Page 6

There are lots of ways to get around the Riovan, and I’ve learned them all.

With my key in the back pocket of my jeans and the bag of branded gear I just collected from Supplies pressed against my chest, I pick my way over sandy paver stones and grasses, a back way I discovered a few years ago that winds upward through the rocks, eventually looping back down to the West Suites.

A rougher path, certainly not roller-bag friendly, definitely less efficient.

But more private, and I’m in no mood to run into anyone. .. especially my past self.

Memories are a funny thing, aren’t they? They can be delicate as ghosts one minute, and wallop you like an old-fashioned backhand the next.

I speak from experience about the backhand.

And no, my mom didn’t hit me, so you can dismiss that lovely trailer-park stereotype.

It was one of her boyfriends. I was eleven.

‘Don’t give me lip, girl.’ What had I said?

I wish I could remember. Anyway, it only happened once, but it’s not something you ever forget.

Mom ended things with him immediately. Never let anyone treat you that way, Lily , she said, her mouth aflame with her favourite red Revlon lipstick, her eyes blazing like justice.

Even though she was a petite woman, she looked about a mile tall that afternoon.

The sun is beating down, punishingly bright, the heat cut occasionally with a cool breeze off the water, which gleams down below, peppered with swimmers. I’m huffing and puffing. The incline is steeper than I remember, and I have to lift my bag awkwardly between the stones.

Further up the hillside, scattered like white petals along the cliff, are the Riovan’s most expensive– and exclusive– accommodation options: the Villas, single occupancy buildings that offer privacy, luxury and a killer view.

The type of guests who can afford them mostly keep to themselves.

I heard that one time Celine Dion stayed there.

When I finally reach the Vista West wing, with its more modest poolside rooms that used to be the cheaper option for guests, my shirt is stuck to my back with sweat. I swipe my card to gain access to the building. Immediately, frigid air conditioning spills over me.

Inside the elevator, low thumping mood music is playing, and I lift the moist tendrils of hair off my neck.

I have no interest in looking at my dishevelled self in the mirrored wall, so I lean my head forward and close my eyes for the few moments it takes to rise from the ground floor to the second.

The doors slide open. I orient myself in front of the signage before taking a left.

The hallway feels dystopian in its length, door after identical door.

Has it always been this long? The wheels of my bag are nearly silent on the carpet.

There– 2208. I pull out my key card and try to feed it into the slot, but it won’t go in.

Did Nick give me a bum key, just to screw with me?

Nope, it’s my hand, shaking so hard, the white card is fuzzy at the edges. I need to relax. Unfortunately, there are no manspreaders offering me free alcohol. Where’s a Kyle when you need one?

‘Come on,’ I coach myself under my breath. There’s a loud click, but it’s not from my door. It’s someone coming out of the room next to mine.

‘Hey, are you one of the new lifeguards?’ It’s a girl with bleached blonde hair shaved on one side, long on the other.

She’s in the lifeguard’s red swimsuit, a sweatshirt and a towel hanging over her arm.

I can’t help but notice that the resort-issued bathing suit this year is cut higher than ever before, displaying not only most of her ass, but her impressive leg tattoo that goes from ankle to left butt cheek.

‘Yeah, hi. I’m Lily,’ I say. Since I’m trying to overcompensate for feeling unstable, my voice comes out sounding a bit too mechanical, so I tack on a laugh. Great. Now I sound like a robot ditz.

‘Hannah,’ she says, moving her towel from her arm to her shoulder and cocking a slim hip. ‘Where’re you from?’

‘Cincinnati.’

‘Oh, cool, another Midwest girl. I’m from Chicago.’

‘Nice to meet you.’ I pause. ‘Have you worked here before?’ I already know she hasn’t, but it’s as good a conversation starter as any.

‘No, first time.’ She angles her head. ‘Are you… OK? You look a little—’

‘Oh! Yeah. Fine. I’m just rattled from…’ No! Stop! ‘The key card. They’re… a little different from last year. I can’t seem to get the door open!’ And then I tack on another laugh, because at this point, why not.

‘Here, let me,’ she says, and of course, the door opens right away for her. She gives me a sympathetic little grin. ‘So I guess you’ve worked here before?’

