Twenty steps. That’s all it takes. And I’m already doing the first one. Step 1: Have a positive attitude. The words keep running through my mind and I keep mentally answering. Yes! I will be positive! Just watch me!
As I hurry along the platform at Paddington, dragging my suitcase behind me, I’m talking to myself so loudly I’m amazed the people around me can’t hear my thoughts. I can do it. Just follow the steps. I’ve got this. Slogans keep popping into my head, each one more inspiring than the last. I feel like a walking Instagram post. I’ve printed out the photo of the girl in the wetsuit as inspiration, and I’ve downloaded all the steps from the app, and I’ve brought my bullet journal and gel pens and stickers. I’m on this.
It’s only two days since I banged my head, but already I feel different. I’m not relaxed, exactly—nothing about preparing for a six-hour train journey is relaxing—but I’m not in the frantic, wired state I was. I feel as though there’s an edge of light on the horizon, and if I just keep focusing on it, I’ll be OK.
The train is massive—twelve carriages long—and it will take me as far as Campion Sands, where I’ll have to change to a smaller, rickety train for the last part of the journey. One of the million things I love about Rilston Bay is the tiny railway station. The little train trundles back and forth to Campion, looking as though it might fall off the cliff at any moment. You can see it from the beach and wave up at the passengers.
At the thought of the beach, I feel a flicker of excitement. I can’t believe I’m going to the beach! A cold winter’s beach … but still!
“Sasha!” Mum’s voice greets me, and I swivel in surprise to see her rushing along the platform, clutching two carrier bags, a blue foam cylinder, and a pink Hula Hoop. She said she would see me off, but I thought she was joking.
“Mum! You came!”
“Of course I came!” she says. Her voice is brisk, but as she reaches in for a hug, her eyes are anxious. “Just wanted to make sure you’ve got everything. Yoga mat? Wetsuit?”
“Yes.” I pat my suitcase.
“Here’s your weighted Hula-Hoop.…” She thrusts the pink plastic hoop at me. “I know you said you weren’t going to bother, but I think you’ll regret it if you don’t.”
“Mum …” I stare dubiously at the hoop. I know “hula-hooping” is in the twenty-step program, but I was planning to skip that bit.
“If you’re going to do the program, do it properly, love,” says Mum adamantly. “And here’s your foam roller. Essential.” She presents me with the foam cylinder, and I juggle it awkwardly with the hoop. “Here’s a dryrobe and some almonds for snacking.” She dumps an enormous carrier bag onto my spare hand. “Oh, and this!” She adds a paper bag from the National Gallery gift shop. “Watercolor kit. Brushes, sketch pad, everything you need. It’s on the app, number fifteen: ‘Find your creative spirit.’ I’ve put in a book of inspirational paintings too—it’s got Rilston on the front cover. You can paint the beach!”
I’m almost overwhelmed by all this stuff. Suddenly I have an image of myself hula-hooping in a wetsuit whilst simultaneously painting the beach and snacking on almonds.
“Mum … thanks,” I say feebly. “This is amazing. You shouldn’t have.”
“Of course, darling!” She brushes off my thanks. “No trouble. Now, I’ve spoken to the hotel, told them all about your situation.”
“You’ve done what?” I say blankly.
“Don’t worry, I was discreet! I didn’t say I was your mother, I said I was your PA.”
“My PA?” I stare at her.
“Why shouldn’t you have a PA?” counters Mum robustly. “You’re a successful woman, Sasha. You should have a PA! We should all have PAs! You had an assistant at Zoose, didn’t you?”
My mind flickers back to my “assistant” at Zoose, a woman called Tania who worked remotely from France for two of us at director level and answered every one of my emails with Could you explain this more clearly? Assistance wasn’t really what she gave me.
“I guess,” I say warily. “So … what did you tell them?”
“I said you were on a wellness break,” replies Mum crisply. “I mentioned the healthy food and they said they can make you a green smoothie every day. I gave them the recipe from the app. They said they’d order the kale in specially. And I confirmed your sea-view room,” she adds before I can remind her how much I hate kale. “You don’t want them putting you on the wrong side of the hotel. You’ve got a room on the seafront side and no arguments!” Her voice rises as though she’s mentally having a fight with the hotel. “Don’t let them mess you around. Oh, I asked about the beach lodges,” she adds. “But they’re not open during winter. Anyway, they’re being pulled down.”
“Pulled down?” I stare at her.
“Uninhabitable, apparently. They’re building new ones.”
I can hardly believe it. The Rilston lodges were famous. They had their own mystique. Now I look back, the lodges themselves weren’t so special—just eight wooden guesthouses—but they were right on the beach. That’s luxury. And among us children, they were the subject of endless rumors: They cost a fortune to rent. They’re booked up for years. The prime minister once stayed in one.
As children, Kirsten and I would sometimes edge toward the row of lodges and eye up the guests lounging on their expensive decks, enjoying their expensive views of the sea. But there was a kind of protocol. Everyone avoided the sand right in front of the lodges, so it was as though they had their own private stretch of shore. I always used to think, When I’m a grown-up, I’ll stay in one of those. But then of course I forgot all about it.
“Anyway,” Mum is continuing, “if you need me to phone up as your PA again, just text me. I called myself Erin,” she adds. “I thought it sounded like a PA’s name. Erin St. Clair.”
I want to laugh. Erin? But instead I’m blinking away tears, because Mum’s been so thoughtful. Even if I do hate kale.
“Thanks,” I gulp. “Thanks for everything, Mum.”
“Oh, Sasha.” Mum cups my cheek gently with her hand. “You’re not yourself, are you? Will you be all right? Because I could come down with you—”
“It’s fine,” I say determinedly. “You’ve got your conference. You can’t miss that.”
Mum goes to the same property conference every year, where she meets up with her old mates and comes home with gossip and fresh fire in her eyes. I’m not asking her to give that up.
“Well.” Mum still seems torn. “At least you’re going to a place we know.”
“Exactly. It’s Rilston Bay. It’s practically home!”
“I can’t believe you’re going back.” Mum’s face creases into that soft expression she gets when she remembers the past, which isn’t often. “Those holidays were good, weren’t they?”
“The best.” I nod fervently.
We did go on holiday eventually, after Dad died. But we never stuck to one place. We tried Norfolk, Spain, even America one year, after Mum became a partner. They were all fine, but nowhere ever replaced Rilston Bay in our hearts.
We didn’t want to go back to Rilston Bay without Dad. It was always too soon. Until suddenly it’s twenty years later.
“You have a good time, love.” Mum pulls me in for a tight hug. “No more stressing, Sasha. Enjoy some peace.”
I do enjoy some peace. For about half an hour. The train pulls away on time, and I settle back with my coffee and croissant. Somehow I’ve managed to manhandle my suitcase, the Hula-Hoop, the foam roller, and the carrier bags through the carriage—although it took two trips—and thankfully the train is pretty empty. I sit all alone at a four-seater table, watching London ebb away, feeling as though I’m leaving some of my stress behind with it. The pollution, the noise, the busyness … that can all stay behind.
I look out of the window and try to focus on my wellness project. But instead I find myself thinking, why did Asher commission that series of “work language” workshops? It was such a waste of time.
And why do we have to write two different monthly reports in two different formats?
And did anyone follow up on that total fail by Craig’s team? Because I can tell you exactly why it happened; it was because—