Bring Me Sunshine

by Laura Kemp

Genres: General Fiction; Women's Fiction

Synopsis

Charlotte Bold is nothing like her name – she is shy and timid and just wants a quiet life. When her job doing the traffic news on the radio in London is relocated to Sunshine FM in Mumbles, she jumps at the chance for a new start in Wales.

But when she arrives she discovers that she's not there to do the travel news – she's there to front the graveyard evening show. And she's not sure she can do it.

Thrust into the limelight, she must find her voice and find a way to cope. And soon she realises that she's not the only person who finds life hard – out there her listeners are lonely too. And her show is the one keeping them going.

Can Charlotte seize the day and make the most of her new home? And will she be able to breathe new life into the tiny radio station too...?

(p) Orion Publishing Group 2019

Release date: March 21, 2019

Publisher: Orion Publishing Group

Print pages: 432

Sample

Prologue

A Friday in February

‘It’s all backing up between junctions six and five anti-clockwise at Clacket Lane services. Avoid it if you can because no one’s going anywhere anytime soon ‒ just like our Charlie Traffic! Next up, it’s Chris Rea with The Road to Hell …’

Charlie Bold placed her meal deal on her desk and declared it was officially lunchtime. Her announcement was not made to the vast and shiny industrial-style open-plan office but to herself, in her head. If no one expected you to speak, no one would be listening. And even if she did talk out loud, she’d never be heard above the banter and egos at Orbital FM, the only radio station dedicated to the M25 motorway.

Besides, for most of the millennials here, their bento boxes and baguettes, salads and wraps were demolished by mid-morning: they were either feeding hangovers, unfamiliar with the concept of delayed gratification or too ‘mad and crazy’ to stick to convention.

Charlie, though, always waited until she was back from the studio’s 1 p.m. bulletin when she handed a script of the latest travel information to the DJ, who’d read it out before the news and weather. With a full stomach she’d be sluggish ‒ when she came anywhere near a bright red ‘on air’ sign, she needed to be alert so she could react to any possible rug-pulling. She knew only too well how tears of bitter disappointment played havoc with the fader button on a broadcasting desk.

Not that she told anyone that was why she stuck to her ritual. Not that anyone really mentioned it any more ‒ it was old gossip. Apart from Zoe, who occasionally dared to make hopeful noises about Charlie possibly going out with her for a bite or deviating from her same daily choice from Boots. But why would Charlie risk having something else and not liking it? She knew where she was with her Simply Ham sandwich, which she now liberated from the cardboard by the nine-times-out-of-ten reliable top left-hand corner.

Next, she perfectly pinched apart a packet of Walkers ready salted crisps and unscrewed a no-bits orange juice, leaving the cap on in case of spillages.

She checked the time on the huge green-figured digital clock on the news desk wall at the far end of the room, noting it was 13.07. As it was every day when she sat down to eat. But she felt neither pleasure nor boredom, just relief. She had been able to do her job satisfactorily minus any unexpected curveballs which would’ve thrown her out of her comfort zone and into danger. Some craved the spotlight but she would rather stay in the safety of the shadows. And that was fine, she told herself as she tucked into the adequate wholemeal sarnie, totally fine, because there was a place for everyone. Even here in competitive dog-savage-dog London. Because while Orbital FM’s award-winning cheeky chatter and bouncy beats ‒ ‘keeping you moving even when your wheels aren’t’ ‒ was the filling, their half a million listeners also tuned in for the four-times-an-hour bread and butter updates of junction closures and tailbacks, accidents and speed restrictions. And that was down to Charlie leading its coverage of all 117 miles of the circular road across 5 counties and 31 junctions.

A slurping sound approached and Charlie saw Zoe wiggling towards her from The Service Station, the kitchen area made up of retro booths, American fridge, posh coffee machine and a NutriBullet. Her scarlet lips were puckered on a straw of just-whizzed murky-brown liquid, signalling a new phase of cleanse that would last as long as the Big Mac she’d wolf down tomorrow.

‘Let me guess, babe,’ Zoe said, her eyebrows disappearing under the bangs of her sleek black shoulder-length bob, ‘Mediterranean roasted eel with pig trotter hummus today, is it?’

Charlie offered her uniform sweet smile. ‘Oh, do piss off,’ she said in a low voice which only her friend could hear.

