It Started With A Tweet(18)

‘So,’ says Rosie, smiling. ‘What do you think?’

‘Um .?.?.’ Is she seriously asking me that question? ‘I’m thinking that you’ve gone bloody mad. Where the hell are we?’

‘We’re at your digital detox retreat,’ she says, as if I’m the one who’s lost the plot. ‘We’ve got everything you need for it: lack of mobile signal, no technology, isolation .?.?.’

I blink rapidly before pinching myself; surely the past twenty-four hours has got to be one big bad dream.

‘I thought we were going on some luxury retreat? This place doesn’t even seem like it’s got running water.’

‘It does, look,’ she says, running the tap. It splutters out in fits and starts and finally comes out in a small dribble.

‘Hot water?’ I ask, not knowing if I want the answer.

‘I think so .?.?. probably.’

I shriek. ‘Rosie, this is not what I had in mind when I agreed to this! I mean, why on earth have you brought me here? I wanted to go somewhere luxurious for a bit of pampering.’

‘I brought some M and S Egyptian cotton bedding with me?’ she says, hopefully. ‘Look, appearances can be deceptive; this place isn’t that bad.’

‘What about the people running the detox? Aren’t there supposed to be workshops and activities?’

‘Uh-huh,’ she says, nodding. ‘There are. It’s just a sort of low-key place where they send you a pack and you do it yourself.’

She pulls a wodge of paper from her handbag. ‘Here, look, they emailed me directions and I printed them off at mine.’

She waves it so quickly that I can’t see what’s written on it, but I don’t need to see what it says to know that I’m not impressed.

‘Surely they can’t rent out a place in this state? I know that we’re supposed to be off the grid, but don’t you think we’re at risk of catching pneumonia or Weil’s disease staying here?’ I say, staring at what looks suspiciously like mice poo on the floor.

‘It’s part of the process, makes you really appreciate what you have in your life. Come on, it’s not that bad,’ she says, pushing open another door. It swings open and something flies straight into her face.

‘Holy shit,’ she says, screaming and waving her arms in the air as it heads in my direction. I quickly drop down under the table until I register the cooing noise and realise it’s just a pigeon.

She runs over to the front door and leaves it wide open, letting in a cool breeze as she runs around scaring the bejesus out of the pigeon – and me, if I’m honest – until it gets the hint and flies out the front door.

She slams the door firmly before going into the room the pigeon has just vacated.

‘Ta da!’ she says, as if she’s brought me to the Ritz.

I crawl out from under the table, uncertain of what other surprises lie in store for me.

While the room, which turns out to be a lounge, is in a better state than the kitchen, it’s still a wreck. It might boast an exposed stone wall and open fireplace, and the rest of the walls look freshly plastered, but the concrete floor and shabby windows let it down. Not to mention the fact that everything has a fresh decoration of pigeon poo and the room smells mustier than wet towels in a gym bag.

‘I hope the people you rented this place off aren’t going to deduct money from the damage deposit for the pigeon crap everywhere,’ I say, turning my nose up. Then again, I can’t imagine anyone would even ask for a deposit, as how could we wreck it any more than it already has been?

‘Don’t worry about the details,’ she says, going over to pull off an old white dustsheet to reveal two wooden rocking chairs. ‘Huh?’ she says, nodding as if she’s shown me a top-of-the-range La-Z-Boy chair.

‘Are there bedrooms?’ I say, dreading what the answer will be.

‘Uh-huh,’ she says in a high-pitched voice that only comes out when she’s trying to hide something. A childhood of playing Monopoly has taught me the clues.

I push past her and head up the stairs I saw in the corner of the kitchen.

To my dismay, the upstairs is in much the same state of disrepair as the downstairs. There’s a long soulless hallway with four rooms off it and only one that has a door.

‘Where are we supposed to sleep?’ I shriek.

‘There,’ she says, pointing to a double airbed on the floor. ‘I brought bedding, remember. And an extra air bed.’

‘Is this some sort of joke?’ I say looking at her.

‘Of course not, you need to detox and here you are. There’s absolutely nothing to distract you.’

‘I’m pretty sure that they’re only supposed to ban technology, not all basic comforts.’

I’m shaking my head. Maybe at a push, if I came somewhere like this with a boyfriend, it could be romantic and a bit of an adventure. But how am I going to cope, being here with Rosie who brings out my irritable side even when we’re at Mum’s clean and warm house and we’re being force fed cake? Surely we’re going to kill each other.

‘But what are we supposed to do?’ I say, the panic evident in my voice.

‘We’ve got to do all the detoxing stuff. You’ve got to get in touch with your pre-digital self. You know, we’ll do therapy sessions and stuff.’