The Burnout(10)

I can’t help laughing, even as a tear rolls down my face. God, I’m a wreck.

“Sasha! I have the solution!” From the sitting room, Mum’s loud, urgent voice summons me. “The perfect solution!”

“I heard that,” says Kirsten in my ear. “Text me the perfect solution when Mum’s shared it with you. But it’s not buying a two-bed in Bracknell, if that’s what she says.”

I can’t help smiling, because Mum’s always trying to convince us to snap up bargain properties.

“And listen, Sasha,” Kirsten continues more gently. “Take this seriously, OK? You need to have a proper break. No emails. No stress. Get yourself back on track. Otherwise …”

She trails off into a loaded kind of silence. I can’t see exactly where she’s heading with otherwise, and I’m not sure she knows either. But it doesn’t feel like anywhere good.

“I will take it seriously.” I exhale hard. “Promise.”

“Because I’m not visiting you at the convent. And you won’t find Captain von Trapp there either, if that’s what you were hoping for.”

“I’m pretty sure he was there,” I counter. “He was hiding in the cellar.”

“Sasha!” Mum calls again.

“Go on,” says Kirsten. “Go and hear Mum’s plan. And take care of yourself.”

As I head back into the sitting room, Mum is looking at something on her phone with a little smile. Her face has softened and I gaze at her, a bit intrigued. What’s she thinking about? What’s her perfect solution?

“How much holiday entitlement do you have?” she asks.

“Loads,” I admit. “I’ve carried a lot forward from last year.”

I barely took any holiday last year. What’s the point? I have finally realized the secret that no one admits: The “holiday” is a myth. Holidays are worse than normal life. You still deal with emails but on an uncomfortable sun lounger instead of at a desk. You squint at your screen in the sunshine. You’re constantly trying to find signal and stay in the shade and talk to the office over a patchy line.

Or the other option is you decide to have a “proper break.” You put an out-of-office on your computer, enjoy yourself, and leave things for when you get back. At which point you’re greeted with such unfathomable amounts of work that you have to stay up till 2 A.M. for a week to catch up, cursing yourself for having gone away even for twenty-four hours.

In my experience. Maybe other people do it better.

“Sasha, I have it. I know exactly where you should go.” Mum looks super-pleased with herself.

“Where?”

“I’ve already phoned up and there’s availability,” continues Mum, ignoring me. “We should have thought of it at once!”

“Where?”

Mum raises her head and lets a moment pass before she says simply, “Rilston Bay.”

The words are like magic.

It’s as though the sun has briefly come out and touched my skin. I’m caressed by warmth and light and a kind of euphoria I’d almost forgotten existed. Rilston Bay. The sea. The huge open sky. The feel of sand under bare feet. That first, magical view of the beach from the train. The piercing sound of the gulls. The foamy surf, flashing and glittering in the baking summer sunshine …

Hang on.

“Wait, but it’s February,” I say, coming out of my reverie.

Rilston Bay in winter? I can’t even imagine it. But at the same time, I can’t relinquish the idea, now Mum has mentioned it. Rilston Bay. It’s tugging at my heart. Could I really go there?

“There’s availability,” repeats Mum. “You could go by train, just like we always did. Go tomorrow!”

“You mean there’s availability at Mrs. Heath’s?” I say uncertainly.

We stayed at Mrs. Heath’s guesthouse every year for thirteen years running. I still remember the smell of the lino on the stairs, the shell pictures in our bedroom, the crochet blankets on the beds. The little shed where we left our buckets and spades every evening. The tiny garden with the fairy grotto.

“Mrs. Heath died a few years ago, love,” says Mum gently. “I mean at the hotel. The Rilston.”

“The Rilston?”

Is she serious? Stay at the Rilston?

We never stayed at the Rilston. We weren’t those kind of people. It had a dress code and a weekly dinner dance and its own “Rilston” taxi for guests that you’d see around town. It was situated grandly, right on the beach. Not like Mrs. Heath’s place, which was a steep fifteen-minute walk back up the cobbled streets we’d run so merrily down each morning.

But once every holiday, we’d put on smart clothes and go to the Rilston for drinks, feeling delightfully grown-up as we stepped into the lobby with its chandeliers and velvet sofas. Mum and Dad would have drinks at the bar, while Kirsten and I sipped Coke with a slice of lemon and giggled over the incredible luxury of crisps served in silver dishes. One time we had dinner there too, but it was all meat and creamy sauces and cost an “arm and a leg,” as Dad said. So the next year we went back to just having a drink. A drink was enough. More than enough.

So the idea of actually staying there gives me a weird frisson. But Mum’s holding out her phone, and I can see the words Rilston Hotel on it. She’s serious.