Zoe cackled more than generously as she slid onto her chair. She understood Charlie wouldn’t dream of talking like that, or of even talking, to anyone else. But then having worked together for eight years, she knew how high Charlie’s rising star had soared, when she was full of life, and how far she had fallen two years ago, how introverted she had become. To the rest, the dynamic twenty-somethings, she was a shy and quiet has-been on the road to nowhere, not to mention ‘ancient’ at thirty-three. She was pitied too for her career collapse, the memory of which still made her toes, legs, in fact her entire body curl with humiliation. If only there was a serum she could apply to her brain like the one she doused on her corkscrew blonde hair before she tied it into a straitjacket of a plait. Mind you, being tucked away in the corner next to media sales, monitoring the jams and crashes, diversions and dropped loads was quite good for that.



She was known as ‘Charlie Traffic’ ‒ a jolly term of affection originally coined by her boyfriend Jonny Kay, the breakfast DJ, which among the go-getters caused hilarity: she was stuck in a rut with the lights permanently on red. And what kind of a freak worked in radio when she was mute in front of a microphone? How had she got away with it for so long? The listeners were in on it too ‒ thanks to the ‘wacky’ jockeys who’d trail her arrival for the traffic news with an oh-so-funny horn-beeping sound effect, which mocked her self-imposed muzzle.



She’d sucked up the ridicule, lucky to still have a job, glad she hadn’t had the shame of having to leave ‒ unlike some people. Sometimes, but no longer, Charlie had thought she should have walked after her meltdown but then what else would she have done? Where would she have gone? Born and bred in Watford, at uni in London where she’d now lived for a decade, she’d never been outside the metropolitan area for longer than a holiday or to see friends. At least she could convince herself she was still in the thick of things and played a vital role. And with Zoe beside her, who’d chosen Charlie’s side when everything had gone so disastrously wrong, she had someone to talk to and joke with. Although sometimes, like now, as Zoe thrust her Psychologies magazine at her, it got a bit much.

‘No, ta,’ Charlie said, sliding it back to her. ‘Personal development isn’t really my thing, is it?’

‘I know,’ Zoe said, arching a groomed eyebrow, ‘that’s why you should try it, babe. I remember when—’

‘Not today, thank you.’ Charlie put her fingers in her ears.

Zoe held up her hands. ‘Suit yourself but I know there’s some fight left in you …’

Charlie shook her head, crunching on her crisps. Nope. Zoe was wrong. Fighting meant you faced up to your fears, which meant you admitted they existed. Denial was much better: it kept anxiety at bay and that was how Charlie wanted to live. She was … happy with that? Happy was the wrong word; she was comfortable with the hand she’d been dealt. Predictable was good enough. End of. Zoe sighed then got up and put on her suit jacket.

‘Right, laters,’ she said. ‘I’ve got to see a man about some tyres. And then I’m on the road all next week visiting M25 attractions in the vain hope someone will cough up for some airtime. Have a good weekend, my darling, I’m on the phone if you need me … Oh, by the way, I might need to call you tomorrow. That guy who I thought was really into me, he’s being coy about tonight after my fat thumbs incident. It doesn’t bode well, does it?’



It didn’t ‒ no matter how much you liked someone, you’d be put off if they’d stalked your Facebook and accidentally ‘liked’ a semi-naked baby photo you’d been tagged in. But she’d wait until Zoe wanted to hear it. ‘Just remember if he isn’t making you feel good then he’s not right for you,’ she said tactfully instead.

Then with a wave goodbye, Charlie sipped her lukewarm OJ, musing at the ridiculous position she was in as chief romantic adviser to not just Zoe but Charlie’s broken-hearted best friend and flatmate, Libby, who’d finished with her boyfriend because he had baulked at the idea of moving in.

Charlie’s love life hadn’t exactly been straightforward ‒ things had got off to a bumpy start with Jonny through a silly but still painful misunderstanding. It’d been over within three months the first time but she had locked that away in a file marked Jonny Come Lately. When they rekindled their relationship, the gear changes didn’t crunch, they were smooth and effortless. Before him, she’d had a few flings with unsuitables ‒ that made her certain Jonny was The One. In nine months they hadn’t had a single argument, they had too many shared interests. She knew people wondered what on earth they had in common: in public he was the party dude with the high-energy personality, his golden boy act matching his hair. In private though he was totally different, less confident and more vulnerable, that was the real him, the twenty-one-hours-a-day Jonny who withdrew when he wasn’t presenting. People thought breakfast DJs were still like the 1990s Chris Evans, turning up drunk to work on no sleep after hanging out with rock stars and supermodels. Some of the big ones perhaps still were, but Jonny was the opposite: uber-professional, his chillaxed exterior built upon the foundations of being bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, well researched, and a bit of acting. Thrilled that he had chosen her, she would blossom when his misted silver-mirror eyes focused on her, letting her have her say when no one else allowed her to finish a sentence. He even developed some of her ideas for his show: the Going The Extra Mile Gongs for everyday hero drivers, Van Man Says talking heads and the Morning Fry-Up showbiz segment which awarded crispy bacon status to cool celebs and cold toast to Z-listers. She was really proud of that, and of him ‒ he was a natural in the limelight, far more so than she had ever been and his success was hers.

