Chapter 6
A few minutes later I’m sitting at the oversized dining table with an equally oversized cooked breakfast in front of me while Sabrina confirms my worst fear: this isn’t just a cushy little all-expenses paid hotel stay I’ve landed – it’s a competition.
And, even worse than that, it’s a popularity competition.
‘Right,’ says Sabrina, pouring herself a cup of black coffee and waving away the waiter’s offer of food as if it’s the most ridiculous suggestion she’s ever heard.
‘Let’s do some quick icebreaker exercises first, shall we?
Just to get to know each other, seeing as we’re all going to be effectively living together for the next few days. ’
Excellent: that’s two of my worst fears checked off, and we’re not even finished breakfast yet.
‘Do we have to?’ says Millie, pouting. ‘I think we already all know each other, don’t we?’
Everyone nods eagerly, especially me.
‘I don’t do icebreakers,’ says Yasmin Hussein, speaking for the first time. ‘My agent should have told you that.’
She’s wearing her dark glasses perched on top of her head this morning, and her skin is so flawless she almost doesn’t look real. I seem to remember there were rumours of her being invited onto some kind of reality TV show a few months ago, so I expect this is all a bit beneath her, really.
‘Look,’ says Zara, in her matter-of-fact way, pushing her cloud of hair out of her eyes. ‘We do all know each other – well, all except Rosie. And I think Rosie’s well and truly broken the ice already, so . . .’
Every eye in the room swivels to me.
‘It would be nice to get to know Rosie a little better, though, wouldn’t it?
’ says Bex innocently, a glint of mischief in her eye which Sabrina totally misses; probably because she doesn’t seem to be particularly familiar with the concept of normal human emotions. ‘Maybe she should do the icebreaker?’
‘OK, OK,’ Sabrina sighs, refilling her coffee cup, having drained the last one already. ‘Why don’t you tell us a bit about yourself, Rosie?’
I reluctantly put down my cutlery, hoping to God I don’t have egg on my face – literally or otherwise.
‘Um, well, I’m Rosie Winter,’ I begin, wondering if I should stand up, as if I’m giving a presentation at work, then deciding against it. ‘As you know. I’m from London, and I’m an office manager. I, er . . . that’s it, really.’
I pluck a slice of toast off my plate and take a bite, wracking my brain for something vaguely interesting I could tell them about myself, but it’s no use: I’ve got nothing here.
I’m fairly sure they’re not going to want to hear about my siblings’ kids, for instance, whom I spend most of my time with when I’m not at work – or, well, shopping – and they definitely won’t want to hear about how I’m going to have to sleep on my sister’s couch if I can’t find somewhere else to live soon.
So, yeah: there’s really not a lot to tell about my life right now. Or nothing good, anyway. Which is, of course, the main reason I’m here.
‘Wait. You have a job other than Instagram?’ says Millie, her little rosebud mouth forming an ‘O’ of astonishment.
‘Well, yeah,’ I reply, tearing chunks out of the poor piece of toast. ‘I . . . haven’t been on Instagram very long, really. I’m not like all of you.’
Bex gives a ‘you don’t say’ kind of snort, and I’m actually relieved, for once, when Sabrina interrupts, having presumably heard enough about me for one lifetime.
‘Right,’ she says, putting her coffee cup down so firmly I’m surprised it doesn’t break.
‘Let’s get on with it, shall we? So, as you all know, you’ve been invited here to do some pre-launch social media publicity for this wonderful hotel, which officially opens to the public next week.
What you don’t know, though,’ she adds coyly, ‘is that when we came up with the agenda for this week, we decided to make things a little more interesting, with an exciting competition.’
She pauses so everyone except me can ‘ooh’ and ‘ahh’ obligingly. I just sit there with a horrible, sick feeling in the pit of my stomach, which I’m pretty sure is only partly due to the speed at which I just inhaled my breakfast.
Well, I did miss dinner last night . . .
‘Luna?’ snaps Sabrina, looking at her assistant, who’s watching her as if she’s hearing all of this for the first time, along with the rest of us.
‘Oh. Right,’ says Luna, plucking an iPad from the table in front of her and holding it up so we can all see it. ‘Welcome to the Face of the Chrysalis Contest.’
She pushes a button, and the screen bursts into life, photos and video clips of the hotel scrolling across the screen, accompanied by a voice-over explaining that the Chrysalis is looking for someone to be the face of the brand: someone who’ll spend a full year under contract with the hotel, staying there one weekend every month (all expenses paid, naturally .
. .) and creating content to promote the Highland’s most popular wellness retreat.
‘We just put in that last bit to make it sound good,’ says Luna, putting the iPad down again. ‘It hasn’t actually opened yet so we don’t really know if it’s going to be popular, but—’
‘Luna!’ snaps Sabrina again. ‘Of course it’s going to be popular. Especially with all of these amazingly influential people on board.’
‘And Rosie, too,’ says Bex, beaming as if she’s paying me a compliment.
Sabrina beams around the table as if she’s bestowing a very great gift upon us all.
Although she’s obviously making an effort to be a bit less abrasive than she was last night, her strained smile and jerky movements suggest an undercurrent of stress that would almost make me feel sorry for her, if she wasn’t so incredibly difficult to like.
‘Now,’ she goes on. ‘The details. It’s pretty straightforward, actually.
All you have to do is what you usually do; take photos, make videos, post them on your socials.
