It Started With A Tweet(19)

‘So there are actual people here to do that?’

‘Not exactly, but I know what I’m doing.’

There were supposed to be staff and other detoxees to speak to. What the hell are Rosie and I going to talk about with no technology to bridge the silence?

‘But what about the hot tub? You said there was a hot tub.’

‘Well, there’s this,’ she says, opening up the only door to a room that has one of those old-fashioned Victorian roll-top baths with feet. It’s the only nice feature in the whole house, but I don’t think you’d even be able to enjoy it as the rest of the bathroom is mouldy and damp.

‘And if that’s not good enough, there’s a stream at the bottom of the paddock; it’s a bit cold, but I’m sure it would be refreshing.’

I blink rapidly as if trying to compute all of this.

‘So aside from the detoxing sessions, what are we going to do? We’re going to go crazy up here. Remember when we went on that family holiday to Devon and Mum took away our Gameboys and we nearly killed each other?’

‘Yes, I still have the scar on my neck from your nails when you tried to strangle me.’

‘Well, I can’t imagine this is going to work out any better.’

I can’t understand why Rosie is any happier about this situation than I am, it’s not as if she’s raced to come and stay with me in London over the years. Our sibling intolerance is pretty mutual.

‘I guess we can enjoy the view,’ she says looking out the window.

I follow her gaze expecting to be as underwhelmed with it as I have been with the rest of the place, but it takes my breath away.

‘Wow, that’s incredible,’ I say, for the first time forgetting about my phone.

The view of the rolling hills from here is amazing, with all the different hues of green and brown. I eye up the highest point in the distance in particular – I bet I could get mobile signal up there.

‘I know, isn’t it breathtaking?’

She seems lost for a moment, before she sighs. ‘So, now you’re acquainted with the place,’ she says, ‘we should get going on the detox.’

‘OK, I’m a bit peckish,’ I say, patting my stomach. ‘Perhaps we could get food first, then do some meditation or whatever else is on offer?’

‘We’ve got to have the phone-locking-away ritual before we get started on anything else.’

I can’t imagine where this crumbling farmhouse will have a safe, but she storms back down the rickety stairs on a mission and I follow. If I’m honest, I’m still a little creeped out by this place and I don’t want to be on my own up here. With its sunken location and isolated feel, it’s perfect for would-be axe murderers. And there was that Big Foot neighbour we saw on the drive in; he looks like he’d be a shoo-in for a role in the Cumbrian Chainsaw Massacre.

I’m reminded of when we were little kids, when Rosie and I still played with each other; she would always be the ringleader. She’d usually lead me into mischief that would land me in trouble. It wasn’t until I got to my teenage years that I stopped going along with her hare-brained schemes, and that’s when we drifted apart.

As we walk down the creaky floorboards I’m wondering if I’m repeating a childhood pattern of following Rosie on another one of her foolhardy plans. After all, I’d expected her to bring me to something organised, with staff at our beck and call, and instead we’ve ended up in some dilapidated farmhouse that I’m sure is only days away from a full-scale spider takeover, if the cobwebs are anything to go by.

‘Do you think we might be more comfortable in that pub in the village? I’m pretty sure it said on the sign that it had rooms,’ I say, as we find ourselves back in the ramshackle kitchen. It looks even more depressing than when I first saw it.

‘We’ll be fine here. Where’s your sense of adventure gone?’ she says enthusiastically. ‘You used to love camping when you were little.’

‘Um, yes, I did, back when I didn’t realise that en suites, feather duvets or fancy hotels existed.’

Rosie rolls her eyes at me and, seemingly ignoring my protests, picks up my phone and hers and drops them into Tupperware that she’s pulled out of her bag.

‘What are you going to do with them?’ I ask.

She’s still got that wild glint in her eye and that phone is worth quite a bit of money. I’ve pretty much accepted that I won’t be able to use it while I’m here, but that doesn’t mean I want her to burn it in some sacrificial ritual.

‘Come on,’ she says, pulling the old front door open and marching purposefully out.

‘It’s only a phone, it’s only a phone,’ I say over and over in order to remind myself that it’s a small piece of plastic and not an actual living entity. Although it does nothing to ease my apprehension.

She comes to a halt beside a well.

‘Oh no, you’re not putting it down there,’ I say shaking my head. ‘That’s full of water, it’ll ruin the phone.’

‘Relax, apparently the well’s empty and the box is airtight – it’ll protect it from the elements.’

Before I can stop her, she’s put the Tupperware into a bucket that, with all the holes it’s got, looks as though it should belong to Liza and Henry, and she starts to lower it down.