While she had grafted away for her success, he’d climbed the ranks quickly; there was no bitterness, she felt she’d passed the baton on to him. Things between them were flawless ‒ they’d got over what had happened on their previous go, the mistakes that had been made, and it felt like a grown-up relationship.

Maybe that was why her friends held her in high agony aunt esteem. As if she was better at being an adult. She had the experience of good following bad and intuitively she could see the grey in black and white situations. And by being a listener rather than a talker, she was certainly good at observing people. Whatever, it at least made her feel useful. She finished her lunch and then let her eyes relax, blocking out the roars from the ‘playground’ area where the lads were racing Grand Prix circuits on the Xbox. Her breathing slowed as she rolled her neck and stared at the reflection of her face in the computer screen. As her vision glazed, she saw herself become two and her mind began to wander ‒ there was the Charlie who she was and the Charlie who she had been: adventurous and perky, going with the flow and letting it roll, from school to uni, from hospital radio to here, where she began as a runner and then worked her way up within a few years to be offered a shift behind the microphone, destined to become the nation’s favourite DJ … the Radio Personality of the Year Charlie Bold … Charlie … CHARLIE!

Her boss, Stig Costello, was calling her. Not ratings-puller Charlie Bold. But the Charlie Bold who’d crumpled when the pressure got too much, who’d been found out, and who did a good line in radio silence. There was no disappointment at her daydream bubble bursting ‒ she had accepted her lot long ago.

‘Got a sec?’ he said from his metal door, where his bald head shone beneath a trendy exposed pipe.

She headed over, her trainers squeaking on the concrete floor, not worried about being summoned to the station manager’s see-through cubicle: he’d just joined on Monday and was in the process of meeting and greeting every member of staff. He’d obviously read her notes and picked her on a Friday afternoon because she’d be amenable and brief. He gave her a solid handshake and pointed at one of the posh white leather sofas before he shut them in, offering her a bottle of sparkling water from his fridge. She refused, out of habit, because fizzy gave her the hiccups ‒ they were the enemy of live broadcasting.

‘So, Charlie …’ he said, sitting down, crossing his legs and poking his heavy square-framed black specs up his nose, ‘… how are things going?’

‘Fine … good.’ She kept it short because she was due to handover to Jessa, her second in command who covered the afternoon and evening shift, plus she had to do a write-up for Billy, who was in the hot seat overnight.

‘Excellent, excellent.’ He arched his fingers in a steeple like a caring, sharing corporate cliché and then leaned forwards to impart his wisdom. ‘Charlie, I’m refreshing the brand to bring it even closer to our audience.’

New station managers ‒ of which there’d been a few in her time ‒ spouted this kind of thing: they wanted to make their mark. Increase listeners and advertising: profits, in other words. So she nodded and thought of her list: her ever-present mental compilation of what she had to do, which kept her focused and gave her a sense of achievement. Parmesan, she’d get that on the way home; it was change-the-sheets night; she’d do her nails afterwards … Meanwhile Stig was droning on about his plan and she caught a few words. ‘RAJAR figures …’ Would she go light or dark? ‘… market trend …’ Plum? Dark grey? ‘… digital share …’ Dark grey, actually, because she had nearly finished the varnish. ‘… changes to personnel …’ She could buy a new polish on Monday when she got her meal deal. ‘… which will affect you.’

‘Sorry?’ Me? What was he talking about? She headed up traffic. Orbital FM was all about traffic.

‘Traffic is going to be incorporated into broadcast roles.’

Oh my God, what? Her stomach lurched. Traffic wasn’t an add-on for amateurs! What if they got their clockwises mixed up with their anti-clockwises? Their northbounds with their southbounds? It was a matter in its own right, not to be bandied about with lining-up guests and collating responses to the phone-in on ‘what’s the most embarrassing thing that’s ever happened to you on the M25?’.

