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.

"The part where it says this sun cream is infused with the body sweat of Jennifer Lopez."

"What?" I burst out laughing.

"The only way I'm paying fifty dollars for some sun cream is if it's either been made with Vin Diesel's bare hands, or it's got some bodily fluid from Jennifer Lopez." She was deadly serious.

"Nobody calls her by her full name; it's just J-Lo, and why?"

"Have you seen that woman's skin? She looks immaculate. She clearly has the gene pool of a fucking god because she can look like that, dance, sing, and act. It's a crime to be that good at everything." She neatly slid the cream back into its place on the shelf. "And then there's me and you—talentless."

I poked her in the side with the first thing I could find, a souvenir back scratcher.

"Speak for yourself."

She jerked forwards, hitting the towering stand of trilby hats; we both froze as the stand wobbled from side to side.

"Phew." Billie looked around. The woman who quite obviously ran the small shop was preoccupied selling cigars to an American man. I pushed Billie towards the exit door.

"Why am I only just finding out your woman crush is J-Lo?" I questioned. Vin Diesel wasn't surprising; she liked buff men .

"I'm not saying I'd lick her vagina, so don't be getting any ideas." She lowered her voice after realising she'd just yelled vagina in front of five people exiting the elevator.

"I have a solution that doesn't involve us going bankrupt," Billie proposed.

"Okay—"

"We can just mix my SPF 30 with your SPF 30 to get 60," Billie said it so casually.

I rolled my eyes quite emphatically. "Do you really think I'm going to fall for that?"

Granted, I was naive.

I believed Billie when she told me if I ate pumpkin seeds and then drank a litre of water it initiated the growing process, and I'd grow small pumpkins inside my stomach. Naive .

I also believed Billie when she told me they used to allow people to open the small windows on a commercial aeroplane whilst in flight, but after several decades of modification they realised allowing people to smoke on a plane was less important than safety. Naive .

In my defence, she always told me these things with a straight face. Worryingly, she was a fantastic liar.

"It was worth a shot." Billie smirked.

When we entered our room, the concierge, Rosalina, was huddled over the bed. She jumped up like she'd been caught doing something inappropriate.

" Sorpresa ! Surprise!" she yelled.

I pushed Billie into the room. I didn't like surprises. The white bedspread had been ironed to within an inch of its life by the maids; the eight variously textured scatter cushions were perfectly plumped and placed with precision. The bed was exactly the same as it had been the day before. The new addition was the fresh red rose petals that spelt out HBD across the full width of the bed. A celebratory gold banner hung from one side of the canvas headboard to the other; immediately, my interior design head noticed the mountains of Sellotape that'd been used to stick it to the wall—yikes.

In the centre of the bed amongst all the petals sat a large, folded piece of white card that read:

Happy Birthday, Billie. Wishing you all the best on your special day.

The furrowing in my forehead deepened; now I was extremely confused. It wasn't Billies birthday.

"This is for you." Rosalina handed her a bottle of wine and a complimentary red hat from the gift shop.

"Thank you so much," Billie said sweetly as though none of it was a surprise. I sat on the bench by the wardrobes and watched the scene unfold.

"My pleasure." Rosalina was incredibly sweet. She didn't move, just smiled a pearly white grin whilst Billie walked to the mirror to readjust her hair to make the hat fit.

"I have another surprise for you tonight. If you will please leave the green light on your door, room service will be coming."

Green signified the make up room option.

Red signified privacy.

"Another surprise? You didn't have to do all this," Billie marvelled.

"Yes, of course. It's my pleasure."

Billie adjusted the peak of the cap. "How does it look?"

"Good. You look really pretty." Rosalina beamed.

Billie wiggled her eyebrows in my direction .

"Red suits you. It is the colour of the devil and all that." I smirked.

Rosalina's facial expression didn't falter. She didn't understand the banter, but that was fine. Her hair was tied back tightly in a low bun. It seemed to be the theme with most of the women in the hotel. She was pretty, with skin so smooth I wanted to reach out and touch it.

Rosalina didn't say anything else, but she stared at Billie with the eyes of someone suddenly in love.