‘Fifth year.’ I wedge my foot in the door to keep it open.

‘Wow! That’s commitment.’

‘You have no idea.’

She smiles uncertainly. Am I coming across too intense?

‘So… have you met your roommate?’ I say quickly. Her expression lightens.

‘Yeah, we both got here beginning of June. Her name is Bridget, from the UK. She’s on a gap year. She’s been working her way through the Caribbean getting jobs at all the best resorts, isn’t that awesome? Have you met your roomie?’

‘No, she missed her flight. I’m covering for her on the beach in about an hour and a half.’

‘Well, if you’re interested, a bunch of us are pooling our money to charter a boat Friday night to Saint Vitalis—’

That’s the next island over. The Las Vegas of the Sea, according to the advertisements.

My memories of it from last year are quite vivid– the liquid cling of the little dress Carli Elle lent me, the booming music as the boat skimmed over the water, the way her gold cowboy hat was tipped over her face.

She was at the Riovan for the four-week intensive, and though I normally would never think to befriend a guest– especially not a famous pop star who undoubtedly valued her privacy– we’d discovered an unlikely bond in Calumet Heights, where she lived with an aunt for a year after her mom OD’d.

Of all the trailer parks in all the world , she laughed. The rest is history.

That night, her manager had scheduled her to do a ‘surprise’ performance at the Mambotel. A few key TikTokers had been alerted in advance, and she was hoping to go viral. When Carli asked me to come along, it was a no-brainer to say yes.

The morning after, there was an emergency staff meeting. My head was pounding; I’d only slept for a couple of hours, and I was regretting the second Long Island Iced Tea I’d guzzled on the way back.

Vic was pale, serious. ‘There was an accident in one of the rooms last night. Rest assured that it’s being investigated. Do not talk to the press. Do not talk about it with guests. If anyone asks questions, say, “no comment” or send them to me. Understood?’

For a few days, confusion reigned. The Head of Maintenance was fired.

Audrey, the VP of Branding, either quit or was fired.

The elusive Mr Thorpe, owner of the conglomerate the Riovan is part of, made an appearance and talked to the staff about discretion and trust. I’m assuming island officials were bought off and the appropriate palms greased, because within two days, all signs of the accident had disappeared and the investigation was closed.

By the time the story hit the press, it had been sanitized, as is so often the case for celebrity deaths.

Michael Johnson, 54, Manager of Grammy Award-Winning Artist Carli Elle, Found Dead in Hotel Room.

If you didn’t know better, you’d assume it was drugs or suicide.

A tabloid ‘exposé’ ran a few days later.

An anonymous source says that Johnson, known in the business as ‘Mr Mic’, scheduled Carli Elle to perform, but declined to accompany his client, in favour of a ‘quiet night to myself’.

The source revealed that Johnson had been in a depressive downswing…

They ran some pictures of Carli on American Idol where she got her start, she and Michael holding their first Grammy together, and Carli on the yacht on her way to the Mambotel.

As luck would have it, I’m in that last picture, kind of behind Carli, laughing.

Not ideal, I know. At least my image is blurry and dark enough that only one reporter ever found me.

I blocked the guy’s number, flagged his emails as spam, and told myself that it was over.

‘I know all about Saint Vitalis,’ I say, unwittingly massaging my temple with two fingers.

‘Oh, right!’ Hannah laughs. ‘This is all old hat to you, isn’t it? Well. The Mambotel is throwing this massive party. There’s a rumour that Adam Levine is supposed to do a surprise show.’

‘Carli Elle performed there last year,’ I blurt out without meaning to.

‘What? I love her! Did you get to see her?’

‘Yeah.’ Shut up, Lily! I chastise myself. Stop bringing up the very thing you want everyone to forget! ‘She was staying at the Riovan.’

‘Oh my god! Is she as down to earth as she seems?’

‘I’d say so.’

‘Did you ever talk to her? I’d be so tempted to ask for an autograph…’

‘No,’ I lie, though something perverse in me wants to say, Yeah, and you‘ll never believe what she confided in me. This is not where I make the classic mistake of giving people hints about what I’ve done because I need everyone to know how clever I am. This is where I shut the hell up.

Hannah pouts. ‘Boo. This year all we have is that guy from Harvest Moon. Watch out. He’s handsy.’ Ugh. ‘But you should totally come Friday!’

