All the way back along the maze of corridors, I try to work out a solution but there just isn’t one. This is all my own fault and, whatever happens next, it’s going to be exactly what I deserve.
Just as I’m telling myself things can’t possibly get any worse, we finally reach the reception area, and find it filled with people. Bex and Daniel are there, of course, both of them looking glamorous in evening dress, and standing next to a short, blonde woman, who I recognise as Millie Mitchell – a TikToker who’s best known for making dance videos with her cockapoo, Gigi. (Whodoesn’tseem to be present this evening, thankfully, so at least that’s one less person – well, dog – to witness my humiliation.)
On Millie’s other side is Zara Harris – a tall Black girl with high cheekbones and a figure like a runway model – and sitting on her own in a chair next to the fire is Yasmin Hussein, her glossy black hair slicked back into her trademark ponytail, and a pair of designer sunglasses perched on top of her head.
It’s like a Who’s Who of British influencers. It would actually be pretty cool, really, if I wasn’t wearing a dressing gown that’s threatening to come apart at any second, and a pair of papery hotel slippers at least three sizes too big for me.
Oh, and if I wasn’t about to be revealed to be a dirty rotten liar, obviously.
A nervous-looking woman with curly brown hair and thick glasses is standing by the reception desk, looking like she’s about to throw up, and I swear she gets paler still as she catches sight of Sabrina coming towards her, one hand still firmly grasping me by the elbow.
‘Well, here she is – our impostor,’ she says, letting go of me and squaring up to the curly-haired woman. ‘What do you have to say for yourself, Luna?’
The room falls silent, everyone turning in our direction to see what’s going on. Over by the fire, I hear someone stifle a laugh, and when I catch sight of my reflection in the mirror behind the reception desk, I instantly understand why.
My face isn’t just red, it’s a startling shade of bright scarlet – the kind that would probably glow in the dark. If the electricity went off right now, they’d be able to use me to light their way back to their rooms. My hair is plastered to my skull with sweat, and mascara runs in two black rivers down my cheeks, making me look like one of those scary clown dolls my sisters used to torment me with when we were kids.
‘You, er, might want to, um, adjust your towel thing a bit,’ says Hunter in a low voice from behind me. I glance down and, sure enough, my robe is gaping open, which at least explains the giggles that are coming from influencer corner over there.
‘I’msosorry, Sabrina. I’ve no idea how this has happened,’ squeaks the brown-haired woman, who I’m guessing must be the Luna Stone whose name was on the email inviting me here. Well, invitingRosie Summershere. Sabrina is presumably her boss – which means at least I’m not the only person in the room experiencing some extra-ordinarily bad luck today.
‘Oh,Iknow how it happened,’ snaps Sabrina. ‘You’ve invited the wrong person, Luna. It’s the only explanation.’
‘But I checked all the names you gave me,’ replies Luna, sounding like she’s about to burst into tears. ‘I’m sure they were right. Wait, let me just find my list.’
She flips through her notebook, then holds it up, her hands trembling as she shows her boss the page.
‘See?’ she says, the relief evident in her voice. ‘Rosie Summers. Just like you said. That’s who this is. Is .?.?. isn’t it?’
She looks at me with sudden panic, and I smile encouragingly at her, even though there’s really not a whole lot to feel encouraged about here. Even Stevie, the wolf-dog, looks like he’d rather be somewhere else.
‘Is thatreallyRosie Summers?’ I hear Millie Mitchell whisper in a plummy accent which suggests she probably grew up riding ponies and spending summers on Daddy’s yacht. ‘She’s put on a lot of weight since her last video, hasn’t she?’
She’s speaking in a low voice, which I’m obviously not supposed to hear, but my heart plummets to the soles of my feet anyway, and I cross my arms protectively over my body, as if to hide it, tears prickling at the backs of my eyes.
I might have left high school long ago, but I’m not sure it ever really leftme. Not if the shame currently flooding my cheeks is anything to go by.
‘No, idiot,’ hisses Bex Foster, sounding nothing like she does on YouTube, where her entire shtick is based around being the best friend who lives in your phone. ‘Ofcoursethat isn’t Rosie Summers. Rosie Summers ispretty. And much taller. That’s definitely not her.’
‘But it wassupposedto be Rosie Summers?’ confirms Millie, who appears to be one of those nice-but-dim girls who’re only ever vaguely aware of what’s happening. ‘Well, that would make more sense, I suppose.’
Everyone nods solemnly, me included. Itwouldmake a lot more sense if therealRosie Summers was here, instead of me. It would also mean I wouldn’t be having to stand here, listening to people discuss me as if they think I can’t hear them.
As if I really am invisible.
So far, so painfully familiar.
‘So, who are you?’ says Sabrina, her eyes narrowed with suspicion as she looks from me to Luna and back again, trying to figure out which one of us she should blame for this mess. ‘What are you doing here? This is a private event, and you weren’t invited to it.’
‘Um, I’m Rosie Winter,’ I say quickly, not wanting the timid-looking Luna to get the brunt of her boss’s obvious ire. ‘And Iwasinvited. Look.’
I reach into my pocket for my phone but, of course, it’s not there; it’s back in the changing room at the pool. Which means I can’t show them the email I was sent; the one that, in my defence, was just addressed to plain old ‘Rosie’, rather than to Rosie Summers. It was only when I opened the attached booking reservation that I realised who it wassupposedto have been sent to; but by then, of course, it was too late – physically, I might have been packing up my stuff in a cramped London flat, but mentally I was already on my way to the Highlands. And, by that stage, the thought of turning back was too much to bear.
It still is.
‘I did get an email,’ I say quietly. ‘An invitation to the hotel.’ This is technically true. It’s just not thewholetruth, is all.
‘Oh, my God,’ says Luna, slapping one hand to her mouth as she scrolls frantically through her phone with the other. She looks up at us all with large, anxious eyes.
