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‘Monday,’ Mum repeats to make sure she’s heard me right. ‘But it’s Saturday! You only had the meeting yesterday. She’s given you two days to get everything sorted.’

I was meant to be going to Mum’s today for lunch but changed the plan for her to come to my flat instead so I could make a start on preparing for the trip.

She arrived this afternoon, has been here two minutes and has already plumped every throw cushion on my sofa.

Standing in the doorway to my bedroom, she’s now eyeing up the ones resting on my pillows.

I can see her fighting the urge not to sort them.

Selecting a black, halterneck dress from my wardrobe, I free it from its hanger and begin to fold it carefully, turning to my suitcase that’s lying open on my bed.

‘That’s right,’ I confirm. ‘The surf competition is in April, so Leo Silva will be in full training now. The sooner I can get to him, the better. You know athletes start clamming up the closer they get to the competition. The editorial assistant at Studio sent over my itinerary late last night and the flight is booked for Monday.’

‘Toni might have given you a little more warning,’ Mum says, leaning on the doorframe as I go back to my wardrobe to pick out the next outfit.

‘How are you going to fit in time to research the piece before you get thrown into things? It all seems very rushed. You have to drop everything and cancel all your plans so suddenly.’

I snort, folding a pair of cream linen trousers. ‘It’s not like I had that much to cancel, Mum. This is a great opportunity and I get to go to Portugal for two weeks.’

‘Out of season,’ she notes.

‘It’s still Portugal ,’ I emphasise, but grabbing a couple of jackets all the same and folding them into my case.

‘The village where he lives is meant to be lovely; I looked it up last night. It’s a former fishing town, really small and beautiful.

My first meeting with Leo is scheduled for Tuesday morning, so I have this weekend and Monday to research him.

’ I straighten, putting my hands on my hips.

‘Not that there’s much to research. He’s got no socials, and after a quick google, pretty much all that comes up is old celebrity gossip on him back in Australia during his party days. Nothing new. No actual interviews.’

‘Strange,’ Mum agrees, ‘when his mother owns so many publications.’

‘That could be the reason he avoids them,’ I remark, giving her a knowing smile. ‘Maybe having an insider’s knowledge of the media industry put him off.’

‘It is very impressive that Michelle Martin has asked for you specially,’ Mum says proudly. ‘She doesn’t seem the warmest of personalities, but at least she has good taste.’

I chuckle, opening a drawer to pick out some tops. ‘Thanks, Mum.’

‘I only wish I could come with you. It would be nice to escape for a bit.’

I stop rummaging through my drawer to look up at her as she sighs, pretending to pick a piece of fluff off the collar of her crisp, pale-blue shirt.

There’s no fluff there, of course; Mum never looks anything less than polished.

She was the one who instilled a sense of pride in the way I dress.

I suppose I’ve always aspired to appear as put-together as she is.

‘Mum, will you be okay?’ I ask quietly.

She looks startled and then appalled at the question. ‘Of course! I only meant that I’d love a holiday. You know I’ve always been keen to do more travelling – of course, it’s hard to find the time. Life is busy, but that’s a good thing!’

Her poise is instantly back into play, any hint of vulnerability gone.

‘I won’t be away for very long,’ I assure her.

‘No, it will fly by! And, as you say, it’s a wonderful opportunity.’

I nod. She must know what I’m thinking though because she says, ‘Iris, I’ll be fine . You mustn’t worry about me in the slightest.’

She does her best to convince me of her words through a fixed smile. I’ve been watching her do this for weeks. Months, even. Ever since she and Dad invited me over for dinner to tell me they were getting a divorce.

I wasn’t surprised when they told me. When I’d been in between flats a couple of years ago, I had to move back in with them for a while and I had front-row seats to their bickering.

I’d overhear their muttered, snide remarks and witness first-hand their diminishing respect for one another.

It’s like they’d completely forgotten what it was about the other that they fell in love with.