She touched the sleeve of Billies T-shirt, allowing her arm to linger for a few seconds longer than I would deem appropriate for a concierge.

"I like your shirt."

"Thank you," Billie said. She was oblivious.

Rosalina eventually said her parting farewell. The heavy wooden door slammed into the frame, and I spun back towards Billie.

"It's not your birthday!"

"They don't know that." Billie let her hair down. Now the cap made her look like a lifeguard. "Honestly, does it suit me?"

"Yes, just don't get in the ring with a bull," I jested.

"I don't plan on it!"

"What if they find out it's not your birthday?" I asked.

"How are they going to do that?" She scoffed.

"They have our passports, Billie." I worried.

"Oh." She yanked the bottle of champagne from the ice bucket. "We better drink this quick then."

"You don't even like champagne."

"I like free champagne." She beamed.

The hotel was all-inclusive. I was positive they weren't coming back for the complimentary bottle of champagne, but once I'd gotten over the initial anxiety of being associated with rebel Billie, I found it amusing to watch her drink three glasses in record time.

We sat on the balcony for a short while before Sarah came to join us. There was a short window of time in the afternoon when she scheduled a video chat with her newest captivation. We decided that would be our "sun break", and judging by the colour of my skin it was necessary.

The balcony provided an unbelievable ocean view. All the rooms were angled towards the sea, which gave it a new level of privacy. Billie climbed into the empty soapstone tub, sliding into the man-made grooves that were designed to keep you in place.

"This is the life."

"Isn't it." I exhaled, relaxing back into the plush grey seating.

Billie rolled her head to the left. "We haven't caught a glimpse of your arch nemesis today."

"Oh, don't—" I'd almost forgot about her, almost.

"What's that song... let it go... let it be... let her be her and you be you ," Billie sang out of tune.

"Are they the lyrics, though?"

She shook her head. "No." Billie necked the last of her champagne and held out her glass for a refill. I obliged.

"Here you go, Your Majesty."

I wished I knew the woman's name, then I could stalk her on social media—no. I didn't need to do that. The woman who actively ignored my existence outside the elevator and knocked me over in the bathroom of the Italian restaurant did not require social media stalking. What would that achieve?

A glimpse into her life was tempting—no .

Regardless, I didn't have her social handles or any idea who she was, but I would bet my life on her being one of three things: an all-American, prom queen, or involved in a protest that got her recognised by an Ivy League school. I was assuming stereotypes. I'd only ever seen girls like her in movies. I thought the "uber-bitch" was an exaggerated myth only present in Mean Girls .

My downfall was my inability to let things go. Three years ago, a man stopped beside me at a set of traffic lights and made obscene gestures because I moved lanes without enough forewarning (in his opinion). If I thought about it enough it still brought me to tears. I severely disliked cruel people.

I had to pull myself together. I was in a beautiful country with my best friends, unlimited cocktails, and five-star cuisine. Who she was didn't matter. It shouldn't matter.

She was mean.

She was rude.

She was downright disrespectful.

And she was, beautiful.

No, her appearance was not up for discussion. She could look like Jessica Alba, but if she had the inside equivalent to Maleficent, it was irrelevant.

Sarah popped her head around the corner of the balcony from her room.

"Hey, team." She foolishly squeezed through the gap. I had to close one eye; it made me nervous.

"Have you got your fix of Imogen?" I asked.

"Imagine," Sarah said.

"Imagine what?" Billie replied.

"No, her name is Imagine."

Billie almost spat her drink across the balcony. "You're lying. "

"Don't be nasty," I interjected.

"I'm not, but that's... different." Billie tried to keep a straight face, but as soon as Sarah's smile started to crack, Billie burst out laughing.

"Does she like being called Image for short?" Billie asked.

"Stop it." Sarah covered her mouth with her hand.

Billie taunted her until she was all out of jokes, which quite surprisingly took only five minutes. The topic of conversation swiftly changed from Sarah's new love interest to my lack thereof.

"Maybe we can find you someone on this holiday," Sarah suggested.

