Chapter 8 #2
I take a step closer to the window, my breath misting up the glass as I press my nose against it.
I can’t hear what they’re saying, but they’re obviously arguing now, their body language tense, and a frown on both of their faces.
After a few, clearly fraught, minutes, Bex turns on her heel and marches back towards the castle, leaving Daniel standing there on his own, his posture somehow resigned, as if he’s seen all of this before.
Well, that was weird.
Still thinking about Bex and Daniel, and how different the reality of them is from the highly edited version I follow on YouTube, I polish off my tea in record time, then spend the rest of the afternoon looking at flat rental websites online, hoping – and failing – to find something that doesn’t require at least one month’s rent upfront.
There’s absolutely nothing, though (well, it’s hard to find a place to rent when your budget is approximately zero .
. .), so I give up at last, and open my wardrobe door to find something to wear to dinner – which we’re having in the library tonight, according to my itinerary for the stay.
Someone’s added a handwritten note next to this item saying ‘dress to impress’, so, after a bit of thought, I select a sequined slip dress and team it with a pair of sparkly stiletto sandals: a look which says, I might never get the chance to wear this outfit again, so you better believe I’m going to make the most of it.
And also Please let me sit with you. Which, let’s face it, is the real message I’m hoping to get across tonight.
I stare at my reflection in the mirror on the back of the wardrobe door, a tiny thrill of excitement running through me.
I love dressing up; I always have, ever since I was a little girl.
Back then, it felt like magic to me; almost as if I was slipping into another world, or another life, just by changing my clothes.
It still does. The life I chose these clothes for, though – the sequinned, sparkly ones that are currently making me look like a human mirror ball – is one I don’t actually live; which is why it’s so thrilling to me that I’m getting the opportunity to wear them, and in a castle of all places.
‘Wow. Nice outfit, Wrong Rosie,’ says Bex as I step through the door and into the softly lit room, which is filled with the glow from the log fire, and the murmur of voices, all falling silent the moment I appear.
I soon realise why, too; because, when I turn around to thank Bex for the unexpected compliment, I find her standing there smirking in jeans and a T-shirt, with her hair pulled back in a simple but elegant ponytail and minimal makeup.
On the sofa behind her, Millie is sipping champagne while wearing a bright pink tracksuit, and even Sabrina has exchanged her usual high-fashion look for something soft and flowy that may or may not be nightwear.
‘Are you off out somewhere?’ asks Millie in her nice-but-dim way.
She’s sitting next to Yasmin (in what looks like a pair of black silk pyjamas) and Zara (in leggings and an oversized sweater), and they all look at me in my sequinned dress and what now feels a lot like clown makeup, as if I’m the evening’s entertainment.
‘Um, no,’ I stammer, feeling my cheeks turn red. ‘I’m just . . . I’m just . . .’
I’m just getting it wrong again, is the truth of the matter. Wrong Rosie, Wrong Outfit.
Wrong, wrong, wrong.
‘She’s just been doing a photo shoot in the ballroom,’ says a voice from behind me.
I turn around to find Hunter Stuart standing framed in the doorway, still in his jeans and work boots, but with the fleece jacket now covering his washboard abs again, much to my relief. ‘I opened it up for her earlier. She obviously didn’t have time to change before she came here, did you, Rosie?’
‘That’s . . . that’s right,’ I reply, blinking. ‘I was in the ballroom. Taking photos. Of myself. In the ballroom. For the contest.’
‘I think they got it,’ whispers Hunter, his lips brushing my ear in a way that makes my entire body tingle unexpectedly. ‘You can stop talking now. I would recommend it, actually.’
‘Thank you,’ I whisper back, trying not to think about how good he looks, his hair slightly messy from being outdoors all day, and his eyes twinkling merrily. ‘That was really nice of you. I was dying there.’
I fight the impulse to lean into the reassuring bulk of him. He might think I’m an idiot, but Hunter Stuart is still the kind of man who could very easily break my heart, given half a chance. And having my heart broken by a Highland heartthrob definitely isn’t on my agenda for the next few days.