Eventually, they gave up on fighting for whatever it was they’d lost.

I see Mum as much as I can around work, and I’ve tried to make an effort with Dad. It’s a bit awkward when I see him; we don’t talk about Mum or anything serious or real. We talk like we’ve always talked: about sports.

Mum has hardly been chatty about the divorce either.

She continues to put on a brave front and won’t discuss details of it, which is still ongoing.

To anyone else, she might seem perfectly fine.

But I see the underlying sadness behind her demure smiles and immaculate appearance, the hurt and pain she wouldn’t dare admit to having.

It breaks my heart.

‘Mum, I already know what you’re going to say, but I would like to point out that I don’t have to go to Portugal,’ I tell her now in a soft and serious voice. ‘If you need me around then I can let Toni know and she can find someone else to write this one.’

‘Oh, Iris,’ Mum says, shaking her head and striding over to me, the comforting scent of her Chanel perfume wafting over me as she reaches for my hands and clasps them in hers.

‘I don’t need anything of you! I want you to go.

You are so brilliant at writing these stories and I love reading them.

I’m not surprised that Studio have picked you for something like this.

’ She hesitates. ‘I’ll miss you, that’s all. ’

‘I’ll miss you too, Mum.’

She pats my hand. ‘Right, that’s enough of that. I bought some bits and bobs for lunch. Shall I go get that ready? Do you need my help with packing?’

I shake my head. ‘I’m good.’

‘Of course you are. A pro.’ She gives me a knowing look. ‘Learnt from the master.’

Giving my hand a squeeze, she turns around and marches out of the room.

The conversation has blunted my motivation, so I take a brief pause in packing.

Sitting down on the edge of my bed, I grab my laptop from the bedside table and open it, checking the details of my trip.

Everything looks good but when I google the Airbnb I’ve been booked into, I gasp.

The studio apartment is tiny and doesn’t even look clean in the photos.

The bed is one of those ones that pull out from the wall and the bathroom looks to be the size of a phone box, separated from the main room with just a curtain.

Now, I understand that magazines are working on a tight budget and they can’t put their journalists up at swanky, five-star hotels, especially for a project that requires a long stint like this one, but come on .

If Michelle Martin wants me to be in a good mood to write nicely about her son, she might want to make me a little more comfortable.

I groan, running a hand through my hair, already dreading the phone call to Sam, the lovely editorial assistant at Studio to argue my case.

Then, I have a brainwave: Naomi. My best friend from university who has a fabulous job in luxury travel PR.

I don’t waste any time, grabbing my phone and giving her a call.

‘Hey Naomi,’ I trill when she answers, ‘my wonderful, brilliant friend.’

‘Okay,’ she sighs. ‘What have you done and/or what do you need?’

‘What makes you assume I’ve done something?’ I say defensively.

‘You just called me your “wonderful, brilliant friend”,’ she points out, chuckling. ‘Out with it, Iris; I have to get back to this press release. I’m on a deadline here.’

‘It’s a Saturday.’

‘Have you met my boss? And you’re one to talk. I can’t remember the last time you weren’t working. Anyway, What can I do for you?’

‘Okay, I might need your help with something,’ I admit, biting my lip.

‘Uh-huh.’

‘I’m writing a piece on a pro surfer and they want me to shadow him for a couple of weeks in Portugal from Monday.’

‘Ooh! Nice.’

‘Yeah, it is. Except the apartment they’ve put me up in isn’t at all. And you know what their budget is like; it’s unlikely they’ll agree to book me somewhere nicer.’

‘Ah.’ I can hear her smile down the phone. ‘I have a feeling where this is going. Where in Portugal are you staying?’

‘It’s a small village called Burgau,’ I inform her hopefully. ‘I really hate asking you for favours, but when you see the place they want me to stay—’

‘Let me see what I can do.’

‘You’re my icon.’

‘Stop it, you.’

