I never wanted to stay in another hotel again. I craved space and silence with the passion of a million wishes.
Madeline didn’t understand how hard being in the limelight was for me. Even working in retail (while I decided what to do with my life now I was alone) had been a struggle: the constant dealing with people, the endless questions, the draining nature of mingling. Add loud music, screaming fans, and countless demands for social events, encores, and media obligations, I was wrung dry. I was worse than chewing gum. I was the grime left over from a well-trodden shoe.
I’m shoeless.
My fingers itched to write the line down. The beginning of a new sonnet wisped into creation. I deliberated over dropping my suitcase and grabbing my notepad. But it was a single sentence. I’d remember it.
Hopefully.
Besides, I had something much more important to think about.
It’s over now.
My lips turned from sad frown to happy anticipation.
I wasn’t unappreciative for the rapid notoriety and vocal success I’d been given. But I couldn’t change who I was at heart.
I was a homebody.
A girl who kept to herself, preferred to curl up with her flat-faced Persian than attend a party, and had a hard time making small talk with strangers, which meant singledom wasn’t a choice but a by-product of being an introvert. Add a recent funeral for the three most important people in my life and...well, the outside world was as enjoyed as much as bug spray was to a butterfly.
Crossing the threshold into the airport terminal, I forcibly removed all thoughts of drudgery and schedules and relaxed for the first time in seventy-two days.
This was it.
This had been my only requirement which Madeline (said best friend and slave driver) didn’t understand. No matter we’d been friends for almost two decades, she still didn’t ‘get me.’ She didn’t understand my pathological need to be alone after months of belonging to other people.
I’d agreed to eight singing venues; I’d bowed to her every whim of newspaper interviews, blogger podcasts, and high-society power dinners. But I’d stood firm on two things.
Number one: I refused to share a hotel room with her. I loved her but after monopolising my time eighteen hours a day, I needed an empty space. It was my recharge station after others drained me dry.
Number two: I wanted to travel back on my own.
Alone.
Just me.
For seventy-two days, she’d tried to convince me to amend my itinerary and celebrate with her in Bora Bora. In her mind, the money pouring in from endorsements and a newly signed record deal meant we should live large. In my mind, I should save every penny, because, as fast as luck had shined on me, it could eclipse me just as quickly.
Look at how swiftly death had visited when supposed perfection reigned.
I hadn’t budged—no matter how hard she moaned—and here I was.
A single person in a whitewash of crowds and mayhem.
Slamming to a stop, I narrowly avoided a bulldozer conveniently dressed as a man. He charged past, sweaty and swearing, obviously late for his flight.
Not me.
I had plenty of time to meander through security, grab a coffee, read my book, and then slip quietly onto the plane to unwind on my journey home.
I sighed in bliss.
Feeling much happier, I dragged my suitcase to the Fiji Airways checkin desk. They’d been the best value in ticket prices when I’d booked from Sydney three months ago. The aircraft had been clean and staff attentive. And the fact that the service had been half-full made me happy. Fingers crossed they’d be quiet on the way back, too.
There wasn’t a line, which made my day even brighter.
“Hello, Miss?” The elderly gentleman waved me toward the first class checkin, even though I wasn’t first class. “I can check you in over here if you’d like.”
I’m going home.
I smiled as genuine joy and relaxation fluttered. Carting my heavy suitcase to his counter, I fumbled in my handbag for my documentation. “Thank you.”
He grinned, tapping a pen on the keyboard. “Don’t mention it. Happens I don’t like being bored and you’re the first one to check in. I’m assuming you’re on the service flying to Nadi?”
I managed to yank my passport and ticket from my overstuffed handbag without turfing out every other item and handed it over. “That’s right.”
The man eyed my paperwork. “Going onward to Sydney from there?”
“Yes.”
His blue eyes warmed. “Been there myself. Great place.”
“Yes, it is.”
Small talk...once again, I sucked at it.
I’d adored every minute of meeting my agent and recording manager in New York—doing my best to chat about important things. And now, knowing I was only two plane rides away from my own bed made my willingness to engage with strangers more bearable.