‘We want to make it more human … we’re going to have personalities presenting the traffic.’

She heard a car engine splutter, cough and die. Everyone knew she didn’t go on the airwaves.

‘I’m afraid your position and the department is being made redundant.’

Charlie felt the blood draining from her face and her stomach dropping to her bowels. She tried to slam on the brakes but panic, her old foe, hit the gas pedal. Her heart was racing and the dizziness, oh shit, she felt sick and that took her right back … She blinked hard and swallowed back the bitter taste of ready salted crisps, ham and orange juice. Nine years she had made the position her own ‒ updating the website, the Twitter feed, the Facebook page … she had the Highways Agency and AA on speed dial and she could tell by the way vehicles bunched up on the bank of traffic cameras how long a delay would be. She was the traffic. She’d never complained, not in public anyway, and she was thorough, dedicated, hard-working, all of those things which had been in her annual appraisals. But then her balloon of pride was pricked by the one thing she couldn’t offer. Personality. She shut her eyes and sank, her shoulders dropping as the truth hit her: they didn’t care if she knew her Potters Bar from her Dartford Crossing or her junction 1a from her 15. They wanted a traffic geezer or gal to crack a few gags with the DJ. They wanted her out.

‘You are very welcome to apply for a role and—’

‘No.’ She wasn’t going to put herself through that. Not a chance. ‘What are my options?’

‘Redundancy or a transfer to a sister station.’

He didn’t even try to convince her to rethink. He pushed on, prepared, reaching for a piece of paper on his desk. His eyes ran down the page as he cited a credit controller in Reading, software developer in Glasgow, sound engineer in Chelmsford, sales in Bristol … then he stopped. ‘What about this? Presenter assistant in Swansea. Sunshine FM. Smaller than here, a bit less money, a sideways move but it’s in your field. There are very few openings for your level, I’m afraid. Cuts everywhere. They’ll need to know Monday morning. I can deal with it.’

Stig looked at his watch. Her time was up. It was that simple. It was Wales or nothing.

‘OK,’ she said, beaten.

‘Is the correct answer,’ Stig smiled. ‘You’ve had a good run here.’

By which he meant her lack of charisma had caught up with her. She couldn’t argue back ‒ hadn’t she always expected that?

She got to her feet, her head trailing behind as if she was going the wrong way on a roundabout. Tears filled her eyes and she walked through a kaleidoscope of faces to her desk, where she spent the rest of her shift in shock. No one noticed any difference from her normal behaviour. When she left on jellied legs, her brain was so numb she barely registered the icy blast of the February afternoon at the bus stop and she spent the journey in an anaesthetised state, her head resting against the greasy window of the bus from Hayes to Fulham. She managed a shaky text to Jonny ‒ he was so sorry and he’d cancel Pilates if she’d like … But no, she just wanted to be alone. Charlie made it on autopilot to her front step where she scrambled with her keys, unable to recognise the right one. Libby must’ve heard her because the door of the grand Georgian two-bed ground-floor flat opened. Thank God she’d made it home to her sanctuary ‒ to their apartment which they’d shared for ten years, having been friends since their media studies degree days. This was her cocoon, a safe haven that would hold her tight for as long as she needed. Charlie felt guilty for a moment because she was only thinking of herself, knowing she wouldn’t be kicked out because Libby was single again. It was too early to consider living with Jonny: they had all the time in the world together. And she hadn’t farted in front of him yet.

‘Libby,’ she croaked. Then she saw James behind her, his upright civil servant figure in the hallway. Libby’s ex. And they were both beaming. A hand went up in front of her eyes ‒ Libby was wearing a ring. A diamond.

‘He came to his senses! He’s proposed! He’s moving in!’ she said, leaping onto Charlie, oblivious to her distress. ‘If it wasn’t for you telling me to let him stew! We’re going to the pub to celebrate. Coming?’

‘Brilliant! Amazing!’ she tried. ‘But I can’t.’ In a robotic voice, she explained into Libby’s tumbling red hair, ‘I’ve got defrosted spaghetti bolognese. It has to be eaten tonight.’

Libby burst out laughing and Charlie was being lifted off the floor in a hug which James joined. This was hell ‒ she was in an engagement sandwich of ecstasy and she couldn’t breathe.

‘You are funny!’ Libby said, letting her go, only now seeing Charlie’s blotchy face. ‘Shit, are you OK?’

