Chapter 1
As we pull into the station the horde of commuters become so eager to alight that I’m squished further into the door, legs digging into the hard lines of my suitcase, which I may have overstuffed with books for the trip. Why does rush hour turn people into monsters?
After a tediously long wait, the train doors slide open and I am unceremoniously popped out onto the platform like a slice of hot toast, a tangle of limbs and luggage.
‘Sorry!’ I call, pausing to rub my sore legs as people in suits sidestep my case with varying degrees of irritation across their faces.
In hindsight, did I really need to wake up before dawn to catch the first train up to Newcastle?
Probably not, but I was way too excited about the next seven days to show any form of restraint.
A spa break! With my two best friends!
Who cares if I’m *checks time* literally hours too early to check in? This is just the start of my great big escape and I intend to make the most of every last second of it.
Positively giddy, I pause to admire the station. I love train stations! (Just me? Probably.) The constant ting of announce-ments. The clack-clack of wheels on the track. The dramatic architecture. The . . . pigeons.
‘Bugger off out the way, will you?’ This huff comes from a disgruntled man in pinstripes as he barges past.
‘You will not dampen my spirit!’ I reply exuberantly, although I do also move out of the way, because no one wants to be the moron causing obstructions in the train station.
I roll my shoulders back and make my way, with purpose, to the taxi rank. There’s a snaking queue, which I join, and while I’m there I take the opportunity to appreciate the beautiful building. Grade 1 listed! Opened by Queen Victoria in 1850!
And then I feel something wet land on my shoulder. Did someone just waterbomb me? I look around in shock, my shoulder suddenly very, very wet. No one looks suspicious. And, I look up to see it’s not raining.
But there is a shady-looking pigeon flying overhead and I don’t like the cut of his gib.
On inspection the wet patch is, indeed, bird poo. I glare at the pigeon, who, unbothered by my menacing gaze, has now landed and started to peck at a pile of dried vomit.
Thankfully, the queue moves quickly and I’m soon being beck-oned into a shiny blue car by a man in a baseball cap shouting, ‘Alreet, pet’ in my direction.
‘Hello!’ I say cheerily as I slide into the backseat.
‘Just watch that seat,’ he cautions, pointing. ‘My last punters were mortal.’
I follow his gaze to yet another wet patch, this time on the seat next to mine. Today is shaping up to be a total stain-fest.
‘Mortal as in . . . human beings?’ I’m confused.
‘Totally steaming drunk,’ he explains. ‘I picked them up after they’d gan doon toon.’
‘So that is . . . ’ My eyes track nervously back to the wet patch.
‘Puke,’ he confirms cheerfully. ‘Don’t you worry, pet, I’ve had the bleach on it. Good as new. But still a bit wet so you’d be better staying over that side. I’m Carl. Where are we going today, pet?’
For the briefest moment, I waver. Where am I going?
I mean, I know the literal answer to that, it’s a hotel by the coast that Stella has booked.
The hotel that I can’t wait to get to, but the one that secretly, somewhere in the back of my head, I’m also a little worried I’m running away to.
With everything that’s been going on at home, should I really be escaping right now?
Covered, as I am, in both coffee and poo.
Surrounded, as I am, by the smell of bleach-soaked vomit. Are these omens?
I shake off those thoughts immediately. Of course not! I need this break and omens aren’t real . . . are they? No!
‘Hi, Carl, I’m Jess.’ I beam. ‘And we’re off to the Gurnard Cove hotel, please.’
Carl whistles appreciatively. ‘Fancy.’
‘I know!’ I nod enthusiastically. ‘My best friend booked it.’
Stella, with her kick-ass job in the charity sector, is so well connected that she’s somehow managed to get the three of us a reservation at this insane-looking spa hotel on the coast before it’s even properly open, with a huge discount.
The place has its own vineyard for heaven’s sake!
It’s all very much not the kind of holiday I would normally be able to afford.
Last summer I booked a flat close to the beach at Camber Sands on the South Coast for my ex and me, only for Otis to announce when we got there that he ‘hates sand’.
The clue was in the title, I churlishly pointed out to him, but Otis claimed he’d been too busy working to pay attention to our holiday destination beforehand.
All to say: our seaside trip was mostly tarmac-based.
I’d imagined walking hand in hand along the beach at sunset with the sand beneath our feet.
Not sitting in Otis’s car in the car park with the windows firmly shut ‘admiring the view without any of the mess’.
