02

After fiddling with the handle and lock, I opened the doors, grimacing again when the heat rushed over me. But I couldn’t help acknowledging the fantastic view. Stretches of beach dominated the landscape, alongside miles of fresh greenery and vast expanses of ocean. Sadly, that vast ocean provided yet another reminder of the distance separating me from London, from my friends, from Alastair, and from the life I was so used to controlling.

« Enjoying the view ? » Mum’s voice interrupted the eerie peacefulness.

« It’s nice, » I replied, gazing out towards the ocean and curling my fingers over the balcony edge, the wood warm from the sun.

« I know you don’t want to be here, Rosalie, but try to enjoy yourself rather than hating it for the sake of hating it. You never know, this summer might change your life. »

Her lips tilted into a kind smile as I peered over my shoulder at her, before she backed out of the room, closing the door. The sound of it clicking shut echoed off the walls, leaving me alone again.

I’d never had a problem with being independent and enjoying my own company, but now the loneliness overwhelmed me. An unfamiliar house. Unfamiliar town. Unfamiliar country. Knowledge was power, comfort and security, and I knew nothing about this place.

I recalled Mum’s parting words :

This summer might change your life.

That had been her response to every instance I showed reluctance, ever since I was a child.

Try this food—it might be the nicest thing you’ve ever tasted !

Come to the opera with us—it might be the best show you’ve ever seen !

Whilst I learnt to embrace different food and appreciate the art of opera, I struggled to believe this summer would have quite the same effect on me.

The first time I met Alastair will be forever ingrained in my memory. It was almost three years ago, shortly after we’d moved to Carringham—a small but affluent area in West London. At sixteen, I’d been blissfully unaware of the adult problems that everyday life entailed. Life was so easy, yet so boring.

Then I met Alastair Montgomery.

On our third night in the new house, his family came for dinner and I was smitten. Two years older than me, he seemed so mature—much more mature than boys my age—as well as being handsome, funny, and intelligent.

When our parents retired to the drawing room for coffee, we remained at the dining table, discussing politics. The topic came easily to me—we’d had similar debates at school—and Alastair listened intently. He acknowledged everything I said, offering convincing arguments to counter my own. Arguments that I later found out were not his personal views, but just an excuse to challenge me.

« I have a question, Rosa. » He lifted the almost-empty bottle of wine to his mouth and tipped the remaining liquid down his throat. I watched him swallow, unable to tear my eyes away. « When was the last time you went against your parents’ wishes ? »

I considered it, but not for long. Just long enough for him to believe I’d given it thought.

« Why would I do that ? They give me everything I want. »

As soon as the words left my mouth, I realised how spoilt I sounded. That hadn’t been what I’d meant at all, but Alastair saw right through me. He pursed his lips as his eyes flickered over my face.

It was an intense stare, one that made my heart speed up with nerves. Whilst I’d been taught how to communicate effectively, I’d never done so on such a personal level with a guy. Conversations usually revolved around current affairs as an opportunity to prove my intellectual value. No boy had ever taken an interest in my mind. Until Alastair.

We met regularly after that—first as a friendship, then a relationship. Alastair represented everything I longed for in life : excitement, unpredictability, intimacy and romance. He enlightened me on a whole matter of things, including the reason for his family’s attendance that evening ; his father was entering into business with my father.

Although I knew his family had money, I didn’t realise the extent of their wealth until I hit Google. They were multi-millionaires who’d made a series of well-judged investments, predominantly in the property industry.

Apparently it was a big deal that his tycoon father wanted to invest in our company, and my mother reiterated this after we came clean about our secret romance. She wasn’t keen at first—she warned me it could become messy when tangled with business—but she liked Alastair, and soon her acceptance of our relationship transformed into genuine encouragement.

It wasn’t until we’d been dating for over a year that I acknowledged my relationship with Alastair had changed. Like our parents—and like my mother had warned—it intertwined with our families’ businesses. I’d become less of a conquest to Alastair, and he’d become less of an addiction to me.

Our romance lived on in public, but sometimes in private, too. We had good days when we’d spend hours in bed, alternating between laughter, sex and cuddles. We had bad days when Alastair’s work took up all his time, when we’d both make poor decisions or go a week without talking.

But we never discussed the state of our relationship, neither of us wanting to be the one to pull out the block that brings the whole Jenga tower tumbling down. We accepted that things worked a certain way. That things had to work a certain way, because we weren’t the only two people in this.

In a twisted sense, I found comfort in that—because it’s hard to break up with someone when your feelings for them are so deep-rooted that they fail to disappear, even when the initial excitement has expired.

After staring at the beach from my balcony whilst waiting for the sun to hit it, I headed there after lunch. At the foot of the garden, a narrow set of stone steps descended beyond the row of trees, leading down to golden sand. We couldn’t be much closer to it, so at least that was a positive.

I’d always loved beaches ; the tranquillity of the ocean had acted as an escape mechanism for me during recent family holidays. Sometimes I would sit on the sand and watch the waves crash against the shore, forgetting the stresses of my own life and relishing the peace. Nature at its finest. With the picnic a constant niggle in my mind, I hoped a beach could rescue me once again from the agonising thoughts that ate away at me.

The sand warm beneath my feet, I strolled along the coast, soon removing my flip-flops to appreciate the sensation of the soft grains trickling between my toes.

Maybe North Carolina hadn’t hit peak holiday season yet, as the beach was deserted. A lifeguard’s chair held an imposing presence further down, but nobody occupied it. I didn’t mind being the only one there, though. With no distractions, I could relax for what felt like the first time in ages and lowered myself down to the ground, smoothing out the skirt of my dress to avoid sand in unwanted areas.

It would be evening in the UK now. The picnic well underway. Alastair would be at that stage of drunk where his words were coherent but his actions questionable. Even though I’d told myself I wouldn’t, I returned to social media, seeking photos.

A few had been posted but only one of interest, featuring Alastair and Daisy. Although in no way incriminating, seeing the two of them together unsettled my stomach. Standing side by side, Alastair’s arm was draped around Daisy. She smiled into the camera, her face partially hidden by her huge sunglasses and straw hat.

Double tapping the screen, I ‘liked’ the photo, for a hundred and one reasons—none of them being the fact that I actually did like the photo.