those two things were in the drink. I decided to give it a go.
A handful of drinks later, following several interesting conversations about Canada’s cost of living, how to play lacrosse, and our joint love for mac and cheese, I discovered The King, as in England’s King Charles III, was also Canada’s King. I thought it was a joke. It took Billie Googling the proof for me to move on from the conversation .
Who knew? Well, apparently everyone but me, for whom history was officially in the same camp as geography.
Christina impressively necked her drink in one. I’d given up asking what concoction she was trying next after the first two drinks could only be described as hell in a glass; I realised we had very little in common when fluids were involved. She started to entertain our section of the pool quite naturally.
“Christina what are you doing fishing in the pool? You’re going to get us kicked out,” Tracy joked.
I’m not entirely sure where Christina acquired the fishing rod, but she fast reached the centre of the pool with a real-life fishing rod. Sarah could barely hold back the snorting as she watched Christina pretend to catch an older gentleman and reel him in.
“Not my type. I’ll unhook him.” She flicked the rod back.
“She goes ice fishing back home,” Tracy explained.
I knew nothing about ice fishing, but I would be terrified to do it. I used to have a poster as a child which involved Winnie the Pooh and Piglet ice fishing with nothing but a stick and some sardines. They looked happy on the picture, but I remember being petrified that they’d either fall into the hole or burn their bare bum cheeks on the freezing cold ice. My mum thought it went splendidly with the colour theme in my bedroom.
“Where did she get the rod?” I asked.
“She took it from the guy over there. He’s gone for lunch; she’ll replace it before he returns—I hope,” Tracy said, crossing her fingers tightly. She tiptoed over to the pool and began wading from one end of the shallow water to the other trying to achieve the perfect photo angle for Christina. She called out directions like a veteran camera woman on the red carpet at an event. I was impressed. Tracy was a good friend.
“Would you do that for me?” I turned to ask Billie.
“Absolutely not, one attempt is all you get with me.”
Billie was the complete opposite to me. I think that’s why our friendship blossomed with ease. Despite our differences there was a certain higher level of banter that, coupled with the right comedic timing, brought us to a common ground where nothing was off limits. We spent much of our time poking fun at each other, but I loved her even more for it.
“I’m joining in.” I jumped up.
“You’re what?” Sarah half choked on her freshly poured Mojito.
“I’m getting in. I want to see where Christina is going.” I adjusted my bikini bottoms, pulling high on the sides to compliment my figure. There was nothing I hated more than a bikini brief that refused to lift higher than my pelvic bone. I navigated the three steps down to the pool—carefully. I’d already seen three different people slip; one didn’t recover and is probably icing her coccyx. I delicately placed one foot in front of the other. I didn’t need to assist my clumsy self by running.
I spent the next ten minutes laughing uncontrollably as Christina crossed from one section of the pool to the next with the fishing rod she’d taken from a random man’s sun bed. Then she army rolled; she actually army rolled out of the pool onto the wooden decking with the rod intact and managed not to get the hook tangled in her hair or visibly injure herself. I don’t know how she did it, but the applause from other holidaymakers clarified just how impressive it was.
It wasn’t like me to enjoy being amongst the action. When people around me became rowdy I often found myself fading into the background, watching, and waiting for a moment to remove myself completely. I did enjoy the Canadians’ company, but it didn’t stop me from analysing those around me as I so often did. My ex-girlfriend told me I was too observant. I cared too much about what people thought of me. It got to the point where I assumed every glance or muffled conversation through gritted teeth was a bad thing.
There was only one person who caught my eye as I scanned the sparsely occupied sun loungers, and that was a girl not paying any attention to Christina, or to me, or to anyone in the pool area.
Was she alone? I couldn’t be sure.
The sun bed directly to her left wasn’t occupied. The umbrella shaded every part of her body bar her feet.
I’d watched her briefly look up from her book once. It was hard to make out the cover, it looked like a Colleen Hoover novel, but I couldn’t be sure.
In one swift movement she spun her green cap backwards, adjusting it on her head. She had long blonde perfectly plaited pigtails. I admired her forward thinking; the Mexican wind was strong, and my hair was starting to loosely resemble a tumble weed. I knocked my sunglasses down the bridge of my nose discreetly to observe her better.
She almost looked familiar.
The rainbow floral bikini somewhat matched her hat and her crotchet beach bag. It was hard to distinguish her facial features; the aviator sunglasses covered her eyes. The teardrop shape suited her face. Her long slender arms reached for the tall clear glass to her right. The perspiration from the glass must’ve dripped onto her torso; I couldn’t be sure, but she jolted and proceeded to pat at her chest and then her stomach with her now book-free hand.
Stop staring
She sat upright. The sun beat down on her chest as she edged forwards shuffling her body to the corner of the sun lounger. Her face strained, and her overall poise seemed standoffish and pompous. The way she flicked her hair over her shoulder and her expression as she dead-eyed the gentleman bellowing in the pool was almost—recognisable.
Did I know this girl?
