Chapter 7
Wrong.
I will not, as it turns out, be having much fun trying.
Or not so far, anyway.
First of all, it takes me a good twenty minutes to find my way back to my room, and I only manage it in the end by enlisting the help of Agnes, who kindly shows me the way, and tells me she’ll try to draw a map for me when she has a spare moment.
Once I get to the room, though, I pull off the red ‘granny’ sweater and wrench the wardrobe doors open only to find, like Mother Hubbard herself, that the cupboard is completely bare.
‘Where are my clothes?’ I demand seventeen minutes later, having somehow made my way back down to the lobby, where Dante looks at me as if I’m hurting his eyes.
‘You’re . . . wearing them?’ he says, looking pointedly at the wretched sweater, which I was forced to hurriedly put back on again, considering it’s now one of the only things I have.
‘Which is certainly an improvement on last night, I must say. I’ve been meaning to speak to you about that, actually.
I know you’d just arrived, but the Chrysalis does have a strict dress code and we do ask that guests be fully clothed at all times.
Robes don’t count, just FYI. Not outside of the spa area. ’
‘Thanks for the fashion advice,’ I snap, the stress of the moment making me forget to apologise for once in my life, ‘but I don’t mean these clothes. I mean the ones in my room. They’re not there. They’re . . . g-gone.’
I started off strong, with an assertive, I will take no shit from you tone that would’ve made Hunter Stuart proud if he’d only been here to see it. But I end on the kind of muffled wail that would make even a banshee proud, and that’s not exactly the impression I was hoping to make here.
Luckily, though, it at least makes Dante take me seriously.
‘Gone?’ he says, his handsome face arranging itself into a frown. ‘What do you mean they’re gone?’
‘Just that,’ I tell him, managing to get a grip of myself again. ‘I went into my room to get changed, and the wardrobe is empty. Someone’s taken all my clothes.’
Dante pulls a face that suggests he very much doubts that anyone would want my clothes.
‘Are you sure?’ he asks. ‘Were you definitely in the right room? Agnes mentioned you keep getting lost?’
‘This is the only key I have,’ I tell him, holding it up. The rooms at the Chrysalis all have old-fashioned locks rather than swipe cards, and the room number is clearly visible on the tag. ‘Surely it won’t let me into any other room but mine?’
‘No. It wouldn’t,’ Dante says, picking up a phone from the reception desk and pressing a button on it. ‘Look, leave it with me. I’m sure it’s just some kind of misunderstanding. I’ll look into it for you.’
He turns away to mutter something into the phone, leaving me standing there with my mouth hanging open as I wonder what to do next. I can’t even imagine what kind of ‘misunderstanding’ could result in all of my clothes vanishing over breakfast.
No, that seems more like something someone must have done on purpose.
But who?
And, well, why?
The thing is, everyone connected with the influencer campaign was already at breakfast when I arrived; sure, Sabrina was a few minutes late, but not late enough that she’d have been able to get into my room without a key, and steal all of my clothes.
Which just leaves the hotel staff. Lovely Agnes, who I refuse to believe is capable of messing with anyone, let alone a guest. Dante, who has been pretty sneery about my dress sense, to be fair, but whose surprise at the Mystery of the Missing Clothes seems genuine. Or . . .
‘Hello again. Still here, are you? They haven’t kicked you out yet?’
Hunter Stuart.
‘Oh. It’s you,’ I say, turning to face him, then almost falling over as a giant ball of fur in the shape of Stevie the wolf-dog comes barrelling at me.
‘Er, aye. It is. Have I done something to justify that frosty response?’ Hunter replies, his brow creasing in confusion.
‘I don’t know. Have you?’ I shoot back, the dignified effect I was going for somewhat ruined by the fact that Stevie’s currently trying to wash my face with his tongue.
‘Sorry,’ I mutter, seeing the confused look on Hunter’s face, and realising I have absolutely no proof that he’s the clothes thief either. ‘I’m just having a bad morning.’
I quickly fill him in on the influencer competition, and the missing clothes drama.
‘I see,’ he says gravely as I reach the end of my sorry tale. ‘So you reckon someone wants you out of the picture, then? A sabotage attempt, to ruin your chances of becoming Miss Chrysalis?’
‘Er, no, not really,’ I reply, taken aback. ‘That sounds a bit far-fetched, don’t you think? They’re content creators, not the Mafia. And it’s not “Miss Chrysalis” either, it’s just a silly competition.’
‘One with quite a lot of money at stake, though,’ points out Hunter, stroking his chin thoughtfully. ‘I’d be watching my back, if I were you. And my bed.’
‘My bed? Wh—What’s going to happen to my bed?’
