Chapter 2
I knew as soon as I got the invitation that it wasn’t meant for me.
Well, that and the fact that my name isn’t Rosie Summers, either, like Hunter Stuart thinks it is.
It’s Rosie Winter.
Which is an easy mistake to make, I suppose; although only if you’ve never seen the real Rosie Summers, who’s blonde, beautiful, and looks like she might have bullied me in high school.
Rosie Summers is a bona fide influencer, with the follower numbers to prove it, and brand deals coming out of her ears.
Rosie Winter, on the other hand is . . . well, me.
So I’m not sure how it happened, but somehow the Chrysalis invited the wrong Rosie to their influencer retreat. Which is the point at which any sensible person would’ve hit reply on the email and told them exactly that. No harm, no foul.
But no one has ever accused me of being sensible.
And, the fact is, when the invitation arrived, it caught me at a particularly low point.
A ‘just been dumped by the man I thought I’d spend the rest of my life with’ point.
An ‘I need to move out of the flat we shared, even though I have nowhere to go’ point.
An ‘I hate my job, but I can’t afford to leave it’ point.
You get the point, I’m sure.
With five days to go before the lease on the flat ran out, I went to my happy place – the retail park – and bought myself a beautiful red cashmere sweater with what was left of my overdraft.
No, it wasn’t the most sensible thing I could’ve done, under the circumstances.
But, when I bought it, I really thought that sweater was going to change my life; in the same way I think all new purchases will have the power to do that.
I remember standing there in the shop, stroking it lovingly, and thinking about how, when I put it on, I’d be transformed into someone completely different; someone deserving of this beautiful item of clothing that I couldn’t really afford, but also couldn’t live without.
Someone who wasn’t about to become homeless in five days’ time.
It was as I walked out of the shop that the email arrived from Luna Stone, inviting me – well, inviting Rosie Summers – to the Chrysalis; leaving four days from the date on the email.
‘“A journey of reinvention”,’ it said.
A chance to run away from my life, and find myself a better one. A chance to step into Rosie Summers’ life, and find out what it’s like to be one of the most popular women on social media.
The kind of opportunity that might never come along ever again.
And, well, also somewhere to live for a few days once I’d handed back the keys to the flat.
‘Was this you?’ I asked the sweater, peeking into the bag. ‘Are you made of some kind of magic?’
And that’s why, instead of hitting the ‘reply’ button and letting them know they’d got the wrong person, I’m currently sitting outside a Highland castle, with all of my fingers crossed, and all of my worldly goods – literally – crammed into the bags behind me.
But now I feel so sick with nerves that I can’t even begin to imagine what I was thinking when I decided to go ahead with this plan.
Or what I’m going to do when the truth inevitably comes out.
I mean, it’s not like anyone other than Hunter Stuart, who clearly avoids social media, is going to mistake short, mousy-brown me for the model-like Rosie Summers, is it?
‘Are you OK?’ asks Hunter, looking at me curiously from the passenger seat as I stare anxiously through Stevie’s ears and up at the hotel, which, the website informed me, is a converted eighteenth-century castle, and the family seat of the Glenmuirs, who still own it today.
‘Um, sure,’ I reply, in a voice that sounds unconvincing, even to me. ‘It’s just . . . it’s very imposing, isn’t it?’
In the photos online, the Chrysalis looked straight out of a fairy tale; all turrets and ramparts, with grounds stretching all the way down to the sea, which I can hear crashing against some unseen shore as I get out of the car.
As I look up at it from the bottom of the sweeping stone staircase that leads to the front door, though, it somehow looks more like the setting of some kind of Gothic horror; one with madwomen in the attic, and a dungeon where . . .
On second thoughts, let’s not even think about the possibility of there being a dungeon. Or what might happen in it to women who come here under false pretences.
‘It’s a bit more modern inside,’ says Hunter, joining me. ‘We’ve been working on the renovations for months now. Come on, let’s get you checked in.’
I follow him reluctantly into the hotel’s reception area, Stevie padding soundlessly behind us like a shadow, and Hunter carrying my many bags as easily as if they weigh nothing.
The main lobby is vast and imposing, with a chequerboard tiled floor and a wide staircase leading up to a gallery landing above us.
Chesterfield sofas are dotted around, creating cosy little seating areas, and there’s a log fire blazing away merrily, even though it’s June.
The reception desk sits to one side of the stairs, with an enormous stuffed stag’s head mounted above it, and it’s being presided over by a man so handsome that he almost looks like he’s been AI generated.
And here I was thinking Hunter Stuart must be the most handsome man in the Highlands.
Striking though he is, it’s the couple AI man is currently speaking to who claim my attention.
I’ve never met them in my life, but the woman has shiny dark hair and a red-lipsticked smile which is almost as familiar as my own reflection, while her husband is equally recognisable, with his dark-blond hair combed up at the front, and a very large camera slung around his neck.
‘Oh, my God,’ I breathe, clutching Hunter’s arm in shock. ‘It’s the Fosters!’
‘The who?’ he says, looking pointedly at the fingers burrowed into his fleece jacket.
‘The Fosters,’ I reply, watching as the couple in question appear to argue with the man behind the desk. ‘Bex and Daniel. They’re one of the most popular YouTube couples in the country. They have over a million followers.’
