Chapter 9
Take that, Bex Foster: my sweater is magic, after all . . .
Zara and Millie’s photos all feature them posing in bikinis around the pool and spa; the ones they took at the gates all having been ruined by me being in the background, apparently.
Yasmin, meanwhile, has gone for a stunning black-and-white shot in which she reclines gracefully in the bathtub in her room, which has been filled to overflowing with bubbles.
Her hair is piled up on top of her head in a way that would look messy on anyone else, but which is effortlessly sophisticated on Yasmin, and she’s holding up a glass of champagne while looking dreamily out of the window behind the tub, which has been thrown open, the white gauze curtains framing the view through the window as if it’s an oil painting.
It’s Bex’s photo, however, that gets the most attention, and, it has to be said, it deserves it.
Daniel has somehow managed to capture his wife mid-leap, at a moment when both of her feet are off the ground, making her appear to be floating through the air, her hair fanning out around her, and the hotel rising up in the background like a paid actor in the Bex Foster show.
‘Oh, I didn’t really do anything,’ she says modestly as Sabrina fusses around her, wondering aloud if the hotel should use the photo in its advertising campaign. ‘It’s Daniel who does all the hard work.’
She simpers up at him, and he takes her hand, harmony apparently well and truly restored between them. Either that or they’re just very good actors.
I swallow hard, thinking about my ex, who didn’t ever look at me the way Daniel Foster looks at Bex. I don’t think anyone’s ever looked at me like that.
‘Well, I have an excellent model to work with,’ Daniel replies, confirming that he really is the perfect husband.
‘Oh, if you do want to use the shot commercially, Sabrina, we’ll have to chat about licensing, obviously,’ he adds, snapping abruptly back into business mode.
‘Let’s get something in the diary, shall we? ’
‘Of course, Mr Bex. Let’s set it up now,’ Sabrina says eagerly. ‘I think we’re done here, aren’t we? Luna, come over here, would you?’ she calls out sharply to her assistant. ‘I need you to check my calendar.’
She goes striding over to join the Fosters on their sofa, signalling that the meeting is adjourned, and everyone else drifts over to the back of the room, where a tray of champagne has been set up on a table by the window, along with some crisps and other nibbles.
The wine I had with dinner has already started to go to my head a little, so champagne’s the last thing I need right now, but I get up and follow them anyway.
Well, wouldn’t now be the perfect time to do a bit of detective work, and see if I can figure out whether any of them might be the clothing criminal? Or the sauna sealer?
Actually, on second thoughts, maybe this isn’t such a great idea after all, if the champagne’s going to make me start behaving like I’m in an episode of Scooby Doo.
Nevertheless, I wander casually over to the window where Zara and Millie are still comparing the various photos from today, and Yasmin’s still pretending she’s not actually a part of this group at all.
All I have to do is find out where they all were when the incidents in question happened. And maybe also try to establish whether any of them are evil enough to want to lock someone in a sauna and leave them to their fate.
That should be easy enough, shouldn’t it?
‘Bex’s photo is ah-may-zing,’ sighs Millie enviously as I select a glass of champagne and attempt to insert myself into the group without attracting too much attention to myself; which is tricky, really, on account of me looking like a giant disco ball.
‘It really is,’ says Zara, selecting the image from the Fosters’ Instagram grid and tapping to open it. ‘I guess that’s what happens when you marry a professional photographer, though.’
‘It’s gorgeous,’ I agree, sidling up to them, emboldened by the large gulp of champagne I’ve just had. ‘Slightly sinister, though, don’t you think?’
‘Sinister?’ Millie tilts her blonde head to one side in surprise, like a spaniel. ‘Whatever do you mean?’
‘Oh, nothing really,’ I say, airily. ‘It’s just . . . don’t you think the red dress looks a bit like a splash of blood against the misty sky?’
I widen my eyes innocently, although, inside, I’m already cringing at how completely unsubtle my attempt to establish evil tendencies in my fellow influencers is.
‘Oh, yes,’ says Millie, leaning over Zara’s photo to get a closer look. ‘I suppose I see what you mean. Sort of.’
‘And is it just me, or does it look like she’s running away from someone, rather than to them?’ I go on, warming to my theme. ‘Almost as if she’s being chased?’
‘I think it’s just you,’ says Zara dryly. ‘It’s supposed to look like a scene from a fairy tale, not a horror story.’
‘The original fairy tales are very similar to horror,’ murmurs Yasmin, shocking us all into silence with the reminder that she can actually speak. ‘They’re very dark. Very dark.’
‘That’s right.’ I nod, looking at her through narrowed eyes. She’s dressed head to toe in black, as usual, and keeps reaching up as if to adjust her sunglasses, only to realise she’s not actually wearing them for once.
‘Like in “Hansel and Gretel”,’ she says. ‘When the witch is literally fattening the children up to eat them. Or the one where the stepmother murders her stepson and cooks him into a stew.’
Yasmin pops a glacé cherry into her mouth from a bowl by the drinks tray.
‘Then she serves it to his father,’ she adds, matter-of-factly. ‘I think about that a lot, you know. Well, bedtime for me, I think.’
Without another word, she slings her bag over her shoulder and heads for the door, swerving to avoid the group on the sofa as she goes.
The three of us stare after her, open-mouthed.
‘My favourite fairy tale is “Cinderella”,’ says Millie, in a small voice. ‘It’s just about shoes, and handsome princes. I’m not sure I’d like these other ones. They seem a bit . . . bloody.’