‘Well, you might find a horse’s head in it one of these nights,’ he replies seriously. ‘Maybe even tonight.’
‘Do you really think so?’ I breathe, my palms sweaty at the thought that I might have inadvertently gotten myself embroiled in the kind of drama I’m more used to watching on TV than participating in.
‘No, of course not,’ says Hunter, with a grin that shows a row of very white, even teeth. ‘That would be insane. This is the Scottish Highlands, Rosie, not 1940s Sicily.’
He chuckles quietly to himself, and my sweaty palms start itching to strangle him.
‘You’re not funny, you know,’ I say fiercely, finally managing to get Stevie off me. ‘And this might be a big joke to you, but it’s important to me. I need my clothes. I can’t just wear the same outfit for four days.’
Especially not one Bex Foster described as an ‘old lady sweater’. That’s exactly the kind of misstep that made me spend my teenage years being referred to as Raggedy Rosie, or sometimes Rosie the Reject, depending on which of my three sisters’ hand-me-downs I was wearing that day.
I do not want to go back to that time, but that’s exactly what it’s going to feel like if I can’t find my clothes, not to mention the fact that, unlike everyone else here, who presumably just packed enough for the four day stay, I had to bring everything I own, on account of having nowhere else to store it all.
I haven’t lost just a few outfits here; I’ve lost literally everything.
And there’s absolutely no way I can afford to replace it all.
‘No, that would be a true disaster, right enough,’ says Hunter, who’s wearing almost exactly what he had on yesterday. ‘Social death. I’m not sure how you’d live with yourself.’
He grins, and I scowl back at him. I might have guessed Mr I Hate Influencers wouldn’t understand the seriousness of the situation.
‘At least it’ll give you an excuse to go to your “happy place”, though,’ he says teasingly, making scare quotes around the words. ‘So that’s a bit of good news, no?’
‘This isn’t about shopping, Hunter,’ I reply, a little too sharply. ‘Whether you like it or not, your clothes say something about you. They’re how people judge you. And I . . . I don’t want to be judged.’
My voice shakes a little as I say this, and Hunter blinks at me in surprise.
‘Look, relax; I’m sure your stuff’ll turn up soon,’ he says, scratching his head awkwardly. ‘It can’t have gone far. Maybe one of the housekeepers took it by accident when they were cleaning the room.’
‘How many are there, do you know?’ I ask, wondering how anyone could ‘accidentally’ steal clothes. ‘Housekeepers, I mean.’
‘Oh, at least a dozen, I think,’ Hunter says vaguely. ‘But there’s only three on duty this week, because there’s just you lot staying for now.’
‘And Lord Glenmuir, presumably,’ I say, remembering. ‘Hey, what’s he like?’ I go on, still curious about the man rich enough to own an entire castle. ‘You must have met him?’
‘The Laird? Aye, I’ve met him all right,’ Hunter says, scratching his head as if he doesn’t really want to answer this question. ‘Cranky old bugger he is. I’d try to keep out of his way if I were you.’
‘Right. Well, I guess I can cross him off my list of suspects,’ I say gloomily. ‘I just wish I knew what’s happened to the clothes. I really need them so I can take photos of the hotel.’
‘You’re going to dress the hotel in clothes?’ Hunter’s eyebrows shoot almost into his hairline, but the smirk tugging at his lips is cheeky – a private joke just between me and him.
‘No,’ I reply, returning the smile in spite of myself. ‘The clothes are for me. I need to take photos of myself enjoying my stay here. For the contest, you know?’
‘Ah. Right. But you’re not enjoying your stay here, are you? What with the missing clothes, and the jammed sauna, and that Becky one prancing around like she owns the place.’
‘Bex,’ I correct him. She might be a tough nut, but I believe in showing respect to others, even if they don’t necessarily show you any. ‘Her name’s Bex. And enjoying myself isn’t really the point. The point is to make it look like I’m enjoying it, so that my followers think they’d enjoy it too.’
‘A lofty goal,’ observes Hunter. He’s about to say something else but right at that moment there’s a clatter of heels, and Bex and Daniel appear, both of them wheeling matching, monogrammed suitcases, which I instantly covet.
‘Are you checking out?’ I ask, surprised.
‘Of course not, Wrong Rosie,’ replies Bex chirpily. ‘We didn’t get a shot of us arriving last night because the light was all wrong, so we’re going to recreate it now. Are you ready, Daniel?’
By way of answer, Daniel unzips his suitcase and produces a tripod with a camera attached to it, and a set of studio lights, which he begins setting up in the foyer.
‘Give me strength,’ mutters Hunter, his mouth twitching with suppressed laughter.