The difficult moments in our relationship

Someone once said, travel is the only thing you buy that makes you richer.

Money caused me enough problems, though, so I could add that to the list of reasons not to spend the summer away from home.

« Why don’t you at least try to smile ? » my mum said to me under her breath as we followed the crowd through to customs. « You’re getting a holiday out of this. Be grateful. »

Frowning, I said nothing. She knew she’d screwed up my plans, ruining a summer I’d been planning for six months—a summer my friends would now enjoy without me.

As soon as we were heading towards baggage collection, Mum pulled out her phone and began to prod at the screen, her manicured nails making an infuriating tapping noise each time they met the glass.

« Will you keep an eye out for the bags ? » She didn’t lift her eyes. « I have a few calls to make. »

I wandered over to the carousel, rooting around in my bag for my own phone. Would any of my friends care about spending the summer without me ? My last three months before university were supposed to be memorable so we could go our separate ways knowing we’d done everything we wanted.

With the feeling of dread in my stomach intensifying, I decided to call the person who probably cared the most about me being away from London, if only because it meant I was away from him.

While my eyes locked onto the conveyor belt, awaiting the arrival of our luggage, I kept the phone pressed against my ear as it rang out. Alastair was constantly attached to his phone, so what possible excuse could he have for ignoring me ?

Maintaining my composure, I left him a brief message, knowing better than to reveal my irritation.

« Hi, it’s me. Just letting you know that I’ve landed. Speak to you soon. Love you. »

I dropped the phone back into my bag and pulled it further onto my shoulder. I knew I was lucky, and that many girls would kill to have my lifestyle, but all the money in the world couldn’t buy decent friends or a faithful boyfriend. In fact, in my experience, it did the opposite.

« Still no bags ? » Mum asked, appearing beside me, also irritated. It promised a very long journey ahead.

« How far away is the house ? »

My head muzzy from the flight, I was shattered and wanted nothing more than to lie down in a comfy bed where I could fall asleep and pretend this had all been a dream.

« See, if you’d taken an interest in this trip, you’d know the answer to that, » Mum said, her tone laced with disapproval.

« An interest ? » I replied, careful to keep my voice low. « I wasn’t going to take an interest when I didn’t want to be here in the first place. »

« I’m tired of this, Rosalie. You’ve spent the last year with your friends instead of going to university. A few months away from them isn’t going to hurt. »

While I didn’t expect Mum to understand my distress at spending the summer away from my friends—she wasn’t aware of the real reason I took a gap year—I at least wanted a hint of sympathy. She could have even pretended ; I wouldn’t have minded. After all, so many of the behaviours she’d ingrained into me were based on concealing your true feelings and presenting the best version of yourself. It was hypocritical to make her disappointment in me so visible.

Not that hypocrisy was a new concept to Mum. She lectured me on the importance of having a well-connected circle of friends, a respectable partner, and a social status that would earn me a good reputation, yet she wanted to drag me away from all that by forcing me to join her in a tiny, unknown town in North Carolina.

How did she expect me to remain top of the pyramid of London’s socialites when so far away ? The knot in my stomach tightened again, fearing history repeating itself once the group got used to me being gone.

The roads to our summer house were awash with bumps, dips and sharp bends, making it difficult to use my phone without worsening my headache or causing nausea. Nevertheless, I persevered with monitoring all social media, desperate to see whether any photos had surfaced since my departure.

Daisy had tweeted about how she was buzzing for the annual picnic tomorrow, and that alone nearly drove me into throwing my phone out of the car window. Always great fun, we held a picnic every year to celebrate the start of summer. A group of us would travel to the same lake in Surrey, deep in the peaceful countryside. It didn’t stay peaceful for long, though. We got drunk on champagne, laughed until our sides hurt, and ate until there was nothing left.

Some form of scandal usually took place due to excessive alcohol consumption. Being part of a tight knit friendship group had a tendency to become incestuous when we only ever hung out with each other. Alastair and I had been a couple for a while, but the rest were single, often hooking up together.

As if me missing out on this year’s picnic wasn’t bad enough, Alastair had retweeted Daisy. Were they really both so shameless as to display their inappropriate flirtations on Twitter ? Only one day after I’d left, too…

I clicked to lock my phone then tossed it onto the dashboard, closing my eyes and hoping sleep would help the journey pass quicker.

At some point between dozing and consciousness, Alastair acknowledged my voicemail and replied with a WhatsApp.

Glad you’re there safely. Speak soon. Love you x

My fingers hovered over the screen, debating whether to reply. Even after three years together, I struggled to balance not appearing needy and giving him enough attention to maintain his interest.

I couldn’t realistically control Alastair from across the Atlantic, and if I replied to his message or not, it wouldn’t have a significant impact on the choices he made while I was gone. Turning my eyes back to the window, I left him on read.

As the roads narrowed, we seemed to drive further into the middle of nowhere. The sense of isolation overwhelmed me, a harsh reminder of how alone and far away from civilisation I’d be.

Mum was wrong when she’d said I hadn’t taken an interest. I’d researched the Outer Banks in North Carolina, as well as the small town near the house, and that had enlightened me to the fact it was remote and quiet, with the only attraction being a beach.

« We’re here. »

The car turned into a gravelled driveway lined with plants, with a detached white house sitting at the end. A balcony curved around the upper two stories, and I wondered whether that meant my bedroom would open on to one. I’d always wanted a balcony.

When the driver’s door slammed shut, the loud noise broke into the surrounding silence. I eased myself out of the car and straightened up, the heat making me crave a refreshing shower to cleanse my body after so many hours of travel.

The gravel crunched beneath my feet as I headed towards the house, every sound amplified when nothing was around to compete. Just muffled waves and buzzing insects. No traffic. No voices. No music. No rain. Nothing.

Three wooden steps led up to a veranda, and when I glanced over to the right while waiting for Mum to unlock the door, I caught a glimpse of blue beyond the garden’s trees.

A cool wave of air conditioning drifted over me as I stepped into the house—a welcome contrast to the weather. Beautiful marble adorned the hallway, with a striking central staircase that split in two directions halfway up.

It may have been extravagant, despite its understated appearance from the outside, but no character jumped out among the luxury. It wasn’t a home. Just a house.

« Do you like it ? » Mum asked.

I shrugged. « It’s okay. »

She sighed, furrowing her eyebrows like she couldn’t work out why I wasn’t leaping with joy. Then she flicked her hand towards the staircase.

« Pick a room and settle in. »

I began to lug my heavy suitcase up the marble steps. My body begged for a rest part way, but I refused to show weakness in front of my mother and soldiered on, releasing a breath of relief as I reached the top.

The first floor was as elaborate as the hallway, boasting high ceilings and delicate chandeliers. I peered into each room I passed, settling on a corner one at the end of the corridor.

Light and spacious, with a huge double bed pushed against the left-hand wall, the bedroom oozed minimalism. Aesthetically pleasing, but nothing like mine.

In London, my room represented my personal space, where I could crash after a night out without anyone judging, cry in private after an argument with Alastair, and hide during the snippets of time I managed to steal for myself. Photos hung off every wall, antique furniture and comfy chairs offered a sense of character, and I’d crammed books onto any shelf available, resorting to piles on the floor once I’d ran out of storage.

The only thing that would tip the odds in favour of this room was the set of French doors leading to a balcony.