"I don't want a holiday romance."

"It'd probably last longer than your stay-at-home romances," Billie ribbed.

"I'm not going to disagree with you."

The contents of my dating history in recent years could've been written in a small box in the top right-hand corner of an A piece of paper. If I had to produce a curriculum vitae for every time I needed to date someone new, I'd never get a first date; I was severely underqualified.

I was drying up. My vagina was crying out for something other than the clitoral suction stimulator I'd purchased from Lovehoney six months ago. It was basically a vibrator, but they gave it a fancy name to entice people, and it worked. The moment I started eyeing up a large contraption called Greedy Girl I knew it was time to start sending out positive energy into the universe. There are only so many times I can accept a box from the delivery driver without dying of pure shame .

I had this reoccurring dream where the box started vibrating in the van, and the driver assumed it was some sort of detonating device and called the bomb squad to investigate, only to discover a vibrator. All this happened outside my front door whilst the neighbours watched the policeman carry the black unusually shaped rubber gadget over to me. It was unrealistic, but it frightened me to death.

"You could always date the woman from the elevator?" Sarah ridiculed.

"I can't believe she barged you out of the way like some crazed American football player." Billie laughed. Okay, so I might have slightly exaggerated the contact, but it certainly felt whiplash worthy.

"Wait, is that the one that's a bit like Rugby?" I didn't agree with sports, and they didn't agree with me. Contrary to the belief of my friends in school I used to be exceptionally good at rounders, netball, and badminton. All sports that pose a threat of being hit in the face with a ball. Somewhere between high school and adulthood I found myself less athletic and more prone to injury.

"Yes, the buff men with shoulder pads," Sarah pointed out.

"Ahh, okay, so Billie's wet dream then."

"Exactly!"

"It probably wasn't that bad. I might have ever so slightly, maybe, potentially, perhaps have overdone it." I seeped into the grey cushions.

"So, she didn't barge into you like a tram at full speed?" Billie asked.

"I don't recall saying that."

"That's exactly what you said," Sarah sided with Billie .

"Can we move on?" I reached for the box of Pringles. "Let me show you a party trick."

"I can't wait for this," Sarah said.

Truth be told, I didn't have a party trick, but it changed the subject successfully.

I would not be wasting any more of my energy on Miss Elevator woman. The moment I plunged a whole Pringle into my statistically small mouth without breaking it, I had only one thought, it wasn't that Billie looked champagne wasted, it also wasn't anything to do with Sarah's shoulders. They were redder than the Arsenal kit she wore to the gym that morning. Those would've been reasonable thoughts, instead—

I wonder if Elevator woman likes Pringles?

I needed help.

The sun set on the north side of the hotel which meant the middle pool was almost never shadowed by its surroundings, but I'd discovered a thirty-minute time slot first thing in the morning, after that my body was a slave to the harsh Mexican sun. The slight breeze I felt that morning quickly turned into a hotel weather warning. The pool concierge hastily closed all the umbrellas. I thought it was too precautious until I witnessed the wind whip itself into a frenzy and the umbrella across the pool took off like a kite into the bushes behind a row of unaware holidaymakers.

It was a close call.

A freak accident was not how I wanted to remember my time in Mexico .

The wind did not mitigate the sun, and I was growing irritable with every bead of sweat that rolled down my sizzling body. I turned from left to right, flopped on my front, and sprawled on my back. I even went as far as to turn the opposite way, prop my legs in a birthing position, and repeatedly fan myself with the cheap foam rotator fan I'd purchased online.

A fan was a fan, I thought.

I was wrong.

A fan was not a fan if it resembled a child's toy that came in plastic packaging with a three-plus age warning in the corner. It was a waste of batteries.

I heard the noise before the culprits came into view. A group of rowdy Americans crooned some form of frat house chant.

"Sebastian your flip-flops are offensive," said the woman in the neon bikini carrying the floating blow-up palm tree cup holder. I didn't disagree; the way Sebastian's flip-flops squelched from one end of the pool to the other was enough to make me want to stick cotton buds too far into my ears so I didn't have to be subjected to the awful sound ever again.

