Page 17

Chapter 16

Margot

I stand naked in front of the bathroom mirror, looking at the phone in my hand. Every inch of my body has been peeled, pummelled, plucked, massaged, manipulated, and coated with something luxurious. I’ve been scraped, waxed, primed, tanned and glossed, and up until now I’ve felt there are parts of me that look bloody amazing. I’ve convinced myself that when I get home, Nicu won’t be able to keep his hands off me.

Only the selfie I sent to him a few minutes ago has gone unacknowledged. I can see it’s been read, but he hasn’t responded with so much as a thumbs-up emoji.

I give him a little longer, but still, nothing. And then I start finding fault with myself. I grab the kangaroo pouch around the centre of my belly, push up my breasts and pull my cheeks towards my ears. Perhaps the ugliness I know that lies inside me has started to seep out beyond the surface for all to see.

‘Fuck you, Nicu,’ I spit at the phone and throw it on to the bed.

I slip on my clothes, top up my water bottle with the Belvedere vodka miniatures from the minibar, and take the Molton Brown body scrub, shampoo and hair treatments from the complimentary basket in the bathroom. Then I join the others waiting for me at reception.

Liv looks much like she did on her arrival, but a little spit and polish has done Anna the world of good. Her beauty therapist must also be a magician because her normally dull, dry skin is shimmering. That must have been like sanding Artex from a ceiling. She’s scowling at her phone, and I assume she’s been arguing with Drew again. What she sees in a man with permanently scuffed shoes and frayed laces is beyond me. I’d never let Nicu out of the house looking like that. And don’t get me started on the godawful tattoo of a lion on the back of his hand. You’re not Justin Bieber, Drew.

‘Look at you!’ Liv says to me. ‘You’re positively glowing.’

Glowing? Isn’t that what you tell a pregnant woman? Is she telling me I look fat again? I suck in my stomach before I’m reminded of Anna’s words yesterday. She’s right. Not everyone has a hidden agenda. And I suppose Liv has been generous by spending her vouchers on us.

‘Okay girls,’ Liv continues, ‘are we ready to check out?’

We approach the reception desk and a young man loads our suitcases on to a trolley and takes Liv’s car keys. One of the clones working behind the desk moves her skeletal fingers across the screen of a tablet until she finds what she’s looking for.

‘And the total to pay is ￡2,270,’ she says in a clipped tone.

Liv removes her phone and finds an email with a barcode attached to it.

‘I have a voucher,’ she says. ‘A leaving gift from work.’

She must have been popular to have been gifted an amount that covers this bill.

‘It should pay for myself and Anna,’ she adds.

Huh? What did she just say?

‘And how will you be paying, Mrs Rosetti?’ the receptionist asks me.

I freeze. What? This was a freebie, wasn’t it? Liv’s treat? And then I recall the conversation we had in which Liv invited us to join her. To my regret, I can replay it with some confidence. When she said she had vouchers, it was true; she didn’t specify she’d be using them to pay for us all. She only said it to Anna.

Everyone is looking at me. There are so many mirrors in this bloody place it makes the glare of this attention even worse.

‘Your total comes to ￡969,’ the receptionist informs me.

I pull out my purse, choose a credit card and hand it over. The machine rejects it.

‘Can I split it between cards?’ I ask, trying not to look at the others while I’m dying inside.

‘Of course,’ the receptionist replies.

Three credit cards later and we are at last back in Liv’s car, and all the knots and stresses the masseuse pummelled out of me have returned, ten-fold.