Page 13 of Take Me Away

And Maisie – she’s just starting to stitch herself back together. One soft, shaky piece at a time.

I won’t let Isla undo that.

Because she always leaves.

And she never ever comes back.

Chapter Four

ISLA

‘I’d like to accept this award from the Academy for my role as chief spider-catcher in a world left without men to do the work.’

I bow dramatically to an audience of dust motes floating in the grey morning light. The jar in my hand contains today’s sole achievement: one medium-sized house spider, currently pressing its body against the glass as if calculating the precise physics of revenge.

‘Don’t give me that look,’ I tell it. ‘You’re the one who decided my shower was an appropriate venue for an eight-legged peepshow.’

The spider doesn’t respond. Obviously. Though right now, it’s providing better conversation than I’ve had in three days.

Three days. That’s how long I’ve been in Sea Salt Bay, and so far, my greatest accomplishment is capturing this spider without screaming loud enough to alert the neighbours. That, and finishing off Maggie’s ancient box of Cornish Tea, dust and all. I even put a spoonful of sugar in one cup. Someone call the police. My standards have fallen considerably.

I open the door and place the jar on the path, knocking it gently over and then running back in to shut the door before my eight-legged companion can follow me back in.

I’m proud.

It’s showing real growth as a human. I saw it. I caught it. I set it free. Sounds a bit like that therapy app. If only it were possible to do the same with memories. Instead they are impossible to catch at 2 am when they steal into dreams and turn them to nightmares. And letting them go… Not a chance.

My phone buzzes for the fourth time this morning. I know who it is without looking. Piper, my lovely if slightly scary assistant, has left increasingly frantic messages since I shut Maggie’s front door behind me on arrival.

I love Piper, she’s my sharp-fringe-toting, green-juice-serving, schedule-aligning, keeping-me-real woman. Right now, though, she’s not quite grasping the urgent message I left five days ago, whispered from within the depths of a restaurant toilet, in full panic attack, I might add, with my makeup sweating down my face, that said, ‘I need to get off-grid.’

I think she thought off-grid would be twenty-four hours in a spa and then a well-timed brunch in front of the paps.

But I can’t. I just. Can’t.

A text illuminates the screen: Isla, darling, please call back. Richard needs to know where you are.

Another one: The Vogue photoshoot can’t be rescheduled again. They’re already being incredibly accommodating after everything…

And another: People are talking, Isla. We need to control the narrative here.

Control the narrative. That’s rich. Like the narrative hasn’t been out of my control since the moment I walked into Marcus Vale’s office and found him with that young actress on her knees.

It’s the image that wakes me up.

The one I wish I could put in a jam jar and place on the path outside so I can watch it run away so I can forget it.

The problem is, I can’t.

I tried to lock it away. Tried to ignore it. For weeks. That led to me calling my assistant from a locked bathroom cubicle with my makeup running off my face.

It was the look on his face when I walked in that did it. What do they call it? A trigger.

That was my trigger; his expression – not shame, just irritation at being interrupted. Like he wasn’t in the wrong. Like that was normal behaviour.

And then I looked at her. Jemima Collins. Barely an adult.

As I stood there, still, frozen, muscles not moving, brain not comprehending. I saw her.