The friend, who also found the sound of wet flip-flops as painful as a knife being scraped across a porcelain plate, proceeded to slip whilst getting into the pool. She got up, ego bruised but pi?a colada intact. I couldn't tell if it was a delayed spring break sorority outing or a new reality TV show. Frat -ernising in Mexico had a ring to it.

The fifth Great-tailed Grackle of the day almost landed on my head. I didn't know whether to be offended or not. They seemed to fly from one large green tree to the next. Did that mean my pool sodden hair looked like a palm tree? Potentially. The only reflection I'd seen in the past two hours was through Billies black Ray-Bans. The Mexican birds looked like lanky crows. They were small in size, but they made an array of loud sounds ranging from sweet notes to calls that sounded like a rusty gate hinge being projected through a megaphone. Strangely, I found that less annoying than the overbearing screeching that erupted from the pool area.

"Birds are so pretty," I said.

"Are they though?" Billie questioned. We acquired the same spot as the day before, except this time a new set of sun loungers had been placed next to Billie's bed during our absence. The tall gentleman in bright blue budgie smugglers practically shoved his bulge in Billie's face whenever he got up to leave.

"I think so." I shrugged.

I loved any species of animal, even the little fly I saved from drowning in the pool earlier that day. I scooped it to safety on the floating rubber dingy, and it shook itself like Gaga did when she'd been out in the rain. Its little wings fluttered back and forth as it steadied itself to take off again. I saved its life.

"Hey, what does this remind you of." Sarah began flailing her arms back and forth in a half-trot half-gallop along the edge of the pool. She reached the part where the steps gradually descended into the pool; there was a rail in the middle, a specification for safe entry. Sarah grabbed a hold of the metal railing with both hands and gingerly made her way down, legs sprawled and face scrunched.

"Who am I?" she asked excitedly.

"Erm." Billie had no clue.

"Oh, come on!" Sarah started to portray a terrified individual. The shaking was drama school worthy convincing .

"What the hell are you doing?" Billie laughed.

"Oh... wait... I know who you're trying to be." I tapped Billie. "Did we watch the TV show all the time in high school?"

Sarah nodded emphatically.

"Tell me. Right now it just looks like Sarah's got the shits and she can't get to a toilet." Even the guy in the budgie smugglers laughed, although he pretended not to watch.

It was a fair point. It did look like that. The couple to our left also looked and laughed in a way that said, I don't want you to think I'm watching and judging you , so I'll laugh, but I am really watching and judging you .

"She's Mr. Bean," I clarified. The swimming pool episode had been one of our favourites.

"I didn't watch it, but I would give you an A+ for whatever that west end performance was," Billie said.

"Wait," I grabbed a hold of Billies knee forcefully. "You didn't watch Mr. Bean?"

"Ow." She smacked my hand away. "No, I'm younger than you two remember?"

"By six months!" I protested.

Sarah appeared like a cloud of doom as she blocked the sun and proceeded to drip her soaking wet body all over my legs.

"Is she saying we're old again?" Sarah rolled her eyes.

"Look, don't hate me because my parents got to it quicker than yours did." Billie was the youngest of four siblings, and all of them arrived within a seven-year period. She claims her parents planned to stop at three, and she was technically the mistake, which is why she felt the need to overcompensate in the womb, develop quick, and arrive a month early. Her parents were surprised to say the least when a routine trip to the supermarket turned into a water-breaking situation. She continued to surprise her parents for the rest of her life because she was quote on quote, "a fucking legend" .

"Didn't your dad try to sue the condom company for false advertisement?" Sarah teased.

"Yes, the packaging loured him into a false sense of security apparently; he was promised a good time and instead gained a lifelong commitment, but I suppose he won in the long run. I mean, look at me. It took them four attempts to get such an outstanding child." Billie tried to keep a straight face, but her smile broke after a few seconds.

"You really are full of it." I laughed.

Sarah shook her entire body like a dog does when they exit the water, except with less commitment. When Gaga did it she almost knocked her small barrel shaped body over.