Stop staring.
When she stood up, she covered her body in a long-oversized vest. She slid her feet into her flip-flops and immediately regretted it. There was a moment of severe discomfort etched on her face as she flicked them back off and quickly ran them along the edge of the pool. There are numerous levels of bad decisions that we can make in life, leaving black flip-flops in thirty-degree heat was one of the small but deplorable ones.
“Harper—”
I watched her pack her things into the crochet beach bag, then curl the towel in one swift motion tucking it under her arm. There was one last sense check before she seemingly retired from sunbathing for the day. Maybe she was going to meet her boyfriend? Sister? Best friend?
“Harper—”
“Huh,” I mumbled.
It sounded like Billie calling my name, but I was too intrigued by the all-American girl next door across the pool. She had to be American; not one piece of clothing on her body was recognisable to me, and I liked to shop. Nine times out of ten I could correctly guess which retailer a garment was from. It wouldn’t be my first-choice superpower, but a gift was a gift.
“Harper–!” The final call I heard loud and clear. Billie bellowed my name from her position eight feet away. I jumped; my glasses fell off the end of my nose and landed in my lap. My body’s perspiration mixed with sun cream made my stomach look like a soap dispenser; had I not been on holiday and completely captive by the suns burning rays I would’ve been disgusted by my appearance.
“What?” I managed to avert my gaze.
“I shouted you like four times! Who’s the girl?” Billie didn’t miss a trick.
“What girl?”
“The one you’ve spent the last ten minutes fixated on,” Billie clarified.
She sipped her fizzy orange equivalent of Fanta through a straw, patiently waiting for my response.
“I was not fixated,” I scoffed.
Okay, so I was maybe captivated for a split second, but only a second, the rest of the time she just happened to be in my sight line. It was perfectly normal to gawk at a stranger. Speaking of that stranger, I glanced in her direction again as she propelled her towel into the basket provided.
“You’ve got visible wrinkles on your forehead from the concentration.”
“I do not.” I slapped my hand to my head.
“She’s pretty,” Billie teased.
When I turned back all I saw was the edge of her orange crochet bag as she smoothly rounded the broad green plant that resembled a Venus flytrap eating an aubergine.
I audibly exhaled. She was gone .
“I’m sure you’ll see her again.” Billie smirked.
“I don’t care. I wasn’t even staring!”
I heard my voice; I sounded like a child. It was a healthy dose of self-reflection. The resort was arguably the size of a small city. I wouldn’t see her again. I was certain of it.
“You know who that was, right?” Sarah finally entered the conversation, taking a moment out of her reading schedule to participate.
“Oh, she’s alive,” Billie rejoiced.
I waited for her to enlighten me.
“It was the woman from the elevator.”
No.
Surely not.
Sarah barely saw the woman from the elevator. She couldn’t be certain.
The familiarity though, it made sense.
Uber bitch and the all-American girl next door couldn’t be the same person, could they?
The Italian restaurant received a five-star rating before I even tasted the food. The smell of freshly cooked pizza and garlic floated through the air. I had to remind myself it was only day two, and I had twelve more nights to experience the food. The young waitress had the sweetest smile. She was the third member of staff I’d come across with a set of braces. Did dental come with the care package? I was curious.
Like much of the hotel, the aesthetic was everything I dreamed of for my own home and more. The beige theme carried through to the restaurant with every other wall covered in different contrasting tones and textures of wood. They somehow managed to blend traditional and modern elements perfectly. The striped tile flooring and thick wooden chairs cushioned with beige seating matched perfectly. I snapped a few pictures; it gave me some inspiration to take back home.
The waitress showed us to a table outside with a view of the man-made lagoon. The solid marble table was dressed in accents of black and silver cutlery. A wall filled with black lanterns and burning candles separated us from the walkway. I opted for an all-black outfit: a silk shirt tied up in a knot, coupled with a thigh split skirt of the same material, and a pair of slip-on cream sandals to match my bag. I liked to accessorise accordingly.
“How have you already got a tan?” Billie asked. She sat opposite me, her white blouse clearly see-through, but she’d refused to change once her hunger catapulted her overall attitude from sarcastic to vicious.
“Barely,” I said.
Sarah wore a white shirt with a pair of beige jeans; they’d refused to include me in the evenings dress code, and for that I was eternally grateful because the one white shirt I’d brought made my figure look as enticing as a bedsheet draped over a washing line. I had to expand my wardrobe beyond black, a specific green tone, and every shade of beige the fashion industry could produce.
Sarah scoured the menu to find a pasta dish with veal sauce. The beef and creamy mushroom ravioli seemed to satisfy that craving. I’d studied the menu beforehand, as I did with most restaurants, so there would be no hesitation in my decision.
“I’ll have the gnocchi with creamy smoked truffle sauce and parmesan cheese please,” I said .
Disgustingly, my mouth produced so much saliva in that moment I drooled. My body was still on English time. I didn’t know when to eat or when to sleep. The only sure-fire thing was the pang of hunger telling me my stomach needed some fulfilment soon.
