Lies That Bind Us(26)

I flung myself back into bed and fished blindly for my watch on the nightstand. I had to hold it right up to my face, and I sighed, recalling the whole swimming-with-glasses fiasco.

Idiot.

I had reset my watch on the plane as soon as we touched down. Now I stared at it, trying to make sense of how long I had been asleep.

Jesus.

Almost eleven hours! I stared at the ceiling and gauged how tired I was, how hungover, and found that however long I had slept, I still felt woolly headed and exhausted. I listened to the house, trying to detect the sound of movement, water running through pipes, distant laughter.

They might have all gone to the beach or into the town.

I felt a pang of disappointment. However intimidating I sometimes found them—well, most of them—I didn’t want to be left out. Perhaps if I went down now, without showering, I could catch them.

And meet Melissa the Radiant with her British TV star sidekick, oozing perfection over spinach and egg white omelets? I don’t think so.

The bath was wet, and there were half-empty mini bottles of shampoo and body wash, one of which had its prime ingredients—ginseng and extract of pomegranate—laid out in faux French. Well, maybe it was actual French, but you know what I mean: the kind of French chosen to feel chic (!) without actually being a barrier to anyone who didn’t speak French. Basically, just English words with a few accents and a couple of letters rearranged, like in some restaurants that offer salads with “bleu” cheese dressing, which they then pronounce blue. Anyway, I took some, and my irritation at the Frenchified marketing made me feel less bad about using it without asking. It smelled nice—not synthetic, like you might expect—and I gave it a closer look, upending the bottle to read the embossed stamp in the base: FABRIQUé à PARIS.

So . . . not your Great Deal knockoff after all. Awesome.

I dried myself off, donned a towel, and made the sprint back to my room, whose stale air was even more obvious now that I had been out of it. I needed to find one of those window keys. As I had crossed the landing, I’d heard desultory conversation from below. Brad, I thought. So at least some of them were still there.

I put on another sundress and tried to recall if anyone had floated a plan for the day. I couldn’t remember. The whole evening was foggy and vague. Either I had been really tired, or I’d drunk more than I thought. Probably both.

I drifted down slowly, cautiously, keen to see who was there before they noticed me, though I wasn’t sure why. Brad and Kristen were sitting at the kitchen table, and Melissa was going through a cupboard on the far side by the stove.

“Morning,” I said.

Brad and Kristen looked up and smiled.

“Hey,” said Melissa. Except that it wasn’t Melissa. It was Gretchen.

Damn my worthless, shortsighted eyes and damn my moronic impulse to wear my glasses in the sea straight to hell.

“Was it you creeping around upstairs last night?” she asked. “About gave me a heart attack.”

“No,” I said. Gretchen’s room, like Brad and Kristen’s, was on the floor below mine. “I thought I heard something but figured it was just my imagination. You know, unfamiliar place . . .”

“No,” said Gretchen, very sure of herself. “I heard someone. It wasn’t Brad or Kristen.”

“Maybe it was Marcus,” I said.

“I don’t think so,” said Gretchen.

What the hell did that mean? Like she’d know where he’d spent every second of the night? I didn’t believe it.

“And the master bedroom is on the other side of the house,” said Gretchen, conspiratorially. “With its own bathroom.”

“So you think what?” I pushed. She was annoying me.

“Someone is obviously telling porkies,” said Gretchen.

“Porkies?” said Kristen.

“Pork pies,” said Gretchen. “Lies. You know. Rhyming slang.”

“Oh,” said Kristen vaguely. “Right.”

“Are you saying I’m lying about not sneaking around the house last night?” I demanded, my spine stiffening.

Gretchen turned to me. Her face was both baffled and shocked.

“Of course not,” she said. “I was kidding.”

I stared at her, feeling the color rise in my face.

“Oh,” I said. “I’m sorry. I . . . God, I’m still really tired. I don’t know what I . . . sorry.”

Her uncomplicated smile flicked on and the confusion was gone.

“Know the feeling,” she said. “Coffee?”

“Oh God, yes.”

“Just a heads up,” said Brad. “Greek coffee is terrible. It’s either instant Nescafé, which tastes like gray Kool-Aid, or it’s the Turkish stuff that should be spread on roads.”

“She has been here before, dear,” said Kristen, not looking up.

“Just pour me a cup,” I said.

He grinned and shrugged.

“Your funeral,” he said.

“Morning darlings!” called Melissa from the foyer. She was leading Simon in by the hand. They both looked slightly tousled but wide awake and brimming with health. “Lots of fun things packed in for today!”

“Good God,” I said, “can’t you be like regular people for once?”