The soothing sound of the birds did a number on Billie. She was fast asleep, her chest half covered by the sun damaged paperback book she'd been reading. I carefully removed it from beneath her red knuckled fingers because I was considerate. I could've let her burn a book-shaped tan line into her pale torso, but my conscience wouldn't allow that. Sarah, on the other hand, spent ten minutes attempting to throw bits of nacho into Billie's gaping mouth. She failed miserably, so now Billie was one crumb away from being a bird's paradise. They were already homing in on her from the treetops .

I gathered my things and set off towards the beach. I figured a walk would stop my body from being fried like an egg on a scolding concrete sidewalk. The floppy soft brim of my fedora sagged down at the front; the majority of my face was shaded. The white two-piece linen set I'd acquired online was a solid holiday purchase. I had to roll the shorts over twice for them to not fit like a bath towel, but the over bikini shirt was the perfect length, weight, and material to compliment any pool day outfit. I made a mental note to purchase it in black when I returned home.

The hotel was big enough to get lost, but not so big that it took a decade to get from one part to the next. I passed the thatch roofed bar and grill; a chalkboard on the outside had my mouth watering with its extensive menu of junk food. I would be back for guacamole and chips when my lunch settled. I took a right by the side of the main pool to avoid walking through the alcohol fuelled rowdy section. The main pool quite honestly filled me with dread.

Literal crippling panic.

The combination of all-inclusive drinks, live pool volleyball—that made the water look like a misty sweat infused cesspool—and a highly-strung entertainment rep who insisted everyone dance to Abba, was my worst nightmare. I wished I wasn't such an introvert. My tolerance for noisy social situations had reduced in recent years. It seemed the older I got, the worse it became. The main pool triggered a sensory overload that immediately repressed when I entered the tranquil limestone carved area by the cenote pool.

The natural beauty and charm caused me to stop and admire. A height fluctuating wall circled the clearing. There looked to be no rhyme or reason to the uneven mismatch of chalk covered rocks. Giant tropical trees and vines towered above the walls, which made the space feel enclosed and private.

The clear turquoise water looked inviting. I took my hat off to whoever designed the man-made cenotes, they'd even added limestone stepping stones down into the pool to create a more realistic look. The space only allowed for four sets of sun loungers. The thick grey foam replicated the Bali beds but singular. I made a beeline for the empty bed in the marginally tree-shaded area to my right. I dipped my foot in the pool; it was warm.

Heaven.

I stripped down to my bathing suit, hopping on one leg each time I had to remove the opposite leg from my shorts. The Mexican sun was not about to burn my feet—again.

A couple sat opposite the space I now inhabited. They gathered their belongings almost immediately after I entered. I tried not to take offence.

A small lizard, no bigger than my hand, ran from one rock to the next.

"Hi, Lizzie." I knelt close enough to see its beady little eyes blink, but not too close in case it somehow managed to jump. I'd never seen a jumping lizard, but I only just discovered that Panda's did handstands when they peed. I loved animals. I preferred the big kind; I knew where I stood with a dog or a horse. If they had more legs than they did pounds on the weighing scale I was less inclined to interact, but lizards were cute in a scaly small dragon type of way.

I removed my hat and threw it blindly behind me.

"Hey—" A winey female voice moaned. I spun around.

"Shit, I'm sorry I didn't realise—"

I felt like someone had dropped me in the middle of a romantic comedy, except the romance and the comedy were nonexistent. It was essentially a horror movie, but with sun and less blood.

This cannot be happening, I screamed internally.

Elevator woman.

When did she even arrive? Did she fall from the sky? Teleport? I was positive there was nobody here when I arrived, but there was a towel. Come to think of it, I recalled seeing an empty cocktail glass. I really ought to find out her name, so I could at least address her correctly the next time she ruined my day.

She smirked annoyingly, like she was in on some joke I wasn't privy to.

"It's you," she said visibly eye rolling me; then she laughed. She bared her teeth, shook her head, and let out a small wheezing noise.

