Page 1 of One Week in Paradise

My best friend has just bought a house.

My phone doesn’t stop buzzing as she bombards our chat with photos and videos.

I groan and shove my phone under my pillow.

Sorry, Amber, but there are only so many heart-eye emojis I can send in a row.

Does that make me a bad friend? Probably.

Just another thing to add to the ever-growing list of things I’m bad at.

Just like dancing, swimming, relationships, and unfortunately, my job .

Do I even have a job anymore? Hm. Debatable. Dad says I’ve never had a job, but he’s always been like that. Mum used to be supportive, but I think that well has officially run dry.

Can you blame her? I’m twenty-seven years old and back in my childhood bedroom.

Though I suppose I can’t even call it that anymore.

Mum and Dad have been using it as an office slash gym slash storage room for the last five years.

Cardboard boxes take up most of the floor space, and there’s a treadmill in the corner with a thin layer of dust over it.

The only things that remain from my tenure in here are my bed (now far too small – my feet are hanging off the end) and a Harry Styles poster I superglued to the wall when I was sixteen.

My phone buzzes again, and I resist the urge to fling it out the window.

God . How is this my life? Three months ago, I was living my very best life in London. I had my own riverside apartment, I was constantly on the go, my wardrobe was brimming with designer clothes, and I had a boyfriend who adored me.

Now I’m back living at my parents’ house. I haven’t stepped foot outside in a week, I’m living out of a pile of suitcases, and don’t even get me started on the whole boyfriend thing. Life comes at you fast.

The buzzing finally starts to get to me. I grab my phone.

AMBER

37 new messages

I hover over our chat but then decide against opening it. Instead, I reflexively launch Instagram and immediately regret it – 230,000 followers. Last week it was 235,000. I’m losing followers at breakneck speed, and I don’t know how to fix it.

In case you haven’t guessed yet, I’m an influencer. Or should that be, ‘I used to be an influencer’?

I was pretty good at it too. Don’t get me wrong, I wasn’t on Kim K or Molly Mae’s level or anything like that, but I was doing pretty well for myself.

I had a pretty decent and engaged following, and I had a long list of brands who were fighting to work with me.

And they paid really well too. Enough for my expensive apartment in the city, multiple international trips a year, and pretty much anything else I wanted.

But that’s all gone now. And all it took was one 45-second video. My stomach churns as I remember The Video. It’s been three months, but I can’t get it out of my head. I’ve committed every last painful second to memory, and it plays on a loop in my mind whenever I have a quiet moment.

‘ Bailey? ’

For once, the sound of Mum’s shrill voice yelling my name doesn’t annoy me. It’s a welcome distraction from The Video.

‘Bailey, come down and eat something! I’ve made some sandwiches for lunch.’ A pause, and then, ‘You can’t stay in there all day, you know?’

Part of me – a very big part of me – wants to prove her wrong. I can stay in here all day. I’m safe in my room, far away from Mum’s worried stare and Dad’s judgemental gaze. But then my stomach grumbles, and I know I’m fighting a losing battle.

‘Coming!’ I yell back. ‘Give me five minutes.’ I roll out of bed and rush into the bathroom opposite my room. It’s a mess in here. Must remember to give it a clean before I give Mum something else to complain about. God . It’s like I’m sixteen all over again.

I splash some water on my face and recoil as I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror. I look awful. My long dark-brown curls are tangled and matted like a bird’s nest, my eyes are bloodshot, and my cheeks look swollen from all the crying. It’s no wonder Ethan hasn’t tried to contact me.

That horrible feeling in the pit of my stomach is back as my thoughts drift to Ethan. My boyfriend. My ex -boyfriend.

Nope ! I will not let my mind dwell on Ethan or The Video. Not if I can help it. I splash some more water on my face and quickly brush my teeth. I do what I can with my hair (hint: not much) and settle for pulling it into a messy bun before I slope downstairs.

‘Ah, she has arisen!’ Dad says as we pass in the hallway. He pretends to look shocked. ‘I was about five minutes away from coming up there to check your pulse.’

‘Ha ha,’ I deadpan. ‘Good morning to you too.’

