The Burnout(21)

Backing away from the unfriendly window, I head into the bathroom—and give a yelp of horror. I’d forgotten about the beady-eyed woodland creatures too. That badger looks like it wants to sink its sharp little teeth into my flesh. I’ll have to clean my teeth with my eyes shut.

As I get dressed, I firmly avoid looking at either the window or the bathroom. Instead, I focus on the photo of the girl in the wetsuit. While unpacking last night, I discovered that Mum had printed out a screenshot of the app for me, and I’ve hung it up on an empty hook on the wall. I’m not saying I’m obsessed—but I do look at the girl a lot. I find her inspirational. She looks so strong and energetic. So vibrant. I will be her.

I studied the 20 Steps app last night while I ate my room-service supper, and it recommends aiming for one step per day. But that’s for people doing it in their spare time, surely? I’m on the full immersion program. So I decided that today I’ll accomplish five steps for starters and then see how I go. It’s all written out in my bullet journal.

DAY ONE: 1. Wild swimming. 2. Grounding. 3. Manifesting. 4. 100-squat challenge. 5. Communion with nature.

My new life starts today! Bring it on!

To be honest, I’m not quite as pumped this morning as I thought I’d be. Last night I imagined waking up full of energy, jumping out of bed, and dashing down to the beach. Whereas this morning, when it actually comes to it, I feel a bit more like …

Going back to bed, a voice says inside my head, but I ignore it. That won’t achieve a better me, will it? I probably just need some breakfast.

My phone pings and I check to see if it’s Mum or Kirsten, but it’s from the Rilston. Another text from the Rilston?

We are proud to announce resident magician Mike Strangeways will be performing tricks in the lobby at lunchtime. Come and join the fun!

I can’t help rolling my eyes. First, it doesn’t sound like fun. And second, this is the fifth message I’ve received this morning. The others were:

Sex on the Beach, anyone? Remember, cocktails are half price on Wednesdays.

ATTENTION!! There will be a fire-alarm practice this morning at 10.

Do you have feedback on your hotel experience? Why not talk to our friendly team?

Woof! Dogs are very welcome at the Rilston. Please dial 067 for details.

As I’m gazing at my phone, it pings again and yet another text arrives.

FUN FACT: The Rilston was the country residence of the Carroday family until 1895.

I feel a flicker of annoyance. That’s not a “fun fact.” It’s just a fact. A really boring fact, which I didn’t need to know and is now clogging up my phone.

Anyway, never mind. Think positive. I thrust my phone into my pocket, take a deep breath, and head downstairs.

Breakfast is served in the dining room, which is massive. There are vast windows, huge pillars, and acres of patterned carpet, although only about ten tables, oddly spaced here and there. The waiter who greets me is skinny, with a solemn face, and seems so young he barely needs to shave. He leads me to a tiny table in the corner of the room, pours me a glass of water, then hurriedly disappears. I’m the only person in the room, I realize, looking around. So why have they put me here in this dark corner? I could sit wherever I like. I will sit wherever I like.

Picking up my glass of water, I decide on a big table in the bay window. I take a seat, put my glass of water on the tablecloth, lean forward to enjoy the view—and the table promptly collapses, me with it.

“Ow!” I cry out before I can stop myself, and the next thing I know, both the waiter and Cassidy are running toward me.

“Nikolai!” Cassidy scolds the waiter as she untangles me from the tablecloth. “Why did you put her at one of the dodgy tables? It’s not really a table,” she adds confidingly to me. “We’re a bit short on furniture, so we just whack tablecloths on any old thing. This one’s a bit of board balanced on a couple of towel rails,” she adds, quickly reassembling it. “Clever, isn’t it? Looks just like a table.”

“But what if you need to use it?” I say, bewildered.

“We never do,” Cassidy assures me. “Now, has Simon been to see you? Only he wanted to apologize about the kale—oh, look, there he is.”

Approaching us is a man in his forties with a thinning hairline and a harassed expression, wiping his hands down his brown suit.

“Ms. Worth, I’m Simon Palmer, the manager. Welcome to the Rilston.” He extends a hand and gingerly I take it, wondering what he was wiping on his suit. “And before I say anything else, I would like to apologize.” His face becomes stricken. “Despite our best efforts, we have been unable to source the organic kale that your PA so specifically requested. We hope to receive some today, but I would like to offer you complimentary breakfast this morning as recompense.”

“Don’t worry,” I say hastily. “It’s fine.”

“It is not fine.” He shakes his head mournfully. “It is far from fine. These are not the high standards we expect of ourselves at the Rilston. I made a promise to your PA and I have not fulfilled that promise. We’re also having trouble locating goji berries and …” He looks at Cassidy. “What was the other thing?”

“Noni juice,” says Cassidy. “Sounds rude, doesn’t it?” she adds with a giggle, then claps her hand over her mouth. “Sorry. Unprofessional.”