ID: ANON101
Listening to: Offline
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Something happened on arrival. I don’t know what, but I saw Eva, Topher, and Inigo huddled in the corner of the lobby with the chalet girl. And I heard my name, I’m certain. They were talking about me. Whispering about me.
All I can think about is what they were saying, and why they were glancing over their shoulders and scheming.
Oh God, I hate this.
No. That’s not true. I don’t hate all of this. This place—this incredible chalet, with its pool and its views and its sheepskin throws and velvet sofas—this place is a dream come true. I don’t think I have ever set foot in anywhere so luxurious, at least not since leaving Snoop. If I was here alone, I would be perfectly happy, more than happy in fact. I would be pinching myself.
I hate them.
When at last I’m alone in my room, I sink onto the hand-stitched quilt, lie back on the feather-stuffed pillows, and shut my eyes.
I ought to be prowling around the room, taking in the glorious panoramic view of the mountains, testing out the spa settings on the bath, marveling at my luck in being here. But I’m not. Instead, I am lying here with my eyes closed, replaying that awful, awkward moment downstairs over and over again.
I should be used to it. Used to them forgetting about me, taking me for granted, ignoring me. I had a whole year of that at Snoop. A year of people going out for drinks after work and not inviting me. Twelve months of “Oh, Liz, would you reserve a table for four at Mirabelle?” and knowing that that four didn’t include me. One full year of invisibility. And I was fine with that—more than fine, actually. I was quite comfortable.
Now, three years after I left, everything has changed. I am very, very visible. And somehow Topher and Eva’s scrutiny and their efforts to charm me are worse than being ignored.
It is 5:28 p.m., French time. I have about ninety minutes before dinner. An hour and a half to wash and change and try to find something in my suitcase that won’t make me look like a frump compared to Eva’s new assistant and that Tiger girl from marketing.
I don’t even consider competing with Eva and the other woman with the high heels—what was her name? Miranda. They are not just out of my league, they’re out of my pay grade. Eva was a catwalk model, and even before Snoop started to take off, her budget for shoes was higher than my whole salary. I have always known that we were operating on different levels. But it would be nice if I could go down to dinner looking like I belong in the same room with the others.
I unzip my sagging wheelie case and rummage through the layers of clothes I stuffed in there early this morning. At last, halfway down, I find a dress that might do. I drag it over my head and then I stand in front of the mirror, smoothing down the material, staring at myself. The dress is black and stretchy, and I bought it because I read some piece in Elle that said every woman needed a little black dress and this was the cheapest one in the feature.
But somehow it doesn’t look like the dress in that photoshoot. It is crumpled from my case, and although I’ve only worn it two or three times, the material has gone into bobbles under the arms, giving it a tired, charity-shop look. There are what look like cat hairs all over the back, even though I don’t own a cat. Maybe they’ve come off my scarf.
I know that a girl like Tiger would probably pick this dress up in a thrift shop and accessorize it with something ridiculous like a chain-mail vest and biker boots and walk out looking like a million dollars.
If I wore a chain-mail vest, it would pinch the skin under my arms and clank when I walked, and strangers would laugh and say, “Taking up jousting, love?” And it would rust where my sweat seeped into the links, and stain my clothes, and I would hate myself even more than I do already.
I am still standing there, gazing blankly at myself in the mirror, when there is a knock at the door.
My stomach flips. I can’t face them. I can’t face any of them.
“Who—who is it?” I call. My voice breaks on the last syllable.
“It’s Erin,