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I tuck the thick comforter up around me like a feathery cocoon as I lean against the headboard.

Eight o’clock is finding me not at the bar with sexy Mr Journalist, but in bed.

Which, to me, is trading up. Honestly, I could go to sleep right now.

After a shift at the beach and a shift and a half at the pool, I’m beat, my back achy and my shoulders tight– bad posture coming back to bite me. But my work is not done yet.

In the low light of the nightstand lamp, I pull out the guest roster and blink a few times. The words are a little blurry– I’m just that tired.

I’ve left the patio door open, and a breeze ruffles the curtains, sending pleasant chills on to my exposed arms. I can’t hear the waves in this poolside room. I miss the sound. Instead, I’m treated to the splashes of people jumping into the pool, peppered with a few feminine shrieks.

OK, time to focus. I turn the pages as the minutes tick past, flipping to some of the people I remember, like Chad Doyle from Harvest Moon, who’s on antidepressants, and Craig Lancaster, who’s really into the sauna. That can’t be good for his heart condition…

Then, almost without choosing, I flip back to Daniel Black: 6’, 170 lbs, brown eyes.

Now I see why his face didn’t immediately connect with his picture.

The picture shows a clean-shaven guy with shorter hair in a white shirt and tie, smiling, which somehow is weird.

The desk version of the broodier Daniel I met.

I scan his health info. Mmm, slightly high cholesterol.

Must be all that bacon. Nothing else to note…

and Vic’s notes are sparse. Make sure he has a 5-star experience!

! This could be great publicity!!! Connect him w/Serena! !!!!

Wow. That’s a lot of exclamation marks.

At a clicking sound, I look at the door. In a panic, I stuff the guest list under the covers just as a girl stumbles in with a roller bag behind her. Roommate. And… she’s not looking great. I hop out of bed to greet her.

‘Hi, I’m Lily. And you’re… ?’

‘River,’ she gasps. The door closes behind her. Her dark hair hangs lank around a pale face. ‘Sorry, I’m—’ Her body convulses, and before I can do anything else, she throws up on the carpet. The splatter is pale pink and… chunky. Extra chunky.

‘Ooooh,’ I groan before I can stop myself. There’s a panicked squeezing in my gut. Sweat springs up on my skin like a sudden dew.

Jess, are you OK? Me, five years ago in a room just like this one, or nearly, and Jessica puking.

It was chunky, too. She said she was fine.

She must have eaten something that upset her…

Maybe that green smoothie that looked like puke?

I offered, trying to laugh even though the sound of people throwing up has always had a domino effect on me.

I shake myself out of the memory and back to River, who’s grabbing a fistful of tissues from a nearby box, but honey, tissues are not going to cut it…

‘Just leave it,’ I say. ‘I’ll take care of it. Bathroom’s here.’ I swing open the door helpfully.

She makes it to the toilet just in time.

As the liquid sound of puke hitting water reaches me, I snap my wrist elastic twice.

She is not Jessica. She is your new roommate and she’s feeling like shit.

This is not about you, this is about her.

Gathering my resolve, I join her in the bathroom, where she’s kneeling over the toilet, arms braced on the seat.

‘I’m going to get your hair out of the way,’ I say gently, sacrificing my wrist elastic in the process as I bundle her hair back.

‘Thanks,’ she moans. ‘Sorry.’

‘Don’t be sorry. I’m going to call housekeeping, OK?’

I use the old-fashioned room phone on the nightstand to request an urgent visit from housekeeping.

Then, I move the guest roster from under the covers to under the mattress.

Housekeeping shows up within minutes, thank God, and as the diminutive cleaning lady stoically deals with the throw-up, I lean into the bathroom to check on River again.

‘Stomach bug?’

‘Food poisoning,’ she says. ‘In the airport lounge on my way… I think I ate some—’ She vomits yet again, then tilts her puke-flecked face towards me. ‘Bad shrimp.’

My stomach turns, sending a rush of liquid into my mouth, and I force myself to swallow it down. I don’t think I’ll eat shrimp ever again. Or anything else that’s pink. Or food of any kind, really.

‘I’m so sorry,’ I say. And oh, how I wish we had two bathrooms. ‘Can I… get you anything?’

‘Ginger ale? If you don’t mind?’

‘Of course!’ My enthusiasm isn’t even feigned; I’m all too happy to escape the room. I hesitate at the door; I’m in my plaid pyjama bottoms and the ribbed tank top I like to sleep in, but… I’m not changing into ‘branded gear’ for a ginger ale run. I grab my key card, credit card, and head out.

