Page 4 of Highland Getaway
So I’m not sure how it happened, but somehow the Chrysalis invited the wrong Rosie to their influencer retreat. Which is the point at which anysensibleperson would’ve hit reply on the email and told them exactly that. No harm, no foul.
But no one has ever accused me of being sensible. And, the fact is, when the invitation arrived, it caught me at a particularly low point. A ‘just been dumped by the man I thought I’d spend the rest of my life with’ point. An ‘I need to move out of the flat we shared, even though I have nowhere to go’ point. An ‘I hate my job, but I can’t afford to leave it’ point.
You get the point, I’m sure.
With five days to go before the lease on the flat ran out, I went to my happy place – the retail park – and bought myself a beautiful red cashmere sweater with what was left of my overdraft.
No, itwasn’tthe most sensible thing I could’ve done, under the circumstances. But, when I bought it, I really thought that sweater was going to change my life; in the same way I think all new purchases will have the power to do that. I remember standing there in the shop, stroking it lovingly, and thinking about how, when I put it on, I’d be transformed into someone completely different; someone deserving of this beautiful item of clothing that I couldn’t really afford, but also couldn’t live without.
Someone who wasn’t about to become homeless in five days’ time.
It was as I walked out of the shop that the email arrived from Luna Stone, inviting me – well, inviting Rosie Summers – to the Chrysalis; leaving four days from the date on the email.
‘“A journey of reinvention”,’ it said.
A chance to run away from my life, and find myself a better one. A chance to step into Rosie Summers’ life, and find out what it’s like to be one of the most popular women on social media.
The kind of opportunity that might never come along ever again.
And, well, also somewhere to live for a few days once I’d handed back the keys to the flat.
‘Was thisyou?’ I asked the sweater, peeking into the bag. ‘Are you made of some kind of magic?’
And that’s why, instead of hitting the ‘reply’ button and letting them know they’d got the wrong person, I’m currently sitting outside a Highland castle, with all of my fingers crossed, and all of my worldly goods – literally – crammed into the bags behind me.
But now I feel so sick with nerves that I can’t even begin to imagine what I was thinking when I decided to go ahead with this plan. Or what I’m going to do when the truth inevitably comes out. I mean, it’s not like anyone other than Hunter Stuart, who clearly avoids social media, is going to mistake short, mousy-brown me for the model-like Rosie Summers, is it?
‘Are you OK?’ asks Hunter, looking at me curiously from the passenger seat as I stare anxiously through Stevie’s ears and up at the hotel, which, the website informed me, is a converted eighteenth-century castle, and the family seat of the Glenmuirs, who still own it today.
‘Um, sure,’ I reply, in a voice that sounds unconvincing, even to me. ‘It’s just . . . it’s veryimposing, isn’t it?’
In the photos online, the Chrysalis looked straight out of a fairy tale; all turrets and ramparts, with grounds stretching all the way down to the sea, which I can hear crashing against some unseen shore as I get out of the car. As I look up at it from the bottom of the sweeping stone staircase that leads to the front door, though, it somehow looks more like the setting of some kind of Gothic horror; one with madwomen in the attic, and a dungeon where . . .
On second thoughts, let’s not eventhinkabout the possibility of there being a dungeon. Or what might happen in it to women who come here under false pretences.
‘It’s a bit more modern inside,’ says Hunter, joining me. ‘We’ve been working on the renovations for months now. Come on, let’s get you checked in.’
I follow him reluctantly into the hotel’s reception area, Stevie padding soundlessly behind us like a shadow, and Hunter carrying my many bags as easily as if they weigh nothing.
The main lobby is vast and imposing, with a chequerboard tiled floor and a wide staircase leading up to a gallery landing above us. Chesterfield sofas are dotted around, creating cosy little seating areas, and there’s a log fire blazing away merrily, even though it’s June. The reception desk sits to one side of the stairs, with an enormous stuffed stag’s head mounted above it, and it’s being presided over by a man so handsome that he almost looks like he’s been AI generated.
And here I was thinking Hunter Stuart must be the most handsome man in the Highlands.
Striking though he is, it’s the couple AI man is currently speaking to who claim my attention. I’ve never met them in my life, but the woman has shiny dark hair and a red-lipsticked smile which is almost as familiar as my own reflection, while her husband is equally recognisable, with his dark-blond hair combed up at the front, and a very large camera slung around his neck.
‘Oh, my God,’ I breathe, clutching Hunter’s arm in shock. ‘It’s the Fosters!’
‘The who?’ he says, looking pointedly at the fingers burrowed into his fleece jacket.
‘The Fosters,’ I reply, watching as the couple in question appear to argue with the man behind the desk. ‘Bex and Daniel. They’re one of the most popular YouTube couples in the country. They have over a million followers.’
‘Never heard of them,’ says Hunter, with an infuriating shrug. ‘D’you want me to leave this stuff here, or will I?’
‘Shh,’ I hiss, trying to listen in to the conversation at the reception desk.
‘I’m sorry, sir,’ AI man is telling Daniel Foster, in a tone that doesn’t sound even remotely apologetic. ‘But your name definitely isn’t on my list.Thisis my list.’
He holds up a sheet of paper with just a few typewritten lines on it.