‘There’s more where that came from if you find me a nice room in Burgau,’ I promise her, smiling as she laughs. ‘And, look, I’m not expecting anything fancy or big. Just somewhere clean would be nice.’

‘Leave it with me,’ she says before I thank her profusely and we hang up.

Jumping to my feet, I select an upbeat playlist on Spotify and get back to folding.

‘I want you to try this wine,’ Mum announces, appearing again in my doorway but this time with two glasses of white wine, one of which she passes over to me.

‘A friend brought it over last night for dinner and it really is delicious. A Gavi di Gavi. It’s currently on a deal at Sainsbury’s. What do you think?’

I swirl it around the glass, have a good sniff and take a sip.

‘Very nice,’ I say, impressed.

‘I thought the same. He always gets it right. I wish I knew more about wine, but you know that was your father’s expertise. I should have listened to him when he talked about it. I’m glad you got an interest in it, at least.’

‘Hang on.’ I hold up my free hand to her. ‘Did you say “he” gets it right? Who is this friend who came round for dinner?’

She gives me a pointed look. ‘Don’t, Iris. He really is only a friend. Purely platonic.’

I nod, clasping my glass with both hands. ‘I wouldn’t mind if…’

My sentence trails off; I can’t quite bring myself to say it.

‘Thank you, darling, but I’m not there yet,’ she says simply but firmly. ‘It will be a long time before I’m ready for romance again.’ She pauses. ‘What about you?’

‘What about me?’

‘Any love interests I should know about? You don’t tell me things like you used to.’

‘That’s because I have nothing to tell. Nothing serious anyway. All good fun.’

‘As long as you’re happy,’ she says with a sigh. ‘It’s been a while since anyone really took your fancy; you’ve been keeping them all at arm’s length. Might be a good thing to let someone in for once.’

‘I’m too busy for a relationship.’

This is mostly true.

But it’s also that I prefer to keep my romantic entanglements short and uncomplicated.

If I were to analyse that, I might put it down to Dylan, my last long-term boyfriend who broke up with me the day after my twenty-fifth birthday.

I was so hungover, I listened to his prepared break-up speech and then promptly vomited into a bin on the street outside Les Misérables , the matinée show of which he’d booked as my gift.

We’d been together for three years and I really did think he was it.

But he’d been offered a job in Amsterdam.

He didn’t want to do long distance, he said; it would be too hard.

You’re not worth the effort is what he meant.

It was one of the worst days of my life and I didn’t even get to see the show. Dylan took a long time for me to get over and from then on, I’ve protected myself from that pain. Putting yourself in that position – it’s terrifying – and no one I’ve met since has seemed worth the risk.

Mum glances at my open suitcase. ‘I am proud of you, darling, and impressed at how you take these trips all over the world to meet such impressive people,’ she says.

‘You could travel too, if you wanted, Mum. Nothing is holding you back. Now’s the time to… grab life by the balls.’

She rolls her eyes, muttering, ‘Really, Iris, no need to be so crass.’

I can’t help grinning. She’s so prim and proper, she makes it easy to tease her.

‘Sorry, Mum. I’m not wrong, though.’

She sighs. ‘Hm. Anyway, I’ll let you get back to your packing.’ She stops in the doorway, turning back to me. ‘Iris, are you sure this is the right feature for you to take on? A surfer? Only, I know how you are around the sea—’

‘I’ll be fine,’ I assure her, not wanting to think about it.

She watches me carefully, nodding. ‘If you say so.’

‘I do say so.’

‘All right. Both of us are fine, then.’

‘Exactly. We’re more than fine,’ I insist.

‘Yes, we are. We both need to make sure we – what was it?’ She looks pensive, pretending to search for the right expression. ‘Grab life by the balls.’

My jaw drops open.

‘What? You think I can’t be crass too sometimes?’ She shrugs, leaving the room before calling over her shoulder as she heads down the stairs, ‘One thing you can count on, Iris, is that people will always surprise you.’