Page 24 of Highland Getaway
‘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 – ifanyoneis. Because, now I think about it, I’m starting to wonder if Hunter’s right, after all.
Maybe the sauna doorwasjust stuck? Maybe Ididsomehow 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, IthoughtI 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 ithasto be here, that Iknowit’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.
Chapter 10
I check my bed carefully for horses’ heads, then climb into it so I can lie awake overthinking for a while, before falling into a dream in which Millie Mitchell is chopping down a Christmas tree, which turns into Bex Foster as I watch.
Bex falls to the ground, bright red blood pooling around her like the tulle of her dress, and I awake with a start to a mysterious tapping on the window.
Oh, please God, no. Not a mysterious tapping on the window now. Anything but that, I’m begging you.
I pull the covers aside and slip cautiously out of the giant bed, hoping that this is going to turn out to be one of those weird waking dreams; which are terrifying, sure, but stilljust dreams.
But no: a quick pinch of my forearm confirms that I’m very much awake – and now the tapping is coming from the door of the room, rather than the window.
I pause halfway across the bedroom floor and listen carefully, but all I can hear is my own heart hammering wildly in my chest, almost deafening me with the sound of abject terror. So at least I know whatthatsounds like now.
This is definitely the last time I accept an invitation to a wellness retreat; because, to be completely honest, this place is making me feel anythingbut‘well’.
Tap.
Tap.