‘It’s gone midday,’ he says, following me into the kitchen. ‘You can’t spend all day in bed, Bailey. You need to get out there and find a job.’

‘I have a job,’ I say through gritted teeth. And it’s true. I am technically still an influencer. It’s just that, for reasons outside my control, I don’t currently have the ability to influence anyone.

‘You need a job that pays,’ Dad says curtly. ‘If you’re going to stay here, I need to see you trying.’

I blink back tears and avoid his gaze by rifling through the cupboards to find my favourite tea blend – wild berry. How can he not see I’m trying? That I’ve been trying?

Even before this whole mess happened, Dad was never supportive of my influencer career. He wanted me to go to university and study medicine, just like he did. I had the grades for it, but I was never passionate about it.

‘What’s passion got to do with it?’ Dad yelled at me when I told him I didn’t want to go to university.

But what’s life without passion? That’s how I fell into influencing.

I started off simply by sharing my natural hair journey on YouTube and Instagram.

Growing up, it had always been difficult to find inspirational women on the internet who looked like me and understood my hair type.

And don’t even get me started on the struggle to find products that worked with my hair.

So I started my channel, The Curly Bailey , and it turned out that a lot of other young women resonated with me.

I’d created a small but thriving community – a safe space for girls and women who look like me.

And I was proud of it. I felt proud when young girls slid into my DMs telling me they’d never considered their hair or skin beautiful before, but my videos and posts had started them on a journey of self-love.

Although my parents didn’t understand it, I knew that what I was doing was important and necessary, and it gave me a sense of purpose.

My small community continued to grow and, before I knew it, hair brands were in my DMs, desperate to send me their products to review or book me for social media campaigns.

I started branching out into make-up and fashion, and soon enough, @TheCurlyBailey was a hot commodity on the influencer scene.

Not anymore, though.

‘Thanks for the pep talk, Dad,’ I mumble as I make myself a cup of tea, then flee into the living room before he can say anything else.

Mum is sitting on the couch with a spread of tiny sandwiches on the coffee table in front of her.

‘Hello, darling,’ she says distractedly as I plop down next to her. She’s absentmindedly watching the television, where a blonde woman is gingerly poking at a definitely undercooked chicken.

‘ Come Dine with Me ?’ I ask.

Mum hums in acknowledgement. ‘She’s making chicken francese . Or she’s trying to, at least.’

We watch in silence and eat our sandwiches for a few minutes as the blonde woman (Julie, according to the presenter) burns the chicken. Then Mum turns to me and smiles, but it’s not a good smile.

‘So,’ she says, delicately folding her hands in her lap.

‘Mum,’ I groan. ‘Please don’t start. I just got it from Dad.’

‘I’m not going to start,’ sniffs Mum. ‘I’m just— We’re just worried about you, darling. You turn up at our door crying, telling us you’ve lost your apartment and that you’ve broken up with sweet Ethan.’

Sweet Ethan . I snort. She doesn’t know how wrong she is.

‘And then you tell us we’re not allowed to ask any questions,’ Mum continues. ‘You can’t expect us not to worry.’

She’s right – I know she is. But I can’t bring myself to tell them what happened. I wouldn’t be able to bear the shame. Thankfully, I’m spared from having to answer by the sound of the front door being flung open.

‘Anyone home?’ yells my big brother, Dane.

I say ‘big brother’ but Dane is only two years older than me, and our age gap has begun to feel smaller the older we get. To me, anyway. Ask him, and I’ll always be his baby sister.

Mum leaps up from the couch as soon as she hears his voice. I roll my eyes. Dane has always been her favourite. I used to be Dad’s favourite, but I’ve not held that title in a very long time.

‘Darling,’ Mum coos as Dane pops his head around the living-room door.

Growing up, people used to think we were twins, and I can see why.

We’re both brown-skinned, with thick, curly dark brown hair, though Dane’s hair is now in long locs that fall to the middle of his back.

I once posted a photo of us together on Instagram, and it got more likes and heart-eye emojis than anything I’d ever posted before. Girls love Dane, and he knows it.

He embraces Mum in a tight hug and shoots me an inquisitive look. I bite my lip.

