Page 1 of Starting Over in Starshine Cove
ONE
Summer, twenty-five years ago
I’m driving too fast. I know I am, but I don’t seem able to slow down. My foot feels like it’s stuck on the gas pedal, the engine is roaring, and the brake seems like a distant land.
I need to slow down.
I push the pedal a bit harder, and I go even faster. This, I think, laughing as I zoom past a Porsche Carrera, is the story of my life – knowing I should be doing one thing, and actually doing the opposite.
I’m so tired. I haven’t slept properly for days, and I haven’t eaten solid food for almost as long. I was working in the restaurant until the early hours, then went clubbing with people I barely know – because it seemed like a good idea at the time.
The club was awful, all neon lights and coked-up monsters, the music a tuneless attack on my eardrums. I should have gone home, but I danced my way through it.
I went straight from there to a business meeting with my agent, and the TV producer who is offering me a slot on his new reality show. Celebrity head judge, at your service. I don’t think they were put off by my appearance – a skin-tight pink mini-dress and last night’s make-up. In fact, I saw the producer’s eyes light up as I wandered in clutching an iced coffee, sucking desperately on the straw. I looked like a train wreck – I am a train wreck – and maybe he thinks that will make good television. Me with a hangover, telling wannabe chefs where they went wrong with their bouillabaisse.
He’s a good-looking guy, Zack the producer – long hair, broad shoulders, glasses that give him a touch of intellect. We’ve always flirted whenever we’ve met; there’s a spark there for sure. Even in my fatigued post-clubbing state, I winked at him as I blustered my way into the room. He gave me the kind of lop-sided grin that would normally make my heart beat faster. But that day it just confirmed what I already suspected – my heart is pretty much dead these days.
My agent, Sal, just shook her head. She’s used to me by now. Used to the crazy nights and panda eyes and the fact that I’m late for everything. I think she’d like to kick my arse, but there’s too much money at stake – the TV show, the recipe book, the tour. I’d like to kick my own arse, but that’s too much trouble.
I left the meeting with an even bigger deal than I walked in with – so much money it makes my eyes swivel. I should’ve been happy. I should’ve been thrilled – I have everything I’ve ever wanted. Everything I’ve ever worked for.
None of it helped. None of it made me feel less empty inside. Not the Michelin star, or the big-name endorsements, or the possibility of seeing my own stupid face plastered over billboards and TV screens. Not the men, or the cash, or the fact that I was winning at life. Technically, at least.
I swaggered out of the TV offices and went shopping in Mayfair. Spent a small fortune on a new handbag and some killer heels to add to the dozens I already have. Realised that I had nobody to tell about my TV deal, that nobody in my life would care unless there was something in it for them.
I went home to my swanky flat in Kensington and tried to sleep. Still in last night’s clothes, still in the make-up. My hair is naturally blonde and curly, but I’d had it straightened the day before. When I woke up from a restless half-hour nap, it was rebelling, and my head was the size of a planet stuck on top of my skinny body. For someone who cooks for a living, I’m not very good at eating.
I stared at the mirror, hating what I saw so much that I went into the kitchen, got one of my fancy Le Creuset pans, and threw it at the glass. I didn’t look any worse when it shattered – in fact the crooked fun-house version of me was closer to how I was feeling inside.
After that, I got in the car. It’s a nice car, German, a sleek machine built for eating up the miles on an autobahn. It’s the kind of car that a person like me most definitely shouldn’t have. Right now, I’m proving that by heading into my third hour of relentless driving. I have no idea where I am, no idea how I got here, no idea what time or day it is. I’m going so fast I feel like Sandra Bullock inSpeed, but at twice the MPH.
I’m driving too fast, and I need to slow down.
I’m on a busy A-road, surrounded by people who are far more sensible than me. I spot a big seven-seater packed with kids – mum and dad up front, children between the ages of maybe three and ten in the back. The dad gives me a worried look, and one of the boys sticks his tongue out at me through the window.
I return the gesture, and wonder what that would be like. To not be driving too fast. To be driving sensibly, with a bald husband who looks like the kind of man who could build flat-pack furniture, raising a gaggle of offspring. It would be nice, I think, blinking my sore eyes rapidly to try and clear them of the tiredness. Nice, but not for me.
I zig-zag across into their lane, tucking myself behind them. I see their hazard lights flash on, realise that I’m too close. That I am almost touching their bumper.
I need to slow down – not just for my sake. I can’t hurt anyone – the only person I hurt is myself. I don’t want to crash into that family, ruin their holiday or maybe their entire life. I need to remove my disaster zone from this busy place, from these busy people, before I infect them.
I see a turning coming up on the left. There is no sign, and I have no idea where I am going – as usual these days. I have been ambitious and determined my whole life, taking every challenge that the universe threw at me and turning it into a strength. Surviving my childhood, for one. Managing my first restaurant by the time I was twenty-one. The first Michelin star at twenty-six. Now, at thirty, I have even more – and none of it makes me happy. I am driving too fast because I need to escape my own life.
I twist the steering wheel, taking the mystery turn while I’m still in third gear. The engine shrieks, the tyres skid, and I barely keep control as I rocket down the road. It’s quiet, no other traffic. No other potential victims. I stare ahead through the sunlight, seeing a glittering patch of turquoise blue sea at the bottom of the steep hill. I wonder how far away it is, and whether I’ll be able to brake in time to avoid it. My next challenge.
Foot on the pedal, I wind the windows down and feel the breeze on my face. The speed should be exhilarating, but I barely notice the blur of my surroundings. I am in my metal cocoon, and the rest doesn’t matter.
Faster and faster I go, only realising quite how fast when I see a cat run into the road. Right in front of me. A black one, which is either good or bad luck depending on your superstition.
“Shit!” I yell, swerving to avoid it. I can’t kill a cat. I’ve already broken a mirror, and what if this cat has already used upeight of its lives? I am many things, most of them bad, but I am not a cat murderer.
The next few minutes are a riot of noise, panic, and a brief feeling of weightlessness as the car seems to fly, and my body is lifted up beneath the seatbelt. I am scared, but I am still laughing – right up until the point where I black out.
I don’t know how long I am out for, but when I regain consciousness, I am being smothered by a now-deflating airbag. When I bought the car it came as a fancy option and cost more money, so of course I said yes to it. Now, I think, batting it aside with weak hands, it has possibly saved my life. I have no idea how I feel about that. If I could go back in time, to that day in the car showroom, would I still choose it? Have things really got that bad?
My seatbelt won’t come loose no matter how many times I click it, and all I can see through the windscreen is dirt. It appears that I am stuck in a ditch. This definitely never happened to Sandra Bullock.
I feel a bit battered, and pretty bruised, but mainly I feel frustrated – because now I am not going too fast. I am going nowhere. I shake my head to try and clear the mist, and realise that I am bleeding from my scalp. I’m a chef, I’m used to cuts, and blood doesn’t bother me – not a night goes by that we don’t crack open the first-aid case. I rub my hair clear of my eyes, and my fingers come away red. Huh.
