Chapter One
Van Life with Benefits
I slipped the final protein bar into my emergency snack pouch, zipped up my bag, and exhaled. Three whole weeks off.
No clients. No Slack pings every time I blinked. No Greg from finance and his passive-aggressive masterpiece emails (“Per my last message…”).
It was time for a holiday. A reset. Time to recover and be someone who was absolutely not answering phone calls or pitching ideas or being across this for once.
Just me, the open road, and a sleek, modern campervan with all the comforts of home.
I stood barefoot on the cool, tiled floor of my Perth City apartment, traffic humming ten storeys below like a distant soundtrack. The place wasn’t huge, but it was mine, all pale wood, cosy linen, and the kind of minimalist décor that I hoped whispered, successful woman with taste.
Books lined the shelves, aspirational ones mostly, alongside succulents that had somehow survived both a heatwave and a few weeks with no watering.
My walls were dotted with art I’d collected over the years, small, meaningful prints and paintings by local artists that reminded me of when I was younger, and before everything got so… busy.
The scent of jasmine from my oil diffuser hung in the air, clashing a little with the lingering smell of strong coffee, brewed that morning in my beloved stovetop espresso maker. A ritual I’d convinced myself was soothing, though I’ll admit it occasionally bordered on performance art.
My bedroom, on the other hand, currently looked like the aftermath of a highly strategic heist. Colourful packing cubes, underwear in one, chargers and cables in another, and a first-aid kit so meticulously primed it would put paramedics to shame, were all arranged with military precision.
Old habits. Once you’ve spent a decade in marketing, everything gets systemised, optimised, future proofed.
Even rest.
Folded printed maps lay beside it all, scenic routes highlighted in neon yellow and green, and annotated with notes like best coffee, avoid dirt roads, and sunset photo here.
My itinerary was practically laminated and had backup plans, detour contingencies, and emergency exits worthy of a NASA launch.
I glanced at my reflection in the hallway mirror. My sleek dark ponytail seemed far too composed for someone who’d just survived a week of back-to-back meetings, pitch rehearsals, and a three-a.m. caffeine-fuelled crisis summit.
I’d decided to wear my high-waisted linen shorts and a crisp white tee I’d ironed twice, despite knowing full well it would wrinkle before I even left the apartment. My waiting sneakers were practical, spotless, and travel vlogger approved.
After ten minutes of agonising deliberation in the mirror, I’d accepted my fate. I was tired. The kind of tired that came from too many late-night emails and not enough REM sleep.
My eyes were ringed with shadows that even my best concealer couldn't erase, and my jaw clenched like it was holding back the weight of an entire boardroom. But behind all of that was a glimmer of excitement. A flicker of something reckless and unfamiliar.
I was really doing this. The van, the road, and three weeks of coastline.
I’d just wedged the last of my packing cubes into my suitcase when my phone buzzed on the bench.
It was Anna. My personal assistant, therapist, and best friend.
“Dan’s been sending a lot of emails this morning. He’s really pushing for your notes before you leave.”
I let out a breath through my nose, fingers already flying across the screen. “Tell him I’m officially out of office. No exceptions.”
A minute later, my phone rang. Dan.
The name lit up my screen like a flare.
My thumb hovered.
Don’t answer it, Lara. You’ve earned this.
But I could already hear his voice, urgent and pinched, echoing through my mind.
I answered, forcing myself to sound light-hearted. “Hey, Dan. I’m on holiday, remember?”
A pause. Then the plea: “I know, Lara, I’m sorry. But the Johnson campaign deck, last-minute change. Client wants the revised version today. Can you just… review it? Please?”
I rubbed my temples, suddenly finding the diffuser far less soothing than it had been five minutes earlier. Dan technically outranked me, though only just — unfortunately, just was enough. Add in the fact that we were both circling the same Big Promotion and saying no felt… unwise.
“Fine,” I said. “Send it through.”
Within seconds, an email notification pinged.
Subject line: URGENT – Client Feedback.
I looked at it for a long moment, genuinely weighing up whether hurling my phone into the sink would count as self-care. I opened my laptop and muttered, “Well. So much for my peaceful morning.”
My fingers flew without consulting my brain, bouncing between PDFs and drafts, softening things here, smoothing things there, trying to make it all sound perfectly reasonable.
Forty-five minutes of overthinking, politely masquerading as “just sending a quick reply.” Another fifteen spent rereading it, as I’d lost all faith in my own eyesight.
Finally, I hit send.
The message whooshed off with all the ceremony of a cannonball. I closed the laptop with a snap that felt almost violent. A full stop in hardware form.
I exhaled, sat back, and muttered, more firmly to myself this time, “Now I’m on holiday. Officially.”
I zipped up my bag with a determined tug and stepped back to assess the scene. Alongside my handbag, I had one wheeled suitcase, one duffel slung over my shoulder (like a seasoned adventurer), and a small backpack I was going to use for any day trips.
A final sweep of the apartment.
Goodbye desk.
Farewell, stack of client briefs.
Adieu alarm clock.
I locked the door behind me and headed down to the Uber I’d ordered waiting out front. The driver glanced in the rear-view mirror as I slid in. “Heading off somewhere fun?”
“Three weeks up the coast,” I said, trying to sound breezy. “A solo campervan trip.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Brave.”
I laughed, unsure if he meant the solo travel, the distance, or the idea of willingly spending twenty-one days in a confined metal box on wheels. Probably all of the above.
The ride was quiet, save for the sound of the wheels on the freeway and my growing list of mental reminders.
Stop for decent coffee before leaving town. Just because I was leaving civilization didn’t mean I had to abandon basic human rights.
Don’t forget to reset the email autoreply to something firmer. No, Dan, still not checking my inbox.
