One by One(10)

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, I’m your chalet host,” I hear faintly through the wood. “Just wanted to check you have everything you need?”

I open the door. The girl who greeted us earlier is standing there. I didn’t get a chance to really look at her when we arrived, but now I do. She is pretty and tanned, with shiny chestnut hair, and she is wearing a neat white blouse tucked into dark blue jeans. She looks self-possessed, assured, everything I am not.

Only one thing is out of place—the thin, pink tracing of a long scar that runs across her right cheekbone, disappearing into her hair. It stretches as she smiles at me, and I’m… surprised, I suppose. She looks like the kind of person who would cover such a thing up with makeup. But… she hasn’t.

I want to ask her how she got it, but it doesn’t feel like the kind of question you can just blurt out. Once upon a time I just would have asked. Now I have learned the hard way, that that kind of directness makes people think you are weird.

“Hi,” she says, still smiling. “I’m Erin. I just wanted to check everything was okay with your room and to let you know there will be predinner drinks in the foyer this evening at six forty-five, followed by a short presentation.”

“A presentation?” I tug at the hem of the dress. “About the resort?”

“No, a business presentation, I think. Was it not on your schedule?”

I rummage in my case and pull out the creased and folded itinerary Inigo emailed a few days ago. I have spent practically every spare second since poring over it, trying to figure out how this week is going to play out, so I know full well there is nothing listed for the first night, but I still need to reassure myself I’m not going crazy.

“There’s nothing listed,” I say. I can’t prevent a note of accusation creeping into my voice. The girl shrugs.

“Probably a last-minute addition? Your colleague—Ani, is that right?—she just asked me to set up the projector in the den.”

It is on the tip of my tongue to blurt out that Ani isn’t my colleague. I have never worked with her. In fact I barely know any of them apart from the four original founders, Rik, Elliot, Eva, and Topher.

But I am too busy trying to figure out what this means.

Ani is Eva’s assistant. So this presentation must be something Eva has hatched up. And Eva is the most strategic person I know. She would never leave anything off an agenda by accident. Which means she has done this on purpose. She is executing some kind of plan.

But what?

“Do you know what it’s about?” I ask. “The presentation?”

“No, sorry. The timing is literally all I know. Drinks at six forty-five, presentation at seven.”

“And… what should I wear?” I don’t want to ask her, but I’m starting to feel desperate.

The girl smiles, but there is puzzlement behind her expression.

“How do you mean? We’re really informal at Perce-Neige, no one dresses for dinner. Just wear whatever you feel comfortable in.”

“But that’s what they always say!” The words burst from me, in spite of myself. “They say, ‘Oh, just wear whatever you want,’ and then when you turn up there’s some secret dress code that everyone seems to know apart from me. I go too smart and they’re all in jeans and I look like I’ve tried way too hard, or I wear something casual and they’re all in suits and dresses. It’s like everyone else has the key to this and I don’t!”

As soon as the words are out, I want to take them back. I feel naked, unbearably exposed. But it is too late. They cannot be unspoken.

She smiles again. Her expression is kind, but I see the pity in her eyes. I feel the blood creeping up into my cheeks, turning my face hot and red.

“It’s really relaxed,” she says. “I’m sure most people won’t even change. You’ll look lovely whatever you wear.”

“Thanks,” I say miserably. But I don’t mean it. She is lying, and we both know it.





ERIN


Snoop ID: LITTLEMY

Listening to: Snooping XTOPHER

Snoopers: 1

Snoopscribers: 1

As the various members of the party assemble in the foyer, the song that keeps running through my head is not the Chilean R & B I was listening to before they came in (yes, I was snooping on Topher), but the Beautiful South’s “Rotterdam (or Anywhere).” Okay, not everyone is blond. But everyone is most certainly beautiful. Almost absurdly so. There is Eva’s assistant, cute little Ani with her heart-shaped face and buttercup hair. Topher’s PA, Inigo, now sporting a bronze five-o’clock shadow that makes his cheekbones look like he stepped off a film set. Even Carl the lawyer, who is probably the least conventionally attractive of the party, with his bullish expression and stocky frame, has a definite magnetism.