‘I’ve lost my job.’ And by the looks of it, her home too. Then, the horrible realisation: the geographical distance could also threaten things with Jonny. This was the most terrifying moment of her life yet: her foundations had crumbled and the fluffy duck-down duvet of her comfort zone had been ripped off, exposing her to the elements.

‘Oh, mate, oh no, what happened? Come and tell me in the pub,’ Libby said, grabbing a coat off the peg then threading her arm through Charlie’s. ‘Come on.’

But Charlie couldn’t move. ‘My spag bol. If I don’t eat it tonight I’ll have to throw it away.’

‘What?’ Libby took a step back and looked at her. Then she guffawed. A second later she realised Charlie wasn’t joining in. ‘Are you being serious? You are being serious.’ Her voice softened as concern took over. ‘Charlie, it’s not important.’

‘It is,’ she said, allowing herself to be led into the lounge. ‘That’s what I’ve planned.’

Libby guided her to the sofa and crouched to her knees so they were at eye level. ‘Plans can change, you know,’ she said with kindness.

Charlie said nothing, even though inside she was roaring; she didn’t want the plans to change, she didn’t want life to happen to her. She wanted things to stay the same, to remain in control. Spontaneity was the enemy: it made the horizon dip and rise and she wanted it to be flat and true. Navigable and constant.

‘Look, listen, you’ll be OK. I know you’re scared. But … maybe this is what you need? Things can’t go on like this forever.’

‘Why not?’ she sobbed, breaking down.

‘Because they can’t. Because that’s life. And good things can happen if you let them. Charlie, you can’t tell me you’re happy living like this? You’ve been like this for too long.’

Libby rubbed her back and folded her into her arms, letting Charlie cry until her weeping became a shaky whimper.

‘I’ve lost everything. In one day,’ she sniffed, wiping her nose on the cuff of her waterproof sleeve. ‘It’s either reapply for a new role but I’d have to go on the radio, redundancy or a transfer to Swansea. I don’t know anything about Swansea … only that it’s at junctions forty-four and forty-five on the M4.’ Christ, I’m so dull even in the midst of chaos, Charlie thought. ‘If I take the pay-off, how long will that last? I can’t afford not to work.’

‘I can ask around,’ Libby said. ‘But the BBC isn’t exactly expanding.’

‘I’m going to be miles from everyone, from you, from Jonny.’

‘We’ll still be here! And if you’re meant to be, you two will survive the long-distance thing. Or,’ she said, biting her lip so Charlie knew what was coming, ‘you could tackle your demons? Reapply at Orbital. Could be less of an upheaval. Easier than going to Wales?’

‘Absolutely not,’ she said, violently. ‘No way.’

‘It’s just confidence. Because you never shut up at home, you’ve got to conquer this at some point or—’

Charlie ignored her. ‘This is hopeless. This is my worst nightmare. How did this happen?’

Suddenly, Libby’s jaw dropped open. ‘Oh my God, do you remember when we did those lists?’

Ten years ago when Charlie had flown the nest, got herself a waitress job and was volunteering at hospital radio, before moving into Libby’s flat, bought thanks to the bank of her mum and dad, they’d been different people.

‘The things we said we’d do by the time we were thirty. You said you were going to live abroad! You could tick that off if you went to Wales!’

‘I also said I’d be a breakfast DJ, I’d own my own place and be planning my barefoot beach wedding.’

‘Yeah, well, I said I’d be a foreign correspondent in some war-torn region. The closest I get is introducing the news at ten,’ she said in perfect Home Counties received pronunciation. ‘There’s not much call for continuity announcers in flak jackets. But my point is, you need a new list. Not a shopping list or one of your to-do lists. One with new goals. Because you can do this. You can take a chance. You can seize the day if you want to.’

‘In Swansea?’ Charlie buried her face in her hands.

‘Why don’t you go and then while you’re there look for something else back here? Try it. I know you like to be the one giving out the advice but perhaps it’s time you took some instead?’

There it was: the often-mentioned hint that Charlie was blind only to her own dilemmas, which was absolutely not true: she knew what she had to do.

‘Look … you two go to the pub, I’ll get myself sorted here. I’m so chuffed for you, really, it’s brilliant and I’m so sorry I’ve brought you down … I’ll pop along later, maybe. Or call Jonny.’ She would do neither.