"What's so funny?" I challenged. My leg sagged as I put my hand to my hip and my posture basically said, I'm going to tell your mum you've been naughty. I tried to correct it, but it was too late. I hated that my go to power pose resembled a disgruntled schoolteacher.

"Are you following me?" she jested.

"Excuse me?"

"This hotel is supposed to be big enough for two people to go freely about their day, avoiding one another completely. I checked. It literally says it in several reviews on Tripadvisor, and yet here you are, again." She dropped her glasses to the end of her nose, and I became uncomfortably aware of how much skin I had on show.

"Why are you Googling how to avoid someone in a hotel?" I regretted asking immediately.

"That's none of your business. "

She was right. It wasn't. The question left my lips before my brain could process the inappropriateness, but what a strange thing to research.

"Are you?" she asked.

"Am I?—"

"Following me."

"Pfftt. Don't flatter yourself." I sounded like I could in fact be following her. My pfftt lacked conviction, but how dare she accuse me?

"Hey, look, whatever floats your boat."

"Why would I stalk the rude girl who broke my bracelet?"

"I'm rude? Okay," she scoffed.

It baffled me. She had so little self-awareness she refused to see it. I expected an apology for my bracelet. Any half-decent human would've apologised profusely or offered to purchase a new one, but not this human.

She stuffed her phone and her sun cream into the complimentary spa bag that only the luxurious side of the hotel received. You had to be an exclusive member, and of course she was. Shock.

Good, she was leaving.

I sat on the edge of the cenote; the water was jacuzzi warm. I turned back to see her chug the remainder of her fresh whiskey sour like she was playing a drinking game at a sorority house.

I liked whiskey sours. They looked refreshing, and there was something around the rim, a spice maybe? It was new to me. I wanted to ask her which bar she got it from, but she was steely eyed, and I was not going to converse anymore with this woman whose name I still didn't know. I didn't need to know, but still kind of wanted to know .

I hated the overwhelming urge to apologise despite doing nothing wrong. I hated the urge to ask her where she got her bikini because the softness in my soul still thought she looked great in it, and it happened to be a leaf green colour that I adored.

No, stop it. She's not a nice person.

I pretended to focus on the lizard who seemed to be observing the interaction from its perch, unmoving, and probably ecstatic that it wasn't born a human.

"I wonder if lizards can talk," I muttered. I did not expect her to hear me.

"Did you say something?" she challenged.

"Erm, no." I shook my head. How embarrassing.

"Okay," she snickered.

She turned to leave.

I listened as the shuffle of her flip-flops scratched across the limestone. Uncharacteristically, I felt the need to have the last word.

"Hey, what's your name?" I called out.

"Why? So you can add social media stalking to your agenda?" she sassed.

"No, so I can stop describing you as rude elevator girl when I tell my friends all about this delightful conversation." The comeback was quick; I surprised myself, but my hands were shaking. I tried to hide my confrontational discomfort, but I sensed she was the type to sniff out any bullshit.

She didn't retaliate, but she did look puzzled. The frown in her forehead deepened.

"What's your name?" she deflected.

"I asked you first." I sounded utterly childish, but there was something about her arrogance and enduring annoyance that made me want to stick my tongue out and throw handfuls of dirt like I was back in the school playground.

She paused. I watched her lips intently. She opened her mouth, closed it again, and repeated the action once more. The sun bouncing off her hair made it look golden; it sparkled. She looked down at me with arched eyebrows, contemplation etched on her brow.

"Sorry, my parents taught me not to engage with strangers." She spun and headed for the tree covered archway. She looked back; it was brief, but it happened.

Did I imagine a smirk? The sun was behind her, so my ability to decipher her facial expression sucked.

God, she was annoying.

Like, seriously?

I wanted to jump in the pool and bury my head beneath the surface so I could let out an almighty scream. I refrained because I'd just washed my hair the night before, but I wanted to. I scanned the vicinity to check I wasn't on a new episode of Punk'd . Ashton Kutcher returning after a ten-year hiatus to hide in the Mexican bushes with the lizards and prank unsuspecting tourists would've made more sense than the three encounters I'd had with her .

I needed Billie and Sarah. Now.