'Are you indecent?'

There's a rat-a-tat on the door and Elliot strides in, hair still wet. Dimples dimpling.

I do a quick check that my pyjamas aren't offering an impromptu peep show as he darts for the window.

'Get ready for some California sunshine!' he cheers, unhooking the white plantation shutters.

He laughs at my blinded-by-the-light pose and then does a double-take at the body on the put-me-up bed.

'Oh my G.o.d! Check out Zo's maracas!'

'Elliot!' I exclaim. It's not like him to be so crude. I make a move to redress Zo's modesty but before I can get there he reaches down and picks up two hand-painted maracas, giving the rattling beads a rhythmical swish. 'I meant that literally! Where'd she get these?'

'Mmmmfff,' Zo stirs.

'Zo?' Elliot leans over her.

She squirms away. 'Don't make me eat the worm again!'

Elliot's eyebrows raise.

I make a silent prayer that it's a tequila worm she's referring to and suddenly feel a bit guilty for letting her out of my sight.

'Wow. She's out of it! What time did you lot get to bed?'

'Sasha was about ten,' I begin. She raises a slender arm and flickers her fingers in acknowledgement. 'And I watched Frasier re-runs till midnight.'

'Does your set rise up out of this box here?'

I nod.

'How cool is that?' Elliot grins.

'As for Worm Woman,' I continue with our alibis: 'no idea.'

Elliot looks back down at Zo and frowns. 'What's that black line between her eyebrows?'

Freeing myself from the bed, I scuttle over and gasp. 'It's the Frida Kahlo mon.o.brow!'

'The what?' Elliot laughs, stepping back and stumbling over a giant paper-wrapped roll. 'Where'd all these Mexican blankets come from? Did Helen-'

Suddenly Sasha sits bolt upright in bed as if she's been yanked up in traction. 'She couldn't have!'

I immediately get Sasha's drift and spin around. 'Where's her purse?'

Sasha locates it in one leap. 'Pa.s.sport!'

We all crowd round, scrabbling through the pages and discover the word MEXICO, freshly stamped.

'She must have gone shopping in Tijuana!' Sasha reels.

'I can't believe she left the country while we were sleeping,' I gasp.

'Zo?' Elliot gently shakes her.

She opens one blurry eye. 'Si?'

We chuckle at our somnolent signorita.

'I think we should let her sleep,' Elliot decides, tucking her maracas in beside her like a teddy bear. 'You two coming to breakfast?'

'Can you wait five minutes while I have a shower?' I ask.

'No problem,' he obliges. 'Sasha, you okay? You look a bit queasy.'

'Yeah, I'm not hungry, I think I'll get some air down by the sea and then meet you back here.'

I experience a flicker of concern but decide not to ha.s.sle her.

'Five minutes ...' I repeat but as soon as I step into the marble vastness of the bathroom I realize I've been a little optimistic with my timing it takes five minutes just to reach the shower and when I pull the gla.s.s door shut behind me I discover it seals to create a steam room and it seems criminal to waste such an exotic function. So I don't.

I appear fifteen minutes later with highly flushed cheeks and a rumbly tummy.

Breakfast is served al fresco in a charming courtyard accented with tumbling flowers and manicured men in salmon pink cashmere V-necks.

'I love all the Spanish tile,' I coo as the waiter guides us to our designated table.

'Ever the eye for detail!' Elliot grins.

'Elise!' I startle myself saying her name. For one blissful moment I'd actually forgotten she was on vacation with us.

'Morning, sleepyhead,' she smirks.

I smirk back. Had to get in an 'I was up with the larks' dig, didn't she?

'Where's the rest of your cronies?' she asks.

I take a don't-rise-to-the-bait breath then launch into an overly cheerful, 'Well, Crony One Sasha has gone for a wander. And Crony Two, Zo ...'

I catch Elliot's amused eye and find myself sn.i.g.g.e.ring.

'What's so funny?' Elise snaps.

'You wouldn't believe us if we told you,' Elliot shakes his head and does a little maraca motion with his hands.

I t.i.tter uncontrollably, then hold my knife along my eyebrows, setting Elliot off again.

'What?' Elise is getting impatient now, miffed that she's not in on the joke.

I feel simultaneously mean and triumphant. Last night on the way back from the beach she was laying on all the couple schmaltz: 'Remember when we were in bed, programming our mobile phone rings?' or 'You were talking in your sleep again the other night.' Well this is payback.

I hide behind my menu trying to decide whether I'm brave enough order a spirulina juice or whether celery and fennel would be a wiser option when Elliot caves and fills her in on Zo's exploits.

'I suppose we should be grateful she didn't bring back a whole Mariachi band,' he concludes.

Elise's response? Laughter? Incredulity? Disapproval? None of the above. She simply clicks her fingers and summons the waiter as if Elliot had just related the weather report for the day. Apparently she doesn't like him to have fun if it doesn't revolve around her. I stick a fork p.r.o.ng into my palm to stop myself screaming.

'What would you like?' The waiter has his pen poised.

Elise jumps straight in: 'I'll have a chocolate mocha, he'll have a latte. Shall we split the crab and avocado omelet with chive creme frache and get a stack of cranberry ca.s.sis pancakes?'

