“Hi,” she says, still smiling. “I’m Erin. I just wanted to check everything was okay with your room and to let you know there will be predinner drinks in the foyer this evening at six forty-five, followed by a short presentation.”

“A presentation?” I tug at the hem of the dress. “About the resort?”

“No, a business presentation, I think. Was it not on your schedule?”

I rummage in my case and pull out the creased and folded itinerary Inigo emailed a few days ago. I have spent practically every spare second since poring over it, trying to figure out how this week is going to play out, so I know full well there is nothing listed for the first night, but I still need to reassure myself I’m not going crazy.

“There’s nothing listed,” I say. I can’t prevent a note of accusation creeping into my voice. The girl shrugs.

“Probably a last-minute addition? Your colleague—Ani, is that right?—she just asked me to set up the projector in the den.”

It is on the tip of my tongue to blurt out that Ani isn’t my colleague. I have never worked with her. In fact I barely know any of them apart from the four original founders, Rik, Elliot, Eva, and Topher.

But I am too busy trying to figure out what this means.

Ani is Eva’s assistant. So this presentation must be something Eva has hatched up. And Eva is the most strategic person I know. She would never leave anything off an agenda by accident. Which means she has done this on purpose. She is executing some kind of plan.

But what?

“Do you know what it’s about?” I ask. “The presentation?”

“No, sorry. The timing is literally all I know. Drinks at six forty-five, presentation at seven.”

“And… what should I wear?” I don’t want to ask her, but I’m starting to feel desperate.

The girl smiles, but there is puzzlement behind her expression.

“How do you mean? We’re really informal at Perce-Neige, no one dresses for dinner. Just wear whatever you feel comfortable in.”

“But that’s what they always say!” The words burst from me, in spite of myself. “They say, ‘Oh, just wear whatever you want,’ and then when you turn up there’s some secret dress code that everyone seems to know apart from me. I go too smart and they’re all in jeans and I look like I’ve tried way too hard, or I wear something casual and they’re all in suits and dresses. It’s like everyone else has the key to this and I don’t!”

As soon as the words are out, I want to take them back. I feel naked, unbearably exposed. But it is too late. They cannot be unspoken.

She smiles again. Her expression is kind, but I see the pity in her eyes. I feel the blood creeping up into my cheeks, turning my face hot and red.

“It’s really relaxed,” she says. “I’m sure most people won’t even change. You’ll look lovely whatever you wear.”

“Thanks,” I say miserably. But I don’t mean it. She is lying, and we both know it.

ERIN

Snoop ID: LITTLEMY

Listening to: Snooping XTOPHER

Snoopers: 1

Snoopscribers: 1

As the various members of the party assemble in the foyer, the song that keeps running through my head is not the Chilean R & B I was listening to before they came in (yes, I was snooping on Topher), but the Beautiful South’s “Rotterdam (or Anywhere).” Okay, not everyone is blond. But everyone is most certainly beautiful. Almost absurdly so. There is Eva’s assistant, cute little Ani with her heart-shaped face and buttercup hair. Topher’s PA, Inigo, now sporting a bronze five-o’clock shadow that makes his cheekbones look like he stepped off a film set. Even Carl the lawyer, who is probably the least conventionally attractive of the party, with his bullish expression and stocky frame, has a definite magnetism.

“Thicc,” Danny whispers appreciatively into my ear as he passes me with a tray of canapés. “I would, wouldn’t you?”

“Carl? Uh, no,” I whisper back, and Danny laughs, a deep throaty laugh, deliciously infectious.

“Who then? Coder dude over there?”

He nods at Elliot, who is standing in the same spot he chose on arrival, deliberately not making eye contact with anyone. I laugh and shake my head, but it’s not because I find Elliot unattractive. Okay, he looks rather like an awkward schoolboy, but he still manages to be sexy in a geek-chic kind of way. He has the kind of body that looks as if his bones are too big for his skin, all jutting wrists and angled cheekbones, and knobbly ankles protruding from too-short trousers. But his lips are surprisingly sensuous, and when one of his colleagues maneuvers past him, she slips an arm around his midriff in a way that looks… well, it looks intimate. And Elliot doesn’t flinch away as I thought he might.

“Come on,” Topher calls over the sound of voices. “Let’s get this party started. Carl, Inigo, surely one of you can figure out this speaker system? Jesus, no one would think we were a tech company.”

From nowhere, music starts up. David Bowie, “Golden Years,” filtering out of the Bluetooth speakers. I’m not sure who put it on, but it’s an apt choice, almost to the point of irony. There is a definite gilded quality to this group. Nothing’s going to touch them.

“Hey.” The girl who pushed past Elliot has woven her way through the group to where Danny and I are standing. She is swaying in time to the beat and wearing a very short sweaterdress that exposes slim, toned legs, made more diminutive by her Doc Martens boots. For a minute I can’t place her, and I have a flutter of panic, but then I clock the ombré hair and nose ring. She is the woman who was holding the yoga mat when she arrived, and the realization enables me to remember her name. Yoga. Tiger. Tiger-Blue Esposito. Head of cool.

“Hi, Tiger,” I say. I hold out the tray of cocktails I’m holding. “Can I offer you a drink? This is a bramble gin martini, or on the left is a marmalade old-fashioned.”

“Actually I came over to get something to eat.” She gives me a beguiling smile, showing very white, even teeth and a dimple in her peach-soft cheek. Her voice is throaty—reminding me of a cat’s purr, and her odd name seems suddenly rather apt. “Sorry, I know it’s bad manners to hog the canapés straight out of the kitchen door, but the last tray was too good and I’m starving. They didn’t serve any food on the plane, so all I’ve had since breakfast is Krug.” She pauses for a second and then gives a surprisingly earthy laugh. “Oh, who am I kidding. I’m just pathologically greedy.”

“Don’t apologize,” Danny says. He holds out the tray, where his carefully handmade canapés stand in rows like little battalions. “I like a girl with a good appetite. These are Gouda-filled profiteroles”—he points to the tiny, feather-like puffs on the left of the tray—“and these on the right are quails’ eggs with smoked ricotta.”

“Are they both veggie?” Tiger asks, and Danny nods.

“Gluten-free?”

“Only the quails’ eggs.”

“Great,” Tiger says. The dimple flashes again, and she picks up a quail egg and pops it directly into her mouth, closing her eyes voluptuously as she chews. “Oh my God,” she says as she swallows. “That was a canapé-shaped orgasm. Can I have another?”