Page 1 of One Week in Paradise
Chapter One
My best friend has just bought a house.
My phone doesn’t stop buzzing as she bombards our chat with photos and videos. I groan and shove my phone under my pillow. Sorry, Amber, but there are only so many heart-eye emojis I can send in a row. Does that make me a bad friend? Probably. Just another thing to add to the ever-growing list of things I’m bad at. Just like dancing, swimming, relationships, and unfortunately,my job.
Do I even have a job anymore? Hm. Debatable. Dad says I’ve never had a job, but he’s always been like that. Mum used to be supportive, but I think that well has officially run dry.
Can you blame her? I’m twenty-seven years old and back in my childhood bedroom. Though I suppose I can’t even call it that anymore. Mum and Dad have been using it as an office slash gym slash storage room for the last five years.Cardboard boxes take up most of the floor space, and there’s a treadmill in the corner with a thin layer of dust over it. The only things that remain from my tenure in here are my bed (now far too small – my feet are hanging off the end) and a Harry Styles poster I superglued to the wall when I was sixteen.
My phone buzzes again, and I resist the urge to fling it out the window.
God. How is this my life? Three months ago, I was living my very best life in London. I had my own riverside apartment, I was constantly on the go, my wardrobe was brimming with designer clothes, and I had a boyfriend who adored me.
Now I’m back living at my parents’ house. I haven’t stepped foot outside in a week, I’m living out of a pile of suitcases, and don’t even get me started on the whole boyfriend thing. Life comes at you fast.
The buzzing finally starts to get to me. I grab my phone.
AMBER
37 new messages
I hover over our chat but then decide against opening it. Instead, I reflexively launch Instagram and immediately regret it – 230,000 followers. Last week it was 235,000. I’m losing followers at breakneck speed, and I don’t know how to fix it.
In case you haven’t guessed yet, I’m an influencer. Or should that be, ‘Iusedto be an influencer’?
I was pretty good at it too. Don’t get me wrong, I wasn’t on Kim K or Molly Mae’s level or anything like that, but I was doing pretty well for myself. I had a pretty decent and engaged following, and I had a long list of brands who were fighting to work with me. And they paid really well too. Enough for my expensive apartment in the city, multiple international trips a year, and pretty much anything else I wanted.
But that’s all gone now. And all it took was one 45-second video. My stomach churns as I remember The Video. It’s been three months, but I can’t get it out of my head. I’ve committed every last painful second to memory, and it plays on a loop in my mind whenever I have a quiet moment.
‘Bailey?’
For once, the sound of Mum’s shrill voice yelling my name doesn’t annoy me. It’s a welcome distraction from The Video.
‘Bailey, come down and eat something! I’ve made some sandwiches for lunch.’ A pause, and then, ‘You can’t stay in there all day, you know?’
Part of me – a very big part of me – wants to prove her wrong. Icanstay in here all day. I’m safe in my room, far away from Mum’s worried stare and Dad’s judgemental gaze. But then my stomach grumbles, and I know I’m fighting a losing battle.
‘Coming!’ I yell back. ‘Give me five minutes.’ I roll out of bed and rush into the bathroom opposite my room. It’s a mess in here. Must remember to give it a clean before I give Mum something else to complain about.God. It’s like I’m sixteen all over again.
I splash some water on my face and recoil as I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror. I look awful. My long dark-brown curls are tangled and matted like a bird’s nest, my eyes are bloodshot, and my cheeks look swollen from all the crying. It’s no wonder Ethan hasn’t tried to contact me.
That horrible feeling in the pit of my stomach is back as my thoughts drift to Ethan. My boyfriend. Myex-boyfriend.
Nope! I will not let my mind dwell on Ethan or The Video. Not if I can help it. I splash some more water on my face and quickly brush my teeth. I do what I can with my hair (hint: not much) and settle for pulling it into a messy bun before I slope downstairs.
‘Ah, she has arisen!’ Dad says as we pass in the hallway. He pretends to look shocked. ‘I was about five minutes away from coming up there to check your pulse.’
‘Ha ha,’ I deadpan. ‘Good morning to you too.’
‘It’s gone midday,’ he says, following me into the kitchen. ‘You can’t spend all day in bed, Bailey. You need to get out there and find a job.’
‘I have a job,’ I say through gritted teeth. And it’s true. Iam technically still an influencer. It’s just that, for reasons outside my control, I don’t currently have the ability to influence anyone.
‘You need a job that pays,’ Dad says curtly. ‘If you’re going to stay here, I need to see you trying.’
I blink back tears and avoid his gaze by rifling through the cupboards to find my favourite tea blend – wild berry. How can he not see I’m trying? That I’vebeentrying?
Even before this whole mess happened, Dad was never supportive of my influencer career. He wanted me to go to university and study medicine, just like he did. I had the grades for it, but I was never passionate about it.