*

The Sunset Bar at quarter to nine is hopping, and seeing how dressed up everyone is for their nightcaps, I shift uncomfortably. PJs might have been… shortsighted. The ribbed white tank is on the thin side; I didn’t even put on a bra. Yep. Total and utter mistake.

A live jazz band is positioned at one end of the room, the singer a stunning redhead who’s swaying sensuously as she croons, ‘I’ve got a crush on you…’

Trying to be as inconspicuous as possible, I sidle up to the side of the long, polished bar nearest to the entrance. Champagne-coloured lights hang like warm icicles in clusters all down the length of the bar, making the mahogany top glow like warm honey.

‘Hi…’ I say, trying to flag down the nearest bartender, but he’s in the middle of closing out a customer’s tab and doesn’t seem to hear me.

I lean on the bar with my arms crossed to hide my braless state and catch the metal foot rail with one foot as I take a look around.

Little bar-height cocktail tables are scattered throughout the crescent-shaped space.

Opposite the bar, a bank of floor-to-ceiling windows faces west. The Sunset Bar is on the top floor of the hotel.

Below, fire pits glimmer and the pools glow.

As I try to catch the bartender’s attention again, I recognize a high-pitched laugh. Serena, sitting towards the centre of the bar. Wearing a tube dress that perfectly matches her skin. Talking to someone whose back is to me… a- ha . Daniel.

There are a few customers between us, but still, I stay hunched down, praying neither of them notices me.

‘Hey,’ I say in a loud whisper towards the bartender, leaning forward on the bar as far as I can go, feeling my breasts press against the wood.

He finally looks up and smiles. ‘What can I get you?’ His grin is amused. Yep, buddy, I’m in my pyjamas. Take a fuckin’ picture.

‘A ginger ale. Actually, make that two.’ I sense I might need one myself before the night’s over.

‘Can I interest you in a sugarless, organic alternative to ginger ale that’s infused with—’ he starts, but I cut him off.

‘Plain old ginger ale. Sick roommate. And do you have oyster crackers?’

‘Uh, I’ll have to grab some crackers from the kitchen. Give me a second?’

‘Of course,’ I say.

I glance at Serena and Daniel. Still oblivious to my presence, thank God.

Then I distract myself, as usual, by people-watching.

I spot Kyle tucked into a corner table with a slim blonde– no surprise there.

And there’s Craig Lancaster at the cocktail table within spitting distance of me, handing a server his credit card, looking positively spray tanned.

And that must be his husband Brian across from him.

Craig’s face has the too-stretched look of someone who has undergone plastic surgery more than once, but Brian looks like a normal dude.

He has a kind, puppy-dog face, and a bristly silver-flecked beard.

Honestly, he looks a bit out of place. Based on the way he’s shifting in his seat, he feels out of place, too.

‘Why the hell did you order that second beer?’ hisses Craig. ‘I thought you were working on your beer belly!’

Holy shitballs. This guy makes Kyle look like Mr Rogers.

‘Sorry, babe,’ says Brian. ‘After that workout with Shayna, I just thought it would be nice to unwind—’

‘You. Just. Thought,’ mocks Craig. ‘Well, maybe think harder! Because last I checked, I’m footing the bill here.’

Their server returns with Craig’s card and receipt.

‘Want me to add the tip?’ Brian offers humbly, reaching for the pen, but Craig smacks his palm down on the pen, blocking his husband’s hand.

‘Oh, I am not tipping the person who served you two beers at a wellness resort,’ snaps Craig. ‘ I’m meeting with your nutritionist tomorrow. Because we’re here to fucking fix things.’

He marches out of the Sunset, Brian behind him.

A sudden pain flares in my hand. I look down to find my left fist is clenched so tight, my nails are digging into my palm. I open my hand and splay my fingers out on the bar top, letting the cool wood soothe me.

It’s OK , I tell my pounding pulse. This is why you’re here.

My eyes stray back to Serena, who’s talking animatedly, clearly shining under the laser beam of Daniel’s attention. Her body language, together with the frequency of her laughter, is telling me she’s really into Daniel. Suddenly, her eyes shift to me, widening instantly with recognition.

Damn. Other than diving behind the bar, there’s no hiding now.

‘Hey! Lily!’

OK. Now the pyjamas are really going to bite me.

I’m breaking branding guidelines in front of the VP of Branding.

I lift my hand and wave friendly fingers, giving her my most charming and unassuming smile.

With a little bit of luck, she’ll let me scurry off without an embarrassing public reprimand…

Nope. She’s leaving her bar stool, clip-clopping over to me in her six-inch heels. She grabs my hand, and there’s a reek of gin on her breath.