The car sped along the freeway, sunlight flickering across the window as I scrolled through the campervan website on my phone again. I’d already memorised every image of my home for the next few weeks, but I couldn’t help it, it was addictive, like travel porn.
Each photo promised the kind of freedom I hadn’t felt in years.
Crisp white interiors, fairy lights strung like a promise, a neatly folded throw blanket on a bench seat that resembled a scene from a Pottery Barn catalogue.
There was even a potted plant sitting on a floating shelf, purely decorative, obviously, but it made my heart flutter anyway.
When we pulled into the campervan hire depot, I felt my first proper wave of excitement, sharp and unexpected, like a hiccup in my chest.
This was it.
The beginning of my great escape. Freedom on four wheels driving along the beautiful Western Australian coastline. A temporary life with no stress.
I was finally about to meet my home for the next three weeks.
I wheeled my bag clumsily into the warehouse, juggling the other two over each shoulder, heart picking up pace with every step.
Looking around, I noticed there weren’t many vans left in the place, in fact there was only one. The empty spots felt like echoes of other travellers already out on the road, maybe further along on their own adventures.
I walked towards it to have a closer look.
And then I saw it.
One of my bags slipped from my grasp and thudded heavily beside me.
Not exactly the ‘modern luxury campervan’ the website had promised. More like a veteran of five desert music festivals and a cyclone.
Its paint was faded, the bumper crooked, and there was a mysterious stain on the side panel that looked like something you hear about on a true-crime podcast.
I raised an eyebrow, staring at it for longer than necessary before double-checking my booking confirmation.
No mistake. The registration number matched.
This was the one.
An attendant in a blue polo shirt jogged over, iPad clutched like a lifeline.
He seemed about nineteen, freckled, and already overwhelmed by life.
A plastic name tag pinned crookedly to his shirt read ‘Toby’, and his eyes darted nervously between me and the van as he fidgeted with a pen in his hand.
“Hi! Ms Hart? You’re… um… early!”
I frowned slightly, keeping my tone even. “It’s ten-thirty. My confirmation email said pickup from ten?”
“Yes! Yes, absolutely, it’s just that, uh, there’s been a minor, very minor, uh, adjustment.” He flapped a hand towards the van like it would explain everything. “She’s nearly ready.”
“She?” I echoed, stepping closer. “So, this one is mine?”
Toby made a noise somewhere between a cough and a nervous laugh. “Yep! She’s, uh, got a great engine and some real character.”
I peered through the window.
Then froze.
There was someone in the front seat.
Not a trick of the light or a weird shadow.
A man. Fully present, fully relaxed, reclining like he’d just wrapped up lunch and was settling in for a nap.
A flicker of confusion rose inside me. Was this a handover? A mechanic? A driver? But he seemed far too comfortable, like he’d claimed the space as his own.
I turned to Toby. “Sorry, um, is… is he part of the rental?”
He laughed nervously. “Right. So, funny story…”
I didn’t respond. My brain scrambled to catch up.
The man stretched lazily, cracked his eyes open, and stared straight at me. Completely unfazed. Then, without breaking eye contact, he reached for a takeaway coffee and took a slow sip.
“Morning,” he called out, voice low and maddeningly calm. “Hope you don’t snore. I’m a light sleeper.”
My jaw dropped. I held up a hand, breathing like someone who had just witnessed a crime. “Hang on. What?”
Toby cleared his throat. “So, there may have been a… mix-up in the booking system.”
My heart sank. “Define mix-up.”
“You and… him,” Toby gestured towards the man still lounging inside, “were both assigned to the same vehicle.”
I stared at the van, then at the guy inside, who radiated the energy of someone impossible to fluster, and back at Toby.
There was no universe in which I was sharing a campervan with a stranger. That’s… no. No.
“Is this some kind of weird prank?” I asked, trying to keep my voice light, even as my body felt heavy.
“I swear, this never happens,” Toby said, eyes wide with panic.
“Except today.”
“Except today,” he agreed, wilting.
He clutched his device like a shield. “I’ve checked and I’m sorry to say we’re completely booked out. Nothing else available. Not just here, the whole city. We had a mechanical failure this morning, and… well, it’s the long holiday weekend.”
My eyes drifted to the iPad. Next to my booking name, in bold letters, was another: J. Reid. I squinted. It didn’t sound like the name of a criminal… but then again, that’s what everyone says in documentaries before things go horribly wrong.
And just like that, all the anticipation, the fabulous itinerary, the organised prep—gone. Vanished. Puff of smoke. I was standing in a car park being assigned a surprise roommate and a campervan that had clearly seen better days.
“Well. This is totally unacceptable,” I said, in the clipped, professional tone I used in the office whenever I was spiralling internally but refusing to let anyone know.
“I… I can put you on a waitlist?” Toby offered, his voice pitching higher with each word, like that was even remotely reassuring.
“A waitlist?” I repeated, incredulous. “This isn’t a brunch spot. I booked months ago. I rearranged my entire life for this trip.”
“I know. I’m really sorry. We did try calling you yesterday.”
I remembered seeing a few missed calls. I hadn’t answered because I’d been buried under work and packing.
From the van, the mystery man gave a small cheerful chuckle.
“Hey, if it makes any difference, I’m fully house-trained.”
I gave him a look, not quite a glare, more a please-stop-talking-until-I-work-out-what-this-disaster-is kind of look.
Toby offered a hopeful little smile. “If it helps, we’ll only charge you half your payment,” he added, like that somehow solved everything.
“Brilliant,” I muttered.
I closed my eyes, tilted my head back. “There really aren’t any other vans?”
“None,” he shook his head. “Unless you want to downgrade to a two-berth with no toilet and a broken fridge.”
I perked up slightly. “I’ll take it.”
He checked the screen. “Ah… right. That one’s in Sydney.”
I sighed. Great.