‘Thanks. I’ll think about it.’

‘For sure. Just keep it on the DL… heading off to party island isn’t exactly on-brand .’ Hannah smirks. ‘But we should be allowed to blow off steam on our day off, right?’

‘Totally.’

‘I’d better get going.’ Hannah checks her bulky, waterproof watch. ‘Nice meeting you!’

‘Yeah, nice meeting you, too, Hannah,’ I say as she saunters off down the hall.

OK, OK. Time to go into this fucking room.

‘It’s not going to be the same as five years ago,’ I whisper to myself as I nudge the door open. Staff accommodation has always been more bare bones anyway, with plank floors, smaller beds, and furniture pieces displaying their long suffering in dings and loose drawer pulls.

Then I step inside, on to the thick carpeting. The familiar smell washes through my senses: coconut and lemongrass, the resort’s trademark scent. A total upgrade from the old staff quarters.

The room is pleasantly shaded, with a gentle light filtering in through the white gauze curtains that are drawn over south-facing sliding glass doors.

Two single beds are made up in white sheets and comforters.

A small balcony overlooks the pool, and the hum of the AC makes a soothing background of white noise, rippling the edge of one of the curtains.

Well, fuck.

It’s exactly the same as five years ago.

The only difference is that instead of two beds, there used to be one.

My knees turn to liquid. I lower myself to the floor, hand on the bed, clutching a wad of the comforter as I go down.

My roller bag tips over. I tip over too, forehead to the floor, comforter now pulled sideways off the bed as all the parts of me I’ve held tightly together during this trip unravel on the plush carpeting of room 2208.

Can you believe we get to stay here for a whole week? Jessica, bouncing on the mattress five years ago, her face lit up with joy.

‘Unreal.’ Me, joining her, but cautiously, perching on the side of the bed.

‘Come on! Get in here!’ She tackled me from behind, pulling me back on to the soft cloud of the white blanket, wrapping her arms around me and nuzzling my neck. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘Nothing,’ I said. ‘It’s just so… fancy.’

‘Well, you deserve it,’ she said, which I supposed was sweet, though perhaps not accurate. As far as I’d seen in my twenty-four years of living, riches and merit had nothing to do with each other.

‘I was just lucky.’

‘Relax,’ she cajoled as we fell naturally into a spooning position. ‘We’re going to have an amazing week. I still can’t believe you won this for us. Thank you.’

‘I didn’t do anything.’

‘You were caller number one hundred!’

‘Yes, I was.’ I twisted my head and gave her a peck. ‘I love you.’

She nudged my nose with hers. ‘OK, OK, there’s so much to do, we can’t just lie around here.

There’s a seminar on the mind–body connection that I’m totally interested in.

I want to meet my personal trainer asap, maybe they can give me tips on how to deal with this.

’ She smacked her butt. ‘Oh, and did you see we each get a consultation with a nutritionist?’

‘You’re a chef ,’ I said. ‘You know plenty about nutrition.’

‘Yeah, yeah, but maybe she can help me lose those pesky twenty…’

‘Hey, I happen to like the sexy twenty,’ I pouted, turning around in the bed, surrounding her with my arms and making a teasing grab for her ass, all the while being careful not to press against her too hard in case she felt the little box tucked into my sweatshirt pocket.

I hadn’t wanted to entrust it to our luggage; it felt safest with me.

A diamond. I’d cleaned out my savings and bought it the week before, an extravagance to fit the extravagance that was Jess in my life.

The white rocks overlooking the beach would be the perfect place to propose.

I already had a speech written out and mostly memorized.

When you walked into that bar four years ago with your fake ID and your knockoff Gucci and ordered a Cosmopolitan, I knew that you and I would never in a million years be friends…

I keep my forehead pressed to the carpet as sobs ride my body. I don’t often cry; it’s not my thing. But didn’t I know this would happen, the second Nick told me I was poolside? Everything in here– the sights, the smells, the textures– is screaming, Jessica.

I pull the comforter the rest of the way down off the bed and wrap it around my body as I roll on to my side. I keep my eyes squeezed shut, because if I open them, I’ll see one thing and one thing only.

That Jess isn’t here.