“Sure,” Tanya says, in a voice that implies she’ll do anything but.
We head to the hot tub, where we start to make the area look ready for a party. Poppy explains to us where everything is, and then Chloe and I hang across the roof of the lodge and a palm tree over the hot tub some banners, which say “CONGRATULATIONS BRIDE TO BE!” in huge pink letters, and we even go to the trouble of blowing up some balloons and sticking them to the decking around it. Chloe, in charge of alcohol, has not only brought an ice box with ciders and beers to the side of the hot tub, but has also fashioned a makeshift bar out of a couple of deck chairs, a line of spirits and mixers and plastic cups ready for the taking. There’s even a couple of pizzas on some high stools that Poppy says she cooked earlier and can be eaten cold. The CD player has been turned on, and although the selection isn’t great, a Now That’s What I Call Music is playing and no one can refuse a good Britney song. The atmosphere has lightened. Poppy strips off to her bikini and gets in the hot tub, which bubbles away invitingly. Am I the tiniest bit relieved to see she has stretch marks on her thighs, that she isn’t absolutely perfect? Maybe.
“Go and get changed,” she says. “I’ll be waiting for you here.”
Chloe walks into my hut whilst I’m getting ready. She’s in her bright orange two piece, and sits on the bed trying to tie her hair into a complicated topknot.
“Poppy’s had way too much plastic surgery,” she says by way of greeting.
“You’re one to talk.” I’m not embarrassed to change around Chloe, we’ve been friends for years, so I take off my leggings and top and bra, desperate to be free of them after the long journey. If anything I’d quite like to take a shower, clear myself of the plane and taxi and boat to the island, but I know that’ll keep everyone waiting, so I stick on the pale yellow bikini Andrew said he liked once. My suitcase remains open, waiting to be unpacked. Poppy hasn’t given us any time to settle in—it’s been one thing after another, leaving us little room to breathe.
Chloe fastens her hair together with a clip and stands to look at herself in the full-length mirror next to the wardrobe. She wriggles her nose and moves her eyebrows around. “At least I look natural. Poppy looks like me with my filters on, and not in a good way.”
“All I’m hearing is jealousy!” I dodge the hairbrush Chloe throws at me and laugh. “Come on, Chlo, admit you’re dying to ask who her plastic surgeon is.”
She pouts, but doesn’t deny it. As she goes to pick up the hairbrush, she stops in front of a painting on the wall next to the window.
“Huh, look at that.”
I turn from the mirror at her tone. “What?”
“That painting.” She laughs, but it comes out forced. “It just reminded me of Poppy’s art in the past, that’s all. You don’t think she asked to have her old art put up?”
I stare at the painting. It’s true, it does. She had a telltale sign to her art—sweeping brushstrokes that blended thick paint and blurred the lines between shapes even when painting something conventional. She often used harsh colours that stood out against delicate backdrops, and this is no exception. It’s a version of The Last Supper, with the figures and Jesus in particular painted in garish colours that make them seem as though they’re reaching out beyond the pale, diminished background.
It does look like her style. More accomplished, perhaps. Less obvious than when she was younger.
“Maybe they did let her put art up in all the rooms,” I say, thinking of the one in her bedroom too. “It’s a private island. They probably let you do almost anything.”
“Weird though, right?” she asks. “Considering what happened.”
I don’t want to think about what she means. I shrug, pretending it’s not a problem. “She was always a bit strange, we know that better than anyone.”
“Yeah, you’re right.” It takes a concentrated effort for her to pull her eyes away, and she looks for a distraction. “Do you want me to tie your hair up for you?”
Pleasantly surprised, I nod. “Yeah—thanks, Chloe.”
I sit on the edge of the bed and she sits cross-legged behind me, almost like when we were back at school at sleepovers. Without my phone, I have nothing to look at but straight ahead at the painting. The angry contrast of colours makes me nauseous. Every single figure is crying.
As she pulls it back into the same style she has, I feel her breath as she sighs.
“What is it?”