‘Aye, it seemed like real life-or-death stuff right enough,’ he replies, his mouth twitching, as he gestures for me to follow him to a quieter corner of the room, where no one can overhear us – not that anyone seems to be listening to us, anyway, now that my over-the-top outfit has been explained.
‘So,’ Hunter goes on, looking me up and down and making my insides feel confusingly fizzy. ‘If a person’s clothes tell you a lot about them, what is it that this says about you, then?’
‘It says I’m an idiot,’ I reply crisply, my cheeks turning even redder, if that’s possible.
Then I remember the note on the itinerary.
‘Actually, no, I’m not. Well, I am, but .
. . it’s just, I’m sure the itinerary I was given said “dress to impress”.
I’m certain of it, actually – I never forget anything involving clothes.
And that bit had been added in by hand, too, so it stood out. I wish I’d brought it with me.’
I open my little beaded evening bag and peer inside, as if the itinerary might have magically appeared inside it, the same way my missing clothes appeared right back where I’d left them.
‘Oh, that reminds me,’ I tell Hunter, snapping the bag closed again. ‘You’ll never guess where my clothes were.’
He raises one hand and rubs the stubble on his chin sceptically as I give him a quick rundown on my fluctuating wardrobe situation, omitting both the bit where I started talking to my jumpers and the thing about the potential brain tumour.
‘Are you sure they weren’t there the first time you checked?’ Hunter says as I finish. ‘Were you definitely looking in the right place?’
‘Of course I’m sure,’ I reply indignantly. ‘I know I might seem a bit . . . fluffy . . . to you, but I’m not stupid. And I don’t make stuff up.’
‘Right,’ he says, sounding unconvinced. ‘It’s just . . . well, you are a bit “fluffy”, as you put it. And it’s a big room. There’s a lot of, um, doors in it. And you do keep getting lost.’
‘Not in my own room,’ I reply with dignity.
‘And there might be a lot of doors, but there’s only one walk-in wardrobe, so I don’t think I could’ve mistaken it for the bathroom, somehow, if that’s what you’re suggesting.
If there’s one thing I know about, it’s wardrobes: trust me.
And if there’s something else I know, it’s that none of this stuff that’s been happening is random, Hunter. Someone’s messing with me on purpose.’
‘And the murderer is in the room with us now,’ says Hunter, his eyes wide as he pretends to scan the room.
‘Maybe.’ I look around at the influencers, who’re all chatting in their little groups.
‘But I can’t rule out the possibility of it being someone from the hotel, either.
It would’ve been much easier for a member of staff to have gotten into my room while I was at breakfast. They’re the ones who have access to it. ’
I look up at him, wondering if he’ll show any sign of guilt at this, but he just shrugs in that hard-to-read way of his.
‘It would’ve been easier for one of this lot to change the itinerary you were given, though,’ he points out, indicating the influencer group with a slight nod. ‘So, if I had to guess, I’d say it was most likely Professor Plum, in the billiard room, with the lead pipe.’
‘You’re infuriating, you know that?’ I begin, but before I can go any further, the library door opens, and hotel staff start filing through it, all carrying trays laden with food and drinks.
‘Right, well, I’ll leave you to it,’ says Hunter, looking relieved at the interruption. ‘I only came in because I thought you lot would be in the dining room again and I’d have the place to myself. Apparently not, though.’
He turns to leave, and then hesitates, looking back over his shoulder at me as if he’s trying to make up his mind about something.
‘You look very nice, by the way,’ he says at last, his voice a little hoarse. ‘So whatever that dress is saying about you, I . . . well, I agree with it.’
Then he ducks quickly out through the open door of the library, looking like he’s surprised even himself with his words, and is now trying to get away from them as fast as possible.
He’s definitely surprised me, that’s for sure.
‘I . . . thanks,’ I say to the door as it closes behind him, my cheeks reddening at the unexpected compliment.
But Hunter’s already gone, leaving me alone with my tormentors.
I really wish he’d stayed, though; and not just because of how adorably awkward he looked when he told me he liked my dress, but because I don’t care what he says, I’m still convinced someone in this room is messing with me.
And I guess now is as good a time as any to put my theory to the test.