‘Nail varnish.’ Jenna picks up a white strappy vest top, the neckline sticky and red. ‘It’s ruined. And these …’ She pulls out her favourite pair of jeans. ‘And this.’ A cashmere-blend grey jumper she’s only had for two weeks.

She plucks out a few more items of clothing and throws them into the corner of the hotel room she’s sharing with Erica. She might be able to save the jeans if she can find someone with nail varnish remover and some handwash but she’ll have to throw away her jumper and several of her tops. She reaches back into the suitcase and, after some rummaging, removes a small glass bottle and a black lid with a brush attached.

‘The top’s come off,’ Erica says. ‘Was it the pressure do you think? Because you hadn’t done it up tightly enough?’

‘I wouldn’t know,’ Jenna says. ‘It’s not mine.’

‘Sorry?’

‘I’m a physiotherapist. I don’t wear nail varnish.’

‘How did it get into your case then?’

Jenna looks at her. ‘I have no idea.’

There’s no nail brush in the hotel room bathroom and, despite Jenna’s best efforts, her fingertips are still tinged a deep pink as she steps out of the shower and pulls a towel off the rail. It’s just her bloody luck that one of the airline’s luggage handlers found a nail varnish bottle with a loosened lid on the ground and zipped it into her case. At least that’s what she’s assuming happened. The alternative is that one of the other guests at the retreat realised they had nail varnish in their hand luggage and, mistaking her case for theirs, popped it inside. But there was no mistaking her case for anyone else’s. Even with all the suitcases squashed into the corner of the cafe where the guests met pre-check-in, her rainbow tag on the handle would have stopped most people from thinking it was theirs. Unless someone put it in there, lid loosened, on purpose? No. She dismisses the thought. She doesn’t know these people. The only person she’s really spoken to at length is Tom.

Erica, lying on one of the two single beds in the small bedroom, looks up from her book. Jenna feels her eyes following her as she crosses the room, plucks a jumper from her suitcase and pulls it on.

‘Are we supposed to be somewhere? If you wait a sec I’ll get my shoes on.’

Jenna pauses, her hand on the doorknob. ‘No, no. You’re good. Dinner isn’t until eight.’

‘So where …’ Her roommate’s gaze flits to the dressing gown in Jenna’s arms. ‘Oh, you’re going to the spa.’

‘Yes.’ Jenna turns her face so Erica can’t read her lie. ‘I’ll see you later. Enjoy your book.’