“Oh, nothing.” But she’s lying, I’m sure.
I wait for her to finish, then turn around, eager to avoid looking at the painting for a second longer. “I think you just need more alcohol in you.”
“You know,” she says, “that’s not a bad idea.”
Six
Chloe
May 18, 2023
Poppy’s nose job looks wonky.
I’m sorry, but it does. Now that we’re squashed up next to each other in this hot tub, which by the way is incredible, I’m right opposite to her and I can still see a bump on the left side. It’s tiny, but noticeable. What a shame to have spent thousands of pounds on that travesty.
We’ve eaten cold pizza and drank about four bottles of cider each, and now we’re finally moving on to the spirits that I set out in such a pretty fashion on some chairs. Esther does the job of pouring everyone a vodka lemonade, and then we all toast again to Poppy’s hen party and her future wedding.
You know, I wasn’t particularly keen at first, especially when she demanded I help her lay everything out. I almost decided to just take a bath in the main lodge and go to sleep. But I’m happy I came out, because we’re actually starting to have some fun. Poppy is much more enjoyable to hang around with now, and everyone seems to be loosening up a bit.
“You four must have holidays like this all the time,” Poppy says. “It must be nice having girlfriends to do things like this with.”
I exchange a glance with Esther. Does this mean Poppy really doesn’t have any other friends? There’s a moment of awkwardness, so I start blabbering to move on.
“Not like this, but we went to Morocco a couple of summers ago at a five-star resort, and that was fantastic.”
“Morocco?” Annabel frowns, and I know in that second I’ve fucked up. Her threaded eyebrows knit together in confusion. “Who went to Morocco?”
“You were busy with Andrew, I think,” I bluster, aware of my cheeks turning pink. “It wasn’t anything too special.”
“The three of you went without me?”
Tanya clears her throat. “We didn’t think you’d be interested.”
“But why not?” God, she actually looks upset. No—angry, even.
“Like Chloe said, you were busy,” Esther puts in smoothly. “It wasn’t deliberate. We’re sorry. You know how it is.”
Poppy laughs. “Oh dear, I didn’t mean to start something there.”
A vein pulses in Annabel’s temple, and she turns on Poppy. “And where are your friends?”
“Ouch!” she says, but there’s a lightness to her tone, and she chuckles again. “You got me. Poor old Poppy Greer—friendless and having to resort to you four for her hen party, I bet that’s what you’re all thinking.”
Well. She’s the one who said it.
She nods at our faces. “I had a smaller celebration with my friends from work, but this is for you four in particular. I didn’t want any outsiders ruining this special occasion. And hey, with me you’re all invited.”
Annabel’s smile tightens, as if it might snap at any moment. I knew we should have told her about Morocco when it happened, but Esther insisted we shouldn’t.
What is Poppy on about though? She’s always been a bit of an oddball. I didn’t say anything to Annabel earlier, but to be honest I was a little freaked out about staying in my room for any longer than I had to. I had a creepy piece of art hanging on my wall too—some weird re-creation of The Scream, except with a woman this time, tears streaming down her cheeks. Proper depressing stuff, not exactly happy holiday displays. I was going to talk to someone about it but in all honesty I didn’t realise it was Annabel’s hut I’d walked into. I was hoping for Tanya, or even Esther. Anyone but her. It’s still so uncomfortable around her at the moment, trying to avoid any mention of what I’ve been doing so I don’t give myself away. But I think I did a pretty good job of hiding my thoughts.
“Let’s play Never Have I Ever!” Poppy suggests. “We’ll catch up on what we don’t know about each other so easily that way.”
Esther groans. “I haven’t played that since university.”
Annabel knocks back the rest of her drink, then grabs herself another bottle. “Really, Poppy?”
“Come on, it’ll be fun,” she says.
“I’m up for it,” I say. I love a party game. Even if it is a bit funny, like we’re trying to reclaim our lost youth or something. Being all together like this just makes us revert back to the people we were ten years ago.
Well, hopefully not entirely.