Page 16 of Harper's Holiday Romance
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I interrupted.
The moment the woman with the upper body strength of John Cena dropped her hand from her mouth I knew exactly who she was. Her eyes were uncovered this time, but her distinctive upper lip stood out. She had the same brown bag from the night before, and the same reddish-blonde hair was now in a bun atop her head.
Elevator woman.
This woman is out to get me.
“Do you think you could help me up, please?” My tone was abrupt.
She reached out her hand; unlike my new acrylic nails, hers were natural. The chipped white nail polish seemed intentional. She looked like the outdoorsy type, but she couldn’t sidestep a person walking at a normal pace in a wide open-plan bathroom.
“Are you—”
“Great, now my ass is wet.” I brushed my skirt down and gathered the contents of my bag from in between the towels. She was American. I didn’t pick up the accent straight away, but it was there, clear as day.
“I didn’t mean to, y’know—” She could barely string a sentence together, which instantly made me feel bad.
No. I shouldn’t feel bad. This was the third time in two days I’d seen this woman. The resort was big enough to accommodate a thousand guests, but this woman seemed to be everywhere I was. It had to be a joke, some sort of prank. Maybe Billie was in on it; it was something Billie would do.
I gripped my wrist, my bracelet—
Where is it?
I reached into the pile of towels once again, buried towards the bottom was the shiny gold tennis bracelet my mum had bought me for my most recent birthday.
“This can’t be happening.”
The clasp refused to join the two metal ends together.
“Is there anything I can do?” she muttered.
“I think you’ve done enough,” I snapped. Her expression strained and quite literally startled. As soon as the words left my mouth, I felt a surge of guilt. I couldn’t look her in the eye, but I watched her reflection in the mirror.
She turned sharply, waiting until she rounded the corner to mumble something under her breath, which sounded a lot like, “bitch”.
4
The loud southern gentleman from the plane taught me a raft of different things on the flight over, not by choice, no. The choice element was non-negotiable for the whole rear section of the plane. I overheard him say the sun in Cancun was a different sun altogether. I hoped he meant rhetorically speaking, otherwise, it might’ve been a cause for concern. It was harsher than the summer sun experienced in Europe and considerably hotter than anywhere in the UK.
I heard a woman that morning at breakfast say she got sunburnt in the shade because the sun reflected off the white sand and clear water—nobody informed her of this danger, apparently.
Was it not common sense? Maybe not.
I didn’t burn. Ever.
I wasn’t cocky with it; it was just a fact. Twelve minutes on the sunbed three times in one week and I could transform my dull winter skin tone to the equivalent of a medium to dark tanning moisturiser without the smell. It was one of the only good things I got from my father.
However, after one day, I could say with the upmost certainty the sun in Mexico was HOT. I had never had my whole body stuffed into an oven and the dial turned up to two hundred and twenty degrees, but that’s what I imagined it to feel like.
I was officially burnt.
The giant bottle of SPF 30 I’d told myself was more than enough had been nowhere near enough. I needed SPF 50 and fast. The gift shop sold sun cream at a very unreasonable 100 per cent markup price.
Billie picked up four different bottles. “I don’t see it.”
“See what?” I leant over her shoulder.