“I’ll have the prosciutto pizza please.” Billie closed her menu with a satisfied sigh.
“You should get truffle oil on it,” I suggested.
“On the pizza?”
“Yes, trust me, a drizzle across the top. It will change your life.”
The waiter looked at Billie for confirmation. Sarah turned her nose up at the thought, but my eagerness persuaded Billie otherwise.
“Okay, sure, go for the truffle oil.”
“Why are you so obsessed with truffle?” Sarah asked.
Truffle oil was game changing.
“Because—” I looked around, nobody was watching, so I took it as an opportunity to demonstrate. I grabbed Sarah’s whiskey sour and dipped my hand into the glass to remove the ice.
“What the hell are you doing?” she protested.
“You love a whiskey sour. It’s your favourite drink, but it’s not as good without ice. You add the ice to enhance the drink.” I dropped each cube back in one by one. “A pizza is really nice, but it’s even better with truffle oil.” I wiped my hand on the white napkin draped across my lap. “Do you see my point?”
“Yes, but you didn’t have to grope my ice,” Sarah grunted.
When I did my usual research on the hotel, by usual I meant days and weeks’ worth of researching every corner of the internet for even the slightest bit of negative commentary, I found nothing .
There wasn’t even a Tripadvisor review from YummyMummySheila from Stockport talking about how the room temperature was one degree above average or the hotel hadn’t found a way to destroy all wildlife in the vicinity to stop lizards from running across the pathways. There was always one unrealistic review for every ten good ones. Maybe the hotel had found a way to cheat Tripadvisor and delete them. I’d never seen such a perfect resume.
The restaurants were described as serving gourmet cuisine with enticing flavours and culinary masterpieces. They weren’t wrong. The pasta dish I ordered caused more moans and groans to come from my mouth than any orgasm I’d ever received.
Billie had barely finished her first slice when I waited eagerly for her verdict. “Well...”
“Mmm.” She smirked.
“It’s good, isn’t it?”
“Like sex in my mouth,” Billie approved.
I was a people pleaser. I believed my own happiness relied on making other people happy. It made me feel emotionally satisfied to know Billie loved the pizza, and my suggestion hadn’t ruined it. After finishing the meal in record time, I excused myself to freshen up.
I rounded the corner to the restroom, and my eyes fixated on the extravagant golden mirrored sink on the wall inside the entrance. I didn’t see a body hurtling towards me, but I sure as hell felt it. The shoulder of a female figure collided with my chest and sent my body reeling. I grasped for the basin, but I was an inch short. My left foot slid out from the comfort of my sandal as my flailing arms attempted to make the fall less embarrassing.
“Shit— ”
I saw a hand reach out, but it all happened too fast. I expected a thud as my backside hit the rock-solid floor. Instead I found myself squashed butt first into a wicker basket. The hotel’s lack of concern for the environment was my saviour. The collection of dirty hand towels cushioned my fall.
The woman stood with her hand over her mouth holding back laughter as my legs stuck out over the edge like a child stuck in a laundry basket. It was up there at the top of the list with my most humiliating moments. Luckily, the bathroom was unoccupied, so nobody else got to witness my downfall.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I interrupted.
The moment the woman with the upper body strength of John Cena dropped her hand from her mouth I knew exactly who she was. Her eyes were uncovered this time, but her distinctive upper lip stood out. She had the same brown bag from the night before, and the same reddish-blonde hair was now in a bun atop her head.
Elevator woman.
This woman is out to get me.
“Do you think you could help me up, please?” My tone was abrupt.
She reached out her hand; unlike my new acrylic nails, hers were natural. The chipped white nail polish seemed intentional. She looked like the outdoorsy type, but she couldn’t sidestep a person walking at a normal pace in a wide open-plan bathroom.
“Are you—”
“Great, now my ass is wet.” I brushed my skirt down and gathered the contents of my bag from in between the towels. She was American. I didn’t pick up the accent straight away, but it was there, clear as day .
“I didn’t mean to, y’know—” She could barely string a sentence together, which instantly made me feel bad.
No. I shouldn’t feel bad. This was the third time in two days I’d seen this woman. The resort was big enough to accommodate a thousand guests, but this woman seemed to be everywhere I was. It had to be a joke, some sort of prank. Maybe Billie was in on it; it was something Billie would do.
I gripped my wrist, my bracelet—
Where is it?
I reached into the pile of towels once again, buried towards the bottom was the shiny gold tennis bracelet my mum had bought me for my most recent birthday.
“This can’t be happening.”
The clasp refused to join the two metal ends together.
“Is there anything I can do?” she muttered.
“I think you’ve done enough,” I snapped. Her expression strained and quite literally startled. As soon as the words left my mouth, I felt a surge of guilt. I couldn’t look her in the eye, but I watched her reflection in the mirror.
She turned sharply, waiting until she rounded the corner to mumble something under her breath, which sounded a lot like, “bitch”.