‘Never heard of them,’ says Hunter, with an infuriating shrug. ‘D’you want me to leave this stuff here, or will I?’
‘Shh,’ I hiss, trying to listen in to the conversation at the reception desk.
‘I’m sorry, sir,’ AI man is telling Daniel Foster, in a tone that doesn’t sound even remotely apologetic. ‘But your name definitely isn’t on my list. This is my list.’
He holds up a sheet of paper with just a few typewritten lines on it.
‘See?’ he goes on, his Scottish accent contrasting with his Mediterranean looks. ‘No men. Just the ladies.’
‘I understand that,’ replies Daniel Foster, with what’s presumably supposed to be a winning smile. ‘But I’m sure you can make an exception for us. My wife and I come as a package, you see. We’re the Fosters?’
He puts an arm around Bex, and they both look expectantly at the man in front of them, who just stares back at them as blankly as Hunter did when I told him the same thing.
Beside me, Hunter’s mouth twitches as if he’s trying not to laugh.
‘What’s going on here?’
There’s a sudden click-clack of stilettos on tiles as a very slim woman who looks to be in her late forties appears. She has dark, chin-length hair cut into a chic bob, and I could swear the temperature in the room drops a few degrees as she comes clacking up to the little group by the desk.
‘Is there a problem, Dante?’ she says sharply, making it sound like if there is, it’s about to get a whole lot worse.
‘No problem,’ replies Dante, his eyes narrowing at the sight of her. ‘Just a gatecrasher. I’m dealing with him, though.’
‘A gatecrasher?’ says Bex, her green eyes widening in shock in her porcelain face. Combined with the red of her lips, she looks a bit like Snow White; if Snow White had been in the habit of shopping mostly at Harvey Nichols. ‘You’re calling Daniel a gatecrasher?’
Stiletto lady’s head whips round so fast I’m amazed it doesn’t make her dizzy.
‘Bex Foster!’ she coos, her whole attitude changing abruptly. ‘And Mr Bex! Well, isn’t this a wonderful surprise?’
‘No,’ says Dante bluntly. ‘It’s not. I have a list. See?’
He holds the list in question out again, and the woman bats it away impatiently.
‘Sabrina Bates,’ she says, shaking hands with each of the Fosters in turn.
‘I’m head of PR for Glow Media, who the Chrysalis have hired to manage their launch.
And I know Daniel wasn’t technically invited to this event,’ she goes on, glancing at her colleague behind the reception desk, ‘but of course we’d be delighted to have him join us, wouldn’t we, Dante? ’
She glares at the man, who immediately returns her look with exactly the same level of ferocity. I can’t help but like him for it.
‘No,’ he says again, shaking his dark mane of hair for good measure. ‘I said no. And I’m the manager of the hotel; you’re just the manager of the PR firm. So I win.’
‘It’s not a competition, Dante,’ Sabrina Bates hisses, leaning in to him. ‘The Fosters are the biggest influencer couple in the UK. Having them both here would be excellent publicity for the hotel. You do want this launch to be a success, don’t you?’
She bares her teeth in something that’s presumably supposed to be a smile. Dante bravely bares his own – very white – teeth in return, then shrugs again, before sliding a room key reluctantly across the desk to Bex, who snatches it up as if she’s afraid he might change his mind and take it back.
‘Room number five,’ he says, refusing to meet Sabrina Bates in the eye. ‘I’ll have someone take your suitcases up for you.’
‘And, in the meantime, if you’d both like to come with me, we can have a quick chat about our plans for your stay,’ says Sabrina warmly. ‘I can’t tell you how pleased we are to have you both on board for this launch. It’s going to be so exciting.’
She turns on her stiletto heels and clacks away again, the Fosters following obediently behind her. Now it’s my turn.
I clear my throat nervously as I step up to the reception desk.
This is it.
This is the moment I’m about to be unveiled as the impostor I am, and sent back home again – not that I have a home, as such, to go to – before I even have a chance to change my life.
When I decided to accept the invitation, even though I knew perfectly well it wasn’t mine to accept, my vague plan was to just style it out; to pretend to be as surprised as anyone else to find that I hadn’t, in fact, been invited to stay at a freaking castle for four days, in exchange for coverage on my Instagram account.
As Dante looks up at me, though, his dark eyes registering the slightest flicker of surprise as I approach, looking absolutely nothing like the real Rosie Summers, it occurs to me that I should really have thought this through a little more thoroughly.
No one’s going to believe I’m an influencer, are they?
No one’s going to think that I belong here; because I don’t.
And now I’m about to prove it.
For a split second, I think about turning and running away, just heading straight back out of those double doors and making for the hills I saw from the train on the way here.
Well, mountains, really. Very large ones, with snow-capped peaks and jagged sides that I wouldn’t last more than a few minutes on in my strappy sandals and stupid dress.
On second thought, maybe the mountain life isn’t for me after all.
Which means it’s back to plan A: style it out and pretend to be a successful influencer, who has just as much of a right to be here as anyone else.
What could possibly go wrong?
‘Hi,’ I say brightly, pulling my shoulders back in an attempt at confidence as I hand Dante the booking confirmation that came with the email. ‘I’m Rosie, checking in.’