I don't know anyone that could say no to that.

Though I'm not invited to their plate-swapping picnic I order the ginger pancakes with homemade apple b.u.t.ter and defy them not to want a forkful.

As the parade of food begins I wonder out loud if Helen might be joining us.

'She won't be here till noon,' Elise announces. 'Says we're to meet her in the lobby at exactly twelve.'

'When did she call?' Elliot queries.

'Just after you left to knock up the girls.' Elise frowns at her choice of phrasing then continues: 'Apparently she's got a surprise for us maybe she's going to reveal where we'll be staying after tonight.' She takes a sip of her drink. 'I'm not sure I like all this "Wait and see!" stuff. If I wanted suspense I'd have gone on a Murder Mystery Weekend.'

If only. Though it's not too late to arrange a little strychnine in her mocha chocolata ya-ya.

'I think it's fun,' Elliot rallies. 'Anything could happen!'

'I just hope there's not going to be loads of packing and unpacking. I hate that.'

'Count yourself lucky you've got a suitcase to unpack,' I mutter.

'Still no sign of it?' Elliot sighs.

'Express is just across the street, it's similar to Next,' Elise informs me. 'We could come with you and pick something out, if you like?'

I see this supposed kindness for what it is: a ploy to get Elliot to buy something for her.

'Thanks but I think I'll wait till Helen gets here to see what occasion I'm dressing for.'

'Suit yourself.'

We fall into an awkward silence. I feel so self-conscious in front of Elise, almost as if I'm acting. I can't be my normal self because that would mean gabbling away to Elliot and she gets all huffy if the conversation doesn't revolve around her so all that's left is innocuous nonsense.

'Did you know Pearl Jam once stayed here?' I make a conversational bid. 'And Barbra Streisand. Imagine them doing a duet!'

Nothing.

'You know where I'd like to stay?' I try a new tack. 'The Madonna Inn!'

'Oh G.o.d!' Elise rolls her eyes.

'It's nothing to do with Madonna herself,' I hasten to explain. 'It's actually the surname of the owner Mr Alex Madonna. He built it himself.'

'I think I remember you mentioning this before.' Elliot furrows his brow. 'Didn't his wife decorate the rooms with all these crazy themes?'

I nod delightedly. 'Cowboys and cupids and cavemen!'

'It sounds so tacky,' Elise sneers.

'I think the word you're searching for is kitsch,' I try a little banter.

'Kitsch, retro, camp they're all just euphemisms for bad taste. You of all people should know better. I thought you were supposed to have an eye for style.'

Could she sound any more patronizing? As it happens, you can't get too kitsch for my tastes. It's blandness and faux pine and pastels that push me over the edge. I guess it's in my blood, but my environment really affects me. As do the people in it, I think, eyes narrowing at Elise.

'I think I'll take a few bits to Sasha,' I say, sc.r.a.ping the fruit salad garnish on to a side plate along with a rogue m.u.f.fin. 'See if she's hungry.'

'See you at high noon,' Elliot says as he waves me off.

Elise doesn't even bother to look up. Charming!

Walking away from Elise I get an instant sense of relief. I find her presence so tainting, especially when the others aren't around to dilute it. But I refuse to let her spoil my time in this genteel paradise. I mean, look at this place! I marvel as I step out onto the terrace. From here I can see the pool and its parade of sunloungers and parasols. Beyond that, the green park, glorious ocean and palm-studded sky. There are already a few early sunbathers in contented 'bake me' mode and one lone figure with the cowed body language of a condemned woman. It's such a beautiful day, how could anyone be anything other than elated?

And then she turns my way and I see the face beneath the sunhat.

Chapter 8.

The sleeping angel has gone, leaving a miserable mortal in her place. I suppose it was too much to hope that eight hours' kip could cure her woes. Woes which I'm starting to take seriously. The self-help books seemed harmless enough and the episode in the Hotel Del restroom was entirely understandable, but then last night as I sloughed off my crystallized make-up in the bathroom I caught her glaring at her reflection as if she was in a staring contest with her darkest enemy. Seeing as I'd be clambering up on to the marble sink top to kiss the mirror if I was her, I couldn't understand the dirty look.

I was about to dismiss it as mis-squirted skin freshener when it got more bizarre she slathered thick cream over her face then dragged her fingertips down, creating streaks of white so that for a strange moment it looked like she was staring out from behind prison bars. I thought about trying to peel off her face and swapping it for mine to see if that would cheer her up, or at least make her appreciate what she'd got, but instead I simply said, 'You all right?'

She took a second to rejoin the world, sluiced her face with icy water, then said: 'The thing we wrote at the beach the wish?'

'Yes?' I encouraged her, handing her a towel.

'I went back to the looks thing again. You know, people not seeing the real me, just what I look like?'

I nodded as she dabbed her flawless skin dry. Always hard to sympathize when I'm standing beside her in front of a mirror to full compare & contrast effect.

'I don't even know if that's the real issue any more,' she fretted. 'I'm just so afraid that they're right. What if I am just a pretty face?'