Now that I’ve created a little bit of distance from my ex-boyfriend I can see how ludicrous that all was, and I stifle a giggle at the ridiculousness of Otis.
Honestly, what was I thinking?
‘So, what do you do then, pet?’ Carl asks as he pulls off.
‘I’m a journalist,’ I reply, glad for the nudge to stop thinking of the disaster that was my ex.
‘I’d better watch what I say, then!’ He laughs at his joke.
I get this reaction a lot. Mention the word ‘journalist’ and people assume I’ve got my phone already recording, ready to fire off questions and take down their life story.
The reality is, my job as digital editor of a small-town newspaper is less about breaking exclusives, celebrity gossip and politicians’ scandals and more about interviewing local farmers about the literal price of milk.
‘I’m sure you’ve got some stories to tell.
’ I smile at Carl in the rear-view mirror, resplendent with fluffy dice, and he promptly tells me all of them.
I remember enough from the media law course I took to know that I categorically cannot repeat any of it, for fear of being sued for defamation.
Suffice to say, hoo boy, does Carl have some good stories.
I’m bobbing along in the back, shouting out a thrilled ‘no way’ and ‘what the heck?’ every now and then as we glide out of the city and across to the coast. It seems Carl has managed to pick up every famous person who has ever set foot in the North East and every single one of them has been indiscreet.
I’m obsessed. ‘I had that girl with the croissants in my car just yesterday,’ he says.
‘No!’
‘Aye!’
‘Took her to Gurnard Cove too.’ He smiles at me.
‘Oh my gosh, no,’ I repeat. ThatGirlWithTheCroissants (literally her exact social media handle) is a massive influencer.
Naturally I follow her, along with six hundred thousand other people.
She’s the same age as me but she’s got an amazing wardrobe, her own pastry-themed beauty brand and a ginormous following to boot.
She also loves croissants and her USP is that there’s usually something croissant-related happening in her posts.
We’re talking croissant-shaped earrings, her trademark stacked rings with pastries on them, sometimes she even pulls out a knitted croissant as a prop for photos.
I cannot believe I’m going to be staying at the same hotel as she is! I head straight to the group chat.
You will not believe this news . . .
ThatGirlWithTheCroissants is staying at our hotel!
Em starts tapping back immediately.
I met her once
How didn’t we know this?
What was she like?
Vapid LOL poor thing
Anyway who’s ready for their Saturn Returns Vacation
Stella is typing . . .
Must we call it that
What’s wrong with spa break
Or, you know, plain old holiday
Em writes:
Don’t be a naysayer Stella, this trip is all about our Saturn Returns baby!
I let out a snort.
‘Y’alreet, pet?’ asks Carl.
‘Sorry,’ I splutter. ‘It’s just one of my best friends is big into astrology and has decided that this trip will be all about our Saturn Return. And I, well, I guess you’d say the other friend and I aren’t big believers in the zodiac.’
‘What’s a Saturn Return when it’s at home?’ asks Carl.
It’s a valid question.
‘Well, Carl,’ I say, adopting a schoolmarm-ish tone.
‘It takes Saturn around twenty-nine years to orbit the sun, which means that every twenty-nine years or so, we experience a major period of change.’ If I sound like I’m reading from a fact book, it’s because Em has been bombarding us with astrological concepts since we met, and grilling us on this particular phenomenon for the past few months.
For such a sweet human being, she gets quite cross if we get anything wrong.
‘So your Saturn Return happens when the planet lands in the same place in the sky as it was when you were born. It creates an exact snapshot of the sky on your birth day.’
‘Riiiiight,’ says Carl. ‘So . . . ?’
‘So, many people see their Saturn Return as an astrological coming of age, Carl. According to my friend Em, the three of us should all be expecting big things because we’re all twenty-nine.’
‘Big things, eh?’
‘Yes.’ I nod sagely. ‘We’re talking milestones, break-ups, make-ups, big career decisions, unexpected shake-ups.
You name it, it could happen. If you believe in all that, obvs.
Me and Stella don’t, but Em is insisting that this week away will be in celebra-tion of our Saturn Return and if it means that the three of us get to spend some much-needed time together, then I’m more than happy to go along with it. ’
‘Three best friends spending seven days in a posh hotel during an astrological coming of age?’ Carl whistles. ‘Sounds like things could get interesting.’