We’ve given each of you a unique referral code to give to your followers, and at the end of the week, the person – or couple – who’ve referred the most bookings will become the face – or faces – of the hotel.
It’s as simple as that. The codes are in the information packs Luna’s handing out now.
Oh, and you’ll find an updated itinerary for the stay in there, too: we’ve made a few changes since we put together the last one. ’
Luna gets to her feet and makes her way around the table, distributing glossy, cardboard files, which contain some printed information about the hotel, along with its key messages (‘Let the Highlands heal you’; ‘Rest, rejuvenate, rediscover’; ‘The start of your next chapter’), some ‘talking points’ and, of course, our unique referral codes.
Mine is ‘ROSIESUMMERS’. I’m sure that won’t be confusing for people at all.
Sabrina smiles again as we all rifle through our information packs, although this time most of her energy is directed at Bex and Daniel, and there’s no mistaking who she’s expecting to become the faces of the hotel.
‘Sounds great, Sabrina,’ says Bex, looking smug.
‘But let’s talk figures,’ adds her husband, leaning forward and making a little pyramid with his hands, which he stares at her over the top of like a James Bond villain. ‘You said the winner would get a year-long contract. So, how much are we talking?’
‘I thought you might ask that,’ replies Sabrina, producing a piece of paper, which she slides across the table to Daniel and Bex, who look at it, then slide it over to Yasmin.
She passes it to Zara, who passes it to Millie, who’s about to pass it back to Sabrina when I clear my throat to remind her I’m still here, and she reluctantly hands it to me instead.
Well, I know I have absolutely no chance of actually winning this thing, but I have to admit, I’m curious to know how much a contract like that would be worth. Like, would it be enough to pay the deposit on a new flat, say, or just enough to—
‘Holy shit, you must be kidding me!’
I don’t even realise I’ve spoken out loud until I feel everyone’s eyes upon me yet again, and I look up to see them all staring.
‘Sorry,’ I mutter, looking down at the figure written on the piece of paper, which would not only let me rent somewhere on my own, but pay off my credit card, too. ‘Is this real, though? Because this is . . . wow.’
This is a life-changing amount of money; not for a normal person, you understand, but certainly for someone like me, with a shopping addiction that’s landed her in tons of debt and a dead-end job that doesn’t even come close to paying for it all.
With the money from this contract, I could clear my debts, and find somewhere to live. I could leave my job and try to figure out what I actually want to do with myself when I’m not having to spend all my time doing a job I hate.
(I could also buy that really nice coat I’ve had my eye on, but it seems wrong to bring that up right after the whole ‘paying off the debt caused by my shopping addiction’ thing, so let’s just stick with the life-changing bit for now. The coats can come later.)
‘It’s not going to be you, though, is it?’ says Bex, voicing the thought that’s surely on everyone’s mind. ‘Because you’re not actually an influencer, are you?’
She treats me to another one of her sugary, fake smiles, and a tiny spark of anger ignites somewhere in my chest.
I can’t believe how different she is from her online persona.
I guess at least I’m not the only person here who’s been pretending to be someone she’s not.
Bex might be a toxic nightmare, however, but the fact is, she isn’t wrong: it’s definitely not going to be me who wins this thing.
Not unless I actually do somehow manage to completely change my personality in the next four days; which now seems about as realistic a prospect as the stupid idea I had of me and Bex becoming friends.
‘Does anyone have any questions?’ asks Sabrina. ‘No? Well, then. Let’s go and create some content.’
There’s a scrape of seats as everyone gets to their feet, ready to leave.
‘Oh, one last thing,’ calls out Sabrina, raising a hand to stop us.
‘You’re free to enjoy the hotel and the grounds,’ she says, ‘but please make sure you stay out of the private areas, which are all clearly signposted. I’m not sure if you know this, but the hotel is owned by Lord Glenmuir, who I believe has quite a fearsome reputation, and he’s made it very clear that he doesn’t want anyone wandering around the family’s private quarters. ’
‘A lord?’ says Millie immediately. ‘Really? Is he single?’
‘A widower, I believe,’ replies Sabrina. ‘He’s eighty-two, though,’ she goes on. ‘So I’d be very surprised if he was in the market for a new wife.’
‘I wouldn’t be,’ says Zara in a low voice that only I catch. ‘Boys will be boys, right? Even old ones.’
I smile, my interest piqued at the thought of the curmudgeonly old lord tucked away somewhere in the castle, maybe looking down on us all from one of the turrets.
I wonder what he thinks of all of this? The pool, and the sauna, and the . . . is that a hot tub I can see on the other side of this window? A huge one, with a view out over the ornamental gardens and maze?
It is.
This really is a beautiful hotel. And although it’s worlds away from my life in London, and almost everyone I’ve met so far has been needlessly hostile to me, I’m still grateful to be here, influencer competition and all.
I really wish I had a shot at winning that.
Wouldn’t it be amazing to come back here every month and really enjoy the place without having to worry about competing with the fellow guests to be the face of an ad campaign?
But, right now, that’s what I’m going to have to do if I want to earn my keep, and not be kicked out, like I almost was last night.
And, as much as I know the odds of winning are definitely not in my favour, I can’t help but feel just a little bit excited as we all file out of the dining room and go our separate ways.
The Chrysalis describes itself as a place of rebirth and reinvention, and that’s exactly what I’m going to get out of this. A whole new me. A right Rosie to replace the wrong one who arrived here.
And, even if I don’t win the competition, at least I’ll have fun trying.
Right?