Dane isn’t on social media. He has a Facebook account he made back when it first came out, and then he never touched it again, but that’s about it. The chances of him having seen The Video are low, but not zero. I’ll have to approach this with caution.

‘Hey,’ I say coolly as he pulls me into a one-armed hug. ‘What’re you doing here?’

‘Checking out the space for the conservatory,’ he explains.

‘The conservatory?’ I ask.

‘Didn’t I tell you?’ Mum jumps in. Her eyes are dancing with excitement. ‘Dane’s offered to do our conservatory for us. An early anniversary present.’

Ah. That makes sense. I feel a twinge of jealousy but quickly brush it away.

Dane didn’t go to university either, but Dad didn’t mind.

Instead, he did an apprenticeship at a construction company and eventually started his own.

Great Dane Construction Services. The logo even has a little cartoon dog on it, with its tongue poking out.

I thought it was kind of cringey when he first showed me the logo, but he’s done incredibly well for himself.

Much better than I have. I’m proud of him, no matter how much it stings right now.

‘Yeah,’ says Dane. ‘Cash is just parking the van round the corner.’

‘Cash?’ I squeak. ‘Cash is here? Why?’

Cash – short for Caspian – is my brother’s best friend turned business partner and has been nothing but a thorn in my side since we were all teenagers.

I don’t know why, but he’s never liked me.

I guess he’s always just seen me as Dane’s annoying little sister, who used to follow them around and snitch on them whenever they did anything vaguely dangerous or refused to let me hang out with them.

He’s not outwardly rude or anything, but he avoids me like the plague.

Which suits me just fine. He’s an ass who, for some reason, thinks he’s better than everyone else. Especially me.

But I suppose that’s what happens when you’re unnecessarily and ridiculously good-looking – you don’t have to develop a personality.

I told you that girls love Dane, but it’s nothing compared to the attention Cash gets from them. Growing up, all my friends – hell, all the girls at my school – were obsessed with him. I can’t tell you how many times a girl would approach me and beg me to give Cash their number. I never did.

‘He’s helping with the conservatory,’ Dane says with a shrug, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. Which, to be fair, it is. Cash joined Great Dane Construction Services in the early days, and the two regularly team up for projects.

‘Such a sweet boy,’ says Mum with a fond smile. ‘How are things going with—’

‘Hi, Mrs Clarke.’

We all jump. I hadn’t even heard the front door open again, but Cash is suddenly in front of us, standing in the doorway to the living room.

All six foot four of him towers over Mum as he pulls her into an easy hug.

He’s wearing an old Great Dane Construction Services T-shirt that clings to his torso and shows off his lean yet muscular arms and a pair of grey sweatpants that hang low on his hips.

The waistband of his boxer shorts peeks out, showing off a cheeky splash of bright blue.

I look up and, to my alarm, discover that Cash is staring directly at me.

His eyes – an unusual blend of grey and green – narrow as he runs a hand through his chin-length black, wavy locks.

‘Bailey,’ he says curtly. His brows furrow in what I can only assume is annoyance at the sight of me.

‘Hi, Cash,’ I say as brightly as I can, shooting him my sweetest smile. Just because he’s an ass doesn’t mean that I have to be, does it? And besides, I’m all for taking the high road, especially when it results in Cash looking visibly taken aback by my cheery tone. Ha . Take that, asshole.

His gaze roves over me, and for some reason, I’m suddenly acutely aware of just how awful I look right now. I’m still in my pyjamas, wearing an oversized Care Bears T-shirt that has Hug Life printed across the front and a pair of Ethan’s old boxer shorts.

‘I’m gonna go and get dressed,’ I say as I shuffle past him. Nobody hears me, though. Mum is busy pulling Dane and Cash towards the sliding doors at the back of the living room to show them where she wants the conservatory to go.

I glance back at Cash before I disappear upstairs. He’s laughing politely at something Mum’s said, and I can’t help but notice he’s got a fantastic smile.

Cash is the kind of guy who’s just effortlessly good-looking. It doesn’t surprise me at all that he’s constantly got girls drooling over him. Hell, if his personality wasn’t so bleugh , I’d probably be into him too.