Page 56 of Harper's Holiday Romance

“It’s fine. I’ll give her a big tip at the end of the holiday.” Billie pulled apart the packaging to reveal a colourful Cancun vest top. She instantly removed her own T-shirt and replaced it with the vibrant equivalent.

“I can work with this.” She modelled the look in the floor to ceiling mirror.

“That is so sweet of her,” I gushed.

Billie grabbed two glass bottles of Coca Cola from the minibar and her latest top-up of peanut M&Ms.

“Here. Catch.” She pretended to throw the bottle. “Joking.”

The balcony was the perfect debriefing area. The sun’s orange light slowly diminished on the horizon. The sea was calm, minor waves crashed against the beach as I watched the last of the guests gather their belongings and head inside. The clatter of pots and pans from the kitchen staff echoed below our room. The rolling of carts carrying wooden props reverberated against the cobbled stone pavement below, creating a cracking rumbling like thunder in the distance. The hotel staff were frantically setting up for the Mexican event.

“What do you think I should wear tonight?” I asked Billie.

“Something slutty.”

“Not helpful.”

I went to the closet and returned with a floaty blue patterned dress I’d purchased four months prior.

“What about this?” I pulled it over my bikini top and removed my linen shorts.

“Where’s the rest of it?” Billie asked.

“What do you mean? It’s not that short.” I bent over to demonstrate. Was there a slight breeze when I did, absolutely. “Okay, so it’s a little short.”

“Try and sit down without your ass or your vagina coming out,” Billie challenged.

I attempted and failed. The material dropped in a swooping half-circle shape at the back but not enough to cover my modesty.

“Okay, well, that was a waste of twenty-five pounds.” I removed option two. A viscose beige shirtdress I’d only worn once; I hoped Billie wouldn’t remember when.

“What about this?” I slipped on my grey square front sliders and walked the length of the apartment like I was walking the runway at London Fashion Week.

“I love that.” Billie paused.

“But—”

“Is that what you wore to your twenty-fifth birthday party?”

“Yes.” I sighed.

“Oh. I’m surprised you haven’t set it on fire by now.”

“It’s a vintage Dior dress, Billie. You don’t just burn Dior.”

“Sold it then. It must be tainted.” She tossed a red M&M in the air; it landed in her mouth with ease.

It was tainted with the red wine stain I spent a fortune trying to get out before surrendering it to the dry cleaners for expert advice. It was also tainted with the tears of a birthday ruined and an unhinged relationship coming to a close.

“I avoided it for three years, but I don’t think the dress was the problem.” I brushed my hand over the bottom right corner that once glowed a burgundy red. The cheap wine stain was the easier of the two stains to remove. The deep crimson that had once splattered across the sleeve was blood, and it required a deeper clean, a bit like my life. After the fact, the red stains became double meaning metaphors. Don’t drink red liquid around a light-coloured designer dress, and don’t allow your narcissistic, obsessive ex-girlfriend to attend your birthday party in an attempt to remain friends.

“That night was crazy,” Billie stated.

“It’s the reason I haven’t had a birthday party since, nor will I ever.” I was adamant about that.

“You have to find a way to heal, Harp. It’s been three years.”

It felt like yesterday.