Page 13 of Highland Getaway
‘Apologising again, Rosie Winter?’ he says with a smile of amusement. ‘Didn’t I tell you to stop that? Or at least save the apologies for when you’ve actually done something worth apologising for.’
‘Sor— Right. Got it,’ I reply. ‘Got any other advice for me while we’re here?’
Hunter looks at me speculatively.
‘Well, since you ask,’ he says. ‘You might want to try valuing yourself a bit higher. You caved way too quickly last night on the payment thing. If everyone else here is being paid to take a few photos, why shouldn’t you?’
‘Because I’m not a real influencer,’ I remind him, much as it pains me to do it. ‘I’m not even supposed to be here, remember? And I don’t have nearly as many followers as the rest of them. So I’m not as valuable to the hotel as they are.’
Hunter’s eyebrows twitch, but I can’t tell whether he’s surprised or just amused by this.
‘That’s only true if you judge your “value” in terms of followers,’ he replies, in an unmistakably sarcastic tone. ‘Which is a really weird way to make yourself feel bad for absolutely no reason. Look, all I’m saying is, don’t sell yourself short, Rosie,’ he adds, in a softer voice. ‘Everyone has value. Even Sabrina. Well, probably.’
‘Is this a pep talk?’ I reply suspiciously. ‘Or a motivational speech? Because you kind of ruined it with the ending, if so.’
‘Just a bit of friendly advice,’ he replies, shrugging. ‘You can take it or leave it. It’s no skin off my nose. I don’t even have an Instagram account, so I’m the least “valuable” person here, according to your way of thinking.’
I open my mouth to argue with this, because it’s absolutelynotwhat I meant, but he pushes the doors open before I can speak, revealing a large, formal dining room; the kind you always see in period dramas or stately homes, with a single, long table in the centre of the room, and a chandelier dangling above it. I’m sure I remember seeing another restaurant on the hotel’s website too – a more normal-looking one, with lots of smaller tables to seat different groups of people – so this must be the room they use to host private functions.
Like influencer press stays, for instance.
The room falls suspiciously silent as I enter; a sure sign that the small group of women (and one man) seated around the table have just been talking about me, and one that’s painfully familiar to me from my school days.
So, we’re off to a great start, then.
‘Isn’t that your granny’s sweater, Bex?’ says Daniel Foster suddenly; a statement so utterly random that it takes a moment for me to realise he’s referring to me, as I stand there awkwardly in the doorway. ‘Is she wearing your granny’s sweater?’
‘Oh. My. God,’ squeals his wife. ‘Sheis. I can’t believe this. You’re wearing my granny’s sweater,’ she tells me. ‘That’s so funny.’
I look down at my outfit, confused to be thrown into a conversation about grannies and their clothing choices.
‘Um, no, it isn’t yourgranny’s,’ I explain, tugging self-consciously at the sweater in question and wondering if I’ve stepped into some kind of alternative reality. ‘It’smine. I bought it. I didn’t steal it.’
‘Oh, no, of course not,’ says Bex, her eyes wide with innocence. ‘And I think it’s a really bold choice, actually. I mean, it’s not easy pulling off an old lady sweater like that, but you’re just over here rocking it anyway, aren’t you? Well done, you.’
She smiles sweetly and I open and close my mouth uselessly, not knowing what to say to this. I genuinely can’t tell whether she’s being nice or if she’s just a straight-up bitch. And, either way, she’s just made it very clear that the outfit I so carefully picked out is completelywrong.
‘You can’t call it an “old lady sweater”,’ points out Zara Harris, from the other side of the table. ‘That’s ageist, Bex.’
‘No, it isn’t,’ Bex replies, tossing her glossy hair over her shoulder. ‘Some old ladies are very stylish, Zara. I meant it as a compliment. I think it’s very brave of Wrong Rosie to try to pull off something like that. I wouldnever.’ She smiles again, and this time there’s no mistaking her meaning.
‘Well, I think it’s rather nice,’ says Daniel gallantly, as if he’s trying to make up for his wife’s now-blatant bitchiness. Bex glares at him, and I look down at my ‘lucky’ sweater, which is turning out to be not-so-lucky after all, and then back up at Bex; who’salsoturning out to be a bit of a disappointment, as it happens. On social media, she always seems sonice; the kind of girl you can easily imagine being best friends with. And yet, here she is, somehow managing to make me feel like I’m fifteen again, and turning up at school in my sister’s hand-me-downs, or something my mum had unearthed from the depths of a charity shop, because she couldn’t afford to buy us new clothes.
I glance over my shoulder, hoping Hunter might have some more words of wisdom for me, but he isn’t there. He must have slipped off at some point during the whole ‘granny’s sweater’ conversation. It’s hard to blame him, really. Instead, to my mounting horror, the doors swing open again and Sabrina Bates comes through them, wearing something that looks like it’s made of papier mâché, but which is presumably high fashion.
‘Oh, good,’ she says brightly, looking around the room. ‘You’re all here. Is everyone ready to hear about the competition?’
Chapter 6
A few minutes later I’m sitting at the oversized dining table with an equally oversized cooked breakfast in front of me while Sabrina confirms my worst fear: this isn’t just a cushy little all-expenses paid hotel stay I’ve landed – it’s a competition.
And, even worse than that, it’s apopularitycompetition.
‘Right,’ says Sabrina, pouring herself a cup of black coffee and waving away the waiter’s offer of food as if it’s the most ridiculous suggestion she’s ever heard. ‘Let’s do some quick icebreaker exercises first, shall we? Just to get to know each other, seeing as we’re all going to be effectively living together for the next few days.’
Excellent: that’s two of my worst fears checked off, and we’re not even finished breakfast yet.
‘Do wehaveto?’ says Millie, pouting. ‘I think we already all know each other, don’t we?’