After ten minutes of convincing Libby, Charlie was trying to come to terms with the future as an unknown quantity. She’d had it all mapped out, her days timetabled precisely so she could avoid anything which would cause her uncertainty. Choir on a Monday night, Jonny over on a Wednesday and Saturday, drinks with Libby on a Thursday, brunch at The Brasserie and housework on Sundays. Of course, it had been pointed out to her that by planning everything to the exact second meant she wasn’t planning for the long term at all: what about going for promotion, buying a place? Especially at her age … But that involved risk and thinking on her feet ‒ and look what had happened when she’d done that. Order and self-regulation had saved her. Or at least, she thought it had. The only guarantee she had now was a bowl of reheated pasta. Beyond that, she was no longer in the driving seat but a passenger of anxiety. In her room, she pulled the curtains, got into her tartan fleece pyjamas, changed the sheets ‒ it was Friday after all ‒ and crawled into bed to feel the weight of her covers and switched on Friends. And as the light fell, she saw there was only one way of coping. She’d get through this blip ‒ which it would be, because there was no way she was going to leave London for good ‒ by considering Wales as more of the same. More proof she was a failure. At least she knew how to do that.









1

‘Keep those brollies handy because it’s raining cats and Welsh corgis. But as long as you stay with Sunshine FM, the sun will always be shining!’

The number 2A bus leaving Swansea’s concrete city centre was destined for Mumbles.

If ever there was a bad omen, this was it. On the bright side though, being barely audible, Charlie would fit right in, she thought as she went halfway up to an aisle seat.

The air onboard smelt of wet dog, courtesy of the torrential downpour which hadn’t let up since she’d arrived last night. She buried her nose into her scarf that she’d sprinkled with lavender oil for keeping-calm reasons. Of which there were many: top of her list were first-day nerves at Sunshine FM. Meeting new people, not knowing where the loo was, getting to grips with her job, finding somewhere to buy a ham sandwich, the prospect of getting lost … all that and a wealth of uncharted variables which could reduce her to a quivering mess. Beneath that was the underlying bottomless terror of the unknown which had tormented her over the last four weeks. She was exhausted from the fight or flight reflex which made sleep so difficult. She’d tried warm milk and hot baths, placing the junctions of the M25 in alphabetical order and doing it backwards, but it was usually 2 a.m. before she dozed off. And then she’d wake herself up with a jerk at five, suddenly remembering her crisis. Because she’d looked and looked for jobs in London, but there was nothing suitable. Something wouldn’t ‘turn up’, not in time to pay the rent anyway: Swansea was all there was. At work, she’d struggled through, barely touching her meal deal, her adrenalin spiking and biting every time someone gave her a look of sympathy or a smirk. Her duties fell away from her as she retrained the three bullish replacements who began to turn to her colleagues, Jessa and Billy, who’d decided they wanted to be part of the revolution.

On her last day, she cleared her desk with trembling fingers, then told Zoe she was nipping to the loo before the inevitable presentation of a farewell present ‒ and slipped out. Just as painful was packing up her possessions and storing them at Mum and Dad’s, having to face their barely concealed concern over what the hell was going to happen to her. The pressure of two pairs of hopeful eyes on her was immense: she was an only child and felt she had to succeed for them, not just herself. ‘You’ll be back before you know it, love!’ Mum had said as Dad chipped in unhelpfully, ‘Think of it as an adventure!’

Charlie didn’t do adventure though. Nor temporary. And therein was another worry: she wasn’t used to living out of a holdall and forging superficial relationships. Pep talks from Libby and Zoe, God love them, were filled with Facebook clichés ‒ feel the fear and do it anyway ‒ of which she had an interminable loathing.

Both of them had offered to wave her off from Paddington yesterday but she’d refused ‒ she’d had to pretend she’d taken their motivational quotes on board because she didn’t want them worrying. And she’d pooped enough all over Libby’s party. She’d been reassured there’d always be a bed for her but she’d heard them discussing turning Charlie’s hideaway into ‘the spare room’. As for Zoe, she was back on Tinder and had two dates lined up that afternoon.

It was Jonny she’d needed to get her on board. He understood she could never put herself in front of a microphone again. He had agreed emphatically that she had to go to Wales ‒ a blank CV would ruin her chances of ever coming back to London. Swansea would be the means to an end and their relationship would endure. They’d have weekends: he’d swap his Friday Pilates for a week night so they could be together. And then once this blip was over, they could plan their future of homemade toasted granola and weekend walks in the park. She was so grateful he hadn’t reacted with a wild ‘move in with me’ pledge. Jonny understood the practicalities of life: his flat was too small for two and she needed to earn her own money. Equals i