Zara pats her reassuringly on the arm and starts going through the Instagram photos again to distract her. I sip my drink thoughtfully as I watch them.
Zara and Millie were out by the gates when I was taking my first set of photos, and then at the pool later.
And I know Bex and Daniel were in the lobby, then the gardens all afternoon.
Which means Yasmin is the only one of the group who was unaccounted for at the time the clothes must have been returned to my room.
But how would she have got her hands on them in the first place? And why would she want them?
‘This is really good, actually,’ says Zara, interrupting my chain of thought as she scrolls past the ‘thumb face’ selfie on my feed and stops at the photo Hunter took for me by the pond. ‘I wish I’d thought of it.’
‘Thanks,’ I reply, blushing. ‘Not that it’s done me much good, though. It didn’t get anything like the reaction yours did. And I lost ten followers.’
‘Oh. Well, you know . . . they’re probably jealous,’ Zara replies, looking unconvinced. ‘People can be a bit funny like that.’
‘That’s true,’ agrees Millie. ‘I don’t even read the comments on my posts anymore; they just make me feel horrible about myself.
Someone once messaged me and said I was obviously evil, just because I said I don’t watch the news.
But the news is, like, really sad, you know? And I’m not evil. I’m really not.’
She sniffs loudly, and Zara pats her on the arm again, while I nod uselessly, mentally striking Millie off my list of suspects. She’s way too childlike to be capable of doing anything to intentionally mess with someone.
‘Of course you’re not,’ Zara says soothingly. ‘Why don’t you go and sit down; I’ll bring you another glass of fizz.’
Millie nods tremulously and goes to sit by the fire.
‘She is evil, though,’ Zara tells me with a wink, grabbing another couple of glasses.
‘Sorry, did you say evil?’ I put down my empty glass and pick up a full one, convinced I must have misheard.
‘Oh, yeah,’ says Zara, nodding. ‘You should’ve heard her earlier, talking about how she was going to win this competition. Totally cut-throat. She might look like a little doll, with all that baby pink stuff she wears, but trust me; the only doll Millie’s like is Chucky. You know, the one who—’
‘Murders,’ I reply, my entire body cold despite the heat from the fire. ‘Yeah.’
‘Oh, not just that,’ says Zara cheerfully. ‘Chucky tortures first. And so would Millie. Trust me.’
‘I . . . but she seems so harmless,’ I protest, taking a much larger gulp of my drink than I meant to. ‘Surely it can’t all be an act?’
‘All of this is an act, Rosie,’ says Zara, indicating the room at large.
‘You know that, right? None of it’s real.
That’s not champagne Yas is drinking in that photo of hers; it’s just fizzy water.
You can’t tell because she’s made the shot black and white.
And Millie and I were absolutely freezing in those shots in the spa.
I can’t believe this is what passes for spring up here. ’
I want to add that Bex and Daniel looked like they were about to break up when I saw them in the grounds earlier, but it feels strangely disloyal for some reason (plus, I’m still not sure I can trust Zara, either . . .), so I say nothing.
Zara’s right, though. Everyone here is putting on an act of some kind, whether it’s just for the content they’ll post on social media later or for those of us they have to interact with in real life.
I’m doing it myself, standing here in my completely unsuitable dress, and posting Instagram captions telling everyone about what a great time I’m having, when, actually, I’m not sure I’ve ever felt more alone or out of place: and I went to an all-girls school where everybody hated me, so I speak from some experience, here.
And all of this, of course, is going to make it so much harder for me to try to figure out who’s responsible for the things that have been happening to me since I arrived here – if anyone is. Because, now I think about it, I’m starting to wonder if Hunter’s right, after all.
Maybe the sauna door was just stuck? Maybe I did somehow get confused about the location of my wardrobe?
Maybe the handwritten note on my itinerary said, ‘DON’T dress to impress’, and I just read it wrong?
Because that would definitely make a lot more sense, considering that most people currently in the room with me look like they’ve come from either an exercise class or a pyjama party.
Wait.
The note on the itinerary.
At least that’s one thing I can find out for sure, isn’t it?
‘You know the itineraries for the week we were given this morning?’ I ask Zara. ‘Did, er, yours have anything on it about a dress code for tonight?’
Zara looks at me blankly.
‘A dress code?’ she says. ‘No, there was nothing about a dress code. I asked Luna earlier, though, and she said just to wear something comfy, so . . .’
She indicates her leggings (which, naturally, look amazing on her model-like legs), then drifts over to join Millie by the fire.
I quickly drain my glass, then put it back on the tray before heading for the door, feeling glad for once that I’m seemingly invisible again, which means no one so much as glances in my direction as I go.
Back in my room (just five minutes to get there this time – a new personal best), I cross quickly to the dressing table, looking for the printed itinerary, which I remember leaving there just before I started getting ready for dinner.
Well, I thought I remembered leaving it there.
It’s definitely not there now, though, so, firmly shaking off the feeling of foreboding that’s returned with a vengeance, I start to search the rest of the room instead.
Over the next half an hour, I practically turn the place upside down in a bid to find the itinerary: I even look inside the bathroom cabinet, and in the pockets of my clothes (which are, thankfully, hanging in the wardrobe, exactly where I left them).
But it’s not here.
No matter how hard I search, or how many times I tell myself that it has to be here, that I know it’s here, eventually I’m forced to give up and admit defeat.
The itinerary has vanished into thin air.
And now I have yet another mystery to solve.