It Started With A Tweet(27)

‘For fuck’s sodding sake,’ I shout as loud as I can, but I know that no one other than me will hear it, as the wind seems to be swirling around me.

I look down at myself and know that I can’t walk to the village like this, so I turn round admitting defeat.

‘Who the bloody hell does he think he is. I’m not going that way,’ I say, mimicking his gruff voice.

The horn of a car beeps behind me and scares the life out of me as I jump into a verge.

For a minute I think it’s the yeti come to have another try at knocking me over, before I see that it’s Rosie and her beat-up Land Rover.

‘Hey, sis,’ she bellows out the window. ‘Want a lift?’

I sigh; she’s got back quicker than expected. Any hope of reaching the village is now thwarted and only the phoneless farm awaits.

‘What’s wrong with you?’ she asks as I climb in.

‘What’s wrong with me?’ I say as she starts moving. ‘Hmm, now that is a good question. Let’s see: we’ve fallen victim to some sort of digital detox scam that should be featured on Holiday Watchdog, with a holiday let that is so disgusting it should be condemned; in the space of ten minutes I’ve ruined a Biba scarf, a pair of Solilla’s espadrilles and my ridiculously expensive jeans have been splattered with mud; and if all that wasn’t enough, I’ve been without Internet for at least twenty hours. Anything could have happened by now,’ I shriek.

‘Oh, boy,’ says Rosie, pulling up into the farmyard and cranking up the handbrake. ‘It’s just like when I cut out caffeine, you’re all grumpy.’

She pats me on the leg, like that’ll make it all better, and jumps out of the car to open the boot. I get out, slamming the door with such ferocity that it’s in danger of coming off its hinges.

‘We’ll start doing a few meditation sessions, maybe some yoga,’ she says calmly.

‘But that’s my point,’ I shout. ‘You can’t lead yoga sessions, you can’t even lead a conga line at a family party. This whole thing is wrong. Let’s just admit that this was a mistake and go and check ourselves into a nice hotel. One where we won’t be sharing a room with the cast of Ratatouille and where I won’t go through more outfit changes than Lady GaGa in concert. Let’s just abandon this place and leave it to rot like it was doing before we got here.’

‘We can’t go anywhere,’ says Rosie, shaking her head.

God, my sister is so infuriating. Just because this was her idea.

‘Come on, Rosie, we gave it a good go, but enough’s enough,’ I say pleading. ‘These people, whoever they are, aren’t going to care, are they? Unless it’s like some creepy cult, in which case that’s even more reason to leave.’

‘We’re not going anywhere,’ she says again, firmly.

‘But we can’t stay here. I mean, look what it did to my outfit – it’s ruined.’

‘Then we’ll get you some more appropriate clothes,’ says Rosie, picking bags out of the back of the car as if she’s listening but not hearing what I’m saying.

‘Look, if you’re worried because these people are friends of yours, we can pretend to stay here; they don’t even have to know we’ve moved to a hotel.’

‘There are no bloody people,’ says Rosie, dropping the bags at her feet.

‘What do you mean, there are no people?’ I say, slowly.

‘I made them up. I made this whole thing up,’ she says turning to look at me. Her cheeks are flushed and her eyes look wild. ‘The whole digital detox was to try and get you here.’

‘You made it up?’

I’m trying not to panic that I let my sister throw my phone down a well on the advice of someone who apparently doesn’t exist.

‘Surprise,’ she says.

Once I get over the shock, I’ll bloody kill her.





Chapter Nine

Time since last Internet usage: 21 hours, 10 minutes and 36 seconds

I try to breathe in and out as I slowly consider my options. If I kill my sister and bury her body here, it would be days, or maybe even weeks, before anyone found her. I could totally make it to Venezuela or somewhere else without a UK extradition treaty by then.

I take a deep breath, muttering a quick ‘I love you’ to Siri down the well before heading back to the cottage, following Rosie.

I need to find out what she’s talking about.

Besides, my earlier attempt to leave the drive proved that I’m not going to make it out without her Land Rover.

‘What the hell is going on?’ I shout at her as I storm into the farmhouse. My sister is calmly unpacking the shopping into the cupboards as if she didn’t just make a huge revelation minutes earlier. ‘What do you mean, you made the whole thing up? What about my digital addiction?’ I say, all high-pitched and squeaky.

‘Oh, that is totally real,’ she says, pulling a packet of pasta out of the bag. ‘You really needed to go on a detox, and by putting your phone down the well, you effectively have. I just can’t pretend anymore that this is an organised thing.’

‘But the ritual at the well and the meditation, it all sounded like you knew what you were doing.’

‘The power of the Internet,’ she says winking, ‘but I’m sort of relieved to have told you before we got to the whole self-awareness and mindfulness sessions. I don’t think deep down that’s really you.’