An alert pings on his phone, and he brings it up.

“Ah, yeah, see? This is someone I’m subscribed to, Msaggronistic. She’s this French Canadian chick in Montreal, she listens to some really cool punk stuff. That alert was telling me she’s come online and she’s playing…” He scrolls down the notification. “The Slits, apparently. Not sure that’s my cup of tea, but that’s the thing, it might be. I just don’t know.”

“Right.” I’m not sure I’m any the wiser really, but it’s sort of making sense.

“Anyway,” Danny says. He gets up and starts clearing our plates. “That’s what I meant, these tech start-ups, you could actually imagine them calling their head of finance ‘chief bean counter’ or whatever the fuck he was called. They’d think it was edgy or something. Coffee?”

I look at my watch—2:17.

“I can’t. I’ve got a couple of rooms still to do, then the pool.”

“I’ll bring you one up.”

I stand and stretch, working the kinks out of my neck and shoulders. It’s physical work, cleaning. I never realized how much before I started this job. Heaving Hoovers up and down stairs, scrubbing toilets and tiles. Doing nine rooms on the trot is a workout.

 

* * *

 

I’m finishing the pool when Danny comes in with a cup of coffee. He’s wearing his usual trunks—the smallest, tightest ones I’ve ever seen in real life. They are banana yellow, and when he turns around to put my coffee down on the lounger, you can see that he has BAD BOI written across his butt in scarlet letters.

“Don’t make any splashes,” I warn him, as he stands poised at the edge of the pool, his arms outstretched. “I’m not mopping again.”

He says nothing, just sticks out his tongue, and then does a perfect, splash-free dive into the shallow end of the pool. It’s not really deep enough for diving, but he skims the bottom and comes up safely at the far end.

“Come on, the bloody place is clean enough. Get in.”

I waver. I haven’t Hoovered the dining room, but I don’t know if anyone would be able to tell.

I look at my watch—3:15. The guests are supposed to arrive at 4:00 p.m. I’m cutting it fine.

“Oh, all right, then.”

It’s our weekly ritual. A ten-minute dip after all the chores are done, like a way of reclaiming our territory, reminding ourselves who’s actually in charge in this place.

My bikini is on under my clothes, and I pull off my sweaty T-shirt and stained cleaning jeans, and ready myself to dive. I’m just about to push off when I feel a hand grab my ankle and yank me forward, and with a shriek, I pitch into the pool.

I surface, spluttering, raking hair out of my eyes. There is water everywhere.

“You fucking imbecile! I said no splashes!”

“Chill.” Danny is laughing uproariously, the water like jewels on his dark skin. “I’ll mop it, I swear.”

“I’ll bloody kill you if you don’t.”

“I’ll do it! I said so, didn’t I? I’ll do it while you dry your hair.” He points to his buzz-cut scalp, reminding me that he’s got a head start on me in that department.

I punch him on the shoulder, but I can’t stay mad at him, and for the next few minutes we swim and wrestle, and fight like puppies, until at last we’re both drenched and gasping for air and have to stop to catch our breath.

Danny pulls himself out of the water, grinning and panting, and pads off to the changing room to get dressed and greet the guests.

I should follow him, I know it. There is plenty still left to do, jobs to complete, tasks to finish. But for a moment, just a moment, I let myself float, spread-eagled on the clear blue water. I touch my fingers to the scar that runs across my cheek, tracing the dented line where the skin is thin and still tender, and I gaze up at the gray sky through the glass roof above, watching as the snowflakes come spiraling down.

The sky is the exact color of Will’s eyes.

The clock is ticking down to the arrival of our guests, and I can hear Danny beginning to mop the changing rooms. I should get out, but I can’t. I can’t look away. I just lie there, my dark hair fanning out around me, floating, gazing up. Remembering.

LIZ

Snoop ID: ANON101

Listening to: Snooping EDSHEERAN

Snoopers: 0

Snoopscribers: 0

We are quite high in the mountains now. The minibus makes its way up through little Alpine villages that would look like picture postcards, except the sky is a threatening slate color, not blue. The slushy rain down in the valley has turned into huge white flakes, and the driver has the windscreen wipers on full, swishing them aside as fast as they fall. Beneath us the wet black tarmac has turned into frozen gray ridges, and the tires are making a strange rattling sound as they pass over them. Either side of the road, huge mud-spattered drifts have been thrown up by the snow plow. It feels like we are driving through a tunnel. It gives me a strange hemmed-in feeling, and I look down at my phone, flicking through the apps to try to distract myself before coming back to Snoop.

After I left the company, I deleted the app. I wanted everything about Snoop behind me, and I didn’t like the idea of Topher, Eva, and the others keeping tabs on me through the software. But a few weeks later, I found myself downloading it again. There is a reason it has just tipped a hundred million users: it’s addictive. But this time my profile is locked down as tight as it will go, and there is a junk email address attached to the account so that even Elliot, who has access to all the behind-the-scenes information, can’t know it’s me. It’s not that I’m paranoid. I don’t imagine he sits there searching the user records for Liz Owens every few days. I’m just quite a private person. That’s normal, isn’t it?

Topher says something over his shoulder to me. I pull my earbuds out.

“Sorry, what did you say?”

“I said, ‘Drink?’ ” He holds out an open bottle of champagne.

I shake my head.

“No. Thanks.”

“Suit yourself.” He takes a swig directly from the bottle, and I try not to shudder. He swallows, wipes his mouth, then says, “I hope the weather clears up. We won’t get much skiing in at this rate.”

“Can’t you ski in the snow then?” I ask.

He laughs, like he thinks I’m an idiot.

“Well, you can, but it’s not much fun. It’s like running in the rain. Have you never been skiing?”

“No.” I realize I’m chewing the dead skin at the side of my nail, and I make myself drop my hand. I have a sharp flash of my mother’s worried voice. Liz, please don’t do that, you know Daddy doesn’t like it. I raise my own voice, shutting it out. “I mean, not really. I did dry-slope skiing once at school, but I don’t think it’s really the same.”

“You’ll love it,” Topher says, with that infuriating confidence. The truth is, of course, that he has no way of knowing whether I will love skiing. But somehow when he makes these pronouncements, you believe him. When he says, Your money will be completely safe, or It’s an amazing investment, or You’ll never get these terms again, you trust him. You sign that check. You make that deposit. You put everything into his hands.