The Burnout(12)

“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.”