“No, let me see the list,” Eva snaps. “You’ve already screwed this up once, Topher.”

“Fine,” Topher says irritably, and Eva takes the piece of paper, running her finger down it. As she does, I notice there are what seems to be like burn holes in her sweater—it looks like she’s been doing welding in it, but something tells me it came off the peg like this, and probably with a hefty price tag.

“Liz could share with Ani,” Inigo says helpfully, but Eva shakes her head.

“No, absolutely not. Liz can’t be the one to share or it’ll be obvious what happened.”

“What about Carl?” Topher mutters. “No one gives a fuck about him. He could share with someone.”

“Who?” Eva says. “Rik’s never going to agree to share a room, is he? And as for Elliot—” She jerks her head at the awkward-looking guy standing with his back to the others.

“Yes, okay,” Topher says hastily. “I can see that’s not going to work.”

Both their gazes travel thoughtfully to Inigo, who is staring worriedly down at the list. Feeling their eyes upon him, he looks up.

“Did I miss something?”

“Yes,” Eva says briskly. “You’re sharing with Carl. Now run along and break the news to him.”

Inigo’s face falls.

“I’ll have to switch the rooms around,” I say, mentally running through the list of which rooms can fit a second bed. “Liz will have to go into Inigo’s old room, that’s the smallest, is that okay? And then Miranda can have Carl’s, and then Carl and Inigo can share Miranda’s old room; that’s one of the few that can take an extra bed.”

“Where is Miranda?” Topher says, looking around. I glance over at the stairs. Rik is now talking to the fluffy chick—definitely Ani, I have deduced—and tall, elegant Miranda has disappeared. Eva sighs.

“Damn, she’s probably already gone up to her room. Well, she won’t be impressed at being downgraded, but she’ll have to put up with it. Let’s go and find her before she unpacks.”

“I’ll come with you,” I say. “Someone will have to move the cases.”

From somewhere, I feel a headache begin behind my eyes. Suddenly, this feels like the start of a very long week.

LIZ

Snoop ID: ANON101

Listening to: Offline

Snoopers: 0

Snoopscribers: 0

Something happened on arrival. I don’t know what, but I saw Eva, Topher, and Inigo huddled in the corner of the lobby with the chalet girl. And I heard my name, I’m certain. They were talking about me. Whispering about me.

All I can think about is what they were saying, and why they were glancing over their shoulders and scheming.

Oh God, I hate this.

No. That’s not true. I don’t hate all of this. This place—this incredible chalet, with its pool and its views and its sheepskin throws and velvet sofas—this place is a dream come true. I don’t think I have ever set foot in anywhere so luxurious, at least not since leaving Snoop. If I was here alone, I would be perfectly happy, more than happy in fact. I would be pinching myself.

I hate them.

When at last I’m alone in my room, I sink onto the hand-stitched quilt, lie back on the feather-stuffed pillows, and shut my eyes.

I ought to be prowling around the room, taking in the glorious panoramic view of the mountains, testing out the spa settings on the bath, marveling at my luck in being here. But I’m not. Instead, I am lying here with my eyes closed, replaying that awful, awkward moment downstairs over and over again.

I should be used to it. Used to them forgetting about me, taking me for granted, ignoring me. I had a whole year of that at Snoop. A year of people going out for drinks after work and not inviting me. Twelve months of “Oh, Liz, would you reserve a table for four at Mirabelle?” and knowing that that four didn’t include me. One full year of invisibility. And I was fine with that—more than fine, actually. I was quite comfortable.

Now, three years after I left, everything has changed. I am very, very visible. And somehow Topher and Eva’s scrutiny and their efforts to charm me are worse than being ignored.

It is 5:28 p.m., French time. I have about ninety minutes before dinner. An hour and a half to wash and change and try to find something in my suitcase that won’t make me look like a frump compared to Eva’s new assistant and that Tiger girl from marketing.

I don’t even consider competing with Eva and the other woman with the high heels—what was her name? Miranda. They are not just out of my league, they’re out of my pay grade. Eva was a catwalk model, and even before Snoop started to take off, her budget for shoes was higher than my whole salary. I have always known that we were operating on different levels. But it would be nice if I could go down to dinner looking like I belong in the same room with the others.

I unzip my sagging wheelie case and rummage through the layers of clothes I stuffed in there early this morning. At last, halfway down, I find a dress that might do. I drag it over my head and then I stand in front of the mirror, smoothing down the material, staring at myself. The dress is black and stretchy, and I bought it because I read some piece in Elle that said every woman needed a little black dress and this was the cheapest one in the feature.

But somehow it doesn’t look like the dress in that photoshoot. It is crumpled from my case, and although I’ve only worn it two or three times, the material has gone into bobbles under the arms, giving it a tired, charity-shop look. There are what look like cat hairs all over the back, even though I don’t own a cat. Maybe they’ve come off my scarf.

I know that a girl like Tiger would probably pick this dress up in a thrift shop and accessorize it with something ridiculous like a chain-mail vest and biker boots and walk out looking like a million dollars.

If I wore a chain-mail vest, it would pinch the skin under my arms and clank when I walked, and strangers would laugh and say, “Taking up jousting, love?” And it would rust where my sweat seeped into the links, and stain my clothes, and I would hate myself even more than I do already.

I am still standing there, gazing blankly at myself in the mirror, when there is a knock at the door.

My stomach flips. I can’t face them. I can’t face any of them.

“Who—who is it?” I call. My voice breaks on the last syllable.

“It’s Erin, I’m your chalet host,” I hear faintly through the wood. “Just wanted to check you have everything you need?”

I open the door. The girl who greeted us earlier is standing there. I didn’t get a chance to really look at her when we arrived, but now I do. She is pretty and tanned, with shiny chestnut hair, and she is wearing a neat white blouse tucked into dark blue jeans. She looks self-possessed, assured, everything I am not.

Only one thing is out of place—the thin, pink tracing of a long scar that runs across her right cheekbone, disappearing into her hair. It stretches as she smiles at me, and I’m… surprised, I suppose. She looks like the kind of person who would cover such a thing up with makeup. But… she hasn’t.

I want to ask her how she got it, but it doesn’t feel like the kind of question you can just blurt out. Once upon a time I just would have asked. Now I have learned the hard way, that that kind of directness makes people think you are weird.