Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
Chapter 1
Dylan Coughlan was having an absolutely shit day.
The Northern line was delayed fourteen minutes (just long enough to piss her off and one minute less than she needed to get the journey refunded), and when it finally arrived, every carriage was completely packed, so she spent the duration of her commute tucked into a stranger's armpit, which, while less offensive than it would have been on a blistering-hot day, was still not the ideal way to spend the first twenty-five minutes of her morning. That would've been bad enough-should've been bad enough-but some arsehole in a suit slammed into her the moment she walked out of the station and sent her £5 emergency splurge coffee flying into the window of the Hard Rock Cafe. Then, of course, Chantel, her editor, had shouted at her in no fewer than six separate emails before nine thirty, and now, she was sitting at her desk, dangerously under-caffeinated, drafting another pointless quiz.
A task that was next to impossible because, on top of everything else that had gone wrong today, her parents were now blowing up her WhatsApp. And, worse, they showed no signs of stopping.
Even her brother, Sean, though well-intentioned, was starting to grate on her nerves. He was using every bit of his training as a therapist to keep them all from going nuclear on one another (again), but it was making Dylan wish she could go home and crawl under her duvet for the next month and a half.
A solution that wouldn't be effective anyway, because-apparently-hiding from your problems didn't do anything in the way of solving them.
Dylan wouldn't say she planned on getting into rows with her parents, but if she even so much as breathed in their direction these days, they ended up arguing. Today's fight had started with the annual so what are we doing for Christmas conversation, which, in an impressive seven messages, devolved into her parents berating Dylan for having the audacity to make decisions they disagreed with.
Though she supposed "disagreed with" was putting it lightly.
Dylan locked her phone and flipped it over with a bit more force than was probably necessary. At the hard clack of the screen against her desktop, her deskmate, Afua, looked up, eyes wide with surprise.
"Everything alright?"
"Yeah, sorry." Dylan was lying through her teeth, and judging by the way Afua's eyes narrowed ever so slightly, Afua knew it. "Just need a cuppa. 'D you like one?"
Afua's expression immediately brightened. "Yeah, cheers."
Dylan dragged her phone off her desk and, in a show of surprising self-control, dropped it into her pocket rather than checking her messages. She was almost positive that there was at least one from her brother that was probably bearable, but Dylan didn't think she could keep reading the family chat if she wanted to retain her (basically) positive reputation in the office.
Buxom's office was like every other trendy, millennial-dominated workplace in London, although the magazine covers adorning the walls and the endless stashes of makeup, sex toys, face products, and clothes likely differentiated it from the others. She liked the open space and the feeling of being around everyone all day-having someone else to stare at, cry to, or talk things through with was instrumental when she was writing. Not that she was doing much of that these days.
Their small kitchen was tucked away in a corner behind the fire exit stairs, down a short, dark, brick-lined corridor that played a sharp contrast to the bright, open office. It had taken Dylan six months to realize this kitchen was here.
Dylan grabbed a pair of mugs off the mug tree in the corner and, after refilling the kettle, leaned back up against the cupboards.
She shouldn't check WhatsApp.
She knew she shouldn't.
The first few times Dylan's mam had spouted off, Dylan had been reduced to tears (in this very kitchen, in fact), but now, after nine months of this, she knew what to expect. It was the same line of argument, the same "points," and as much as Dylan wanted to say it didn't faze her anymore, the hard knots in her gut begged to differ.
She clicked out of the family chat without reading the most recent wall of texts and popped into her private conversation with Sean.
Dylan: nothing like a bit of family drama to spice up the morning
Typing appeared almost immediately underneath Sean's name at the top of her screen.
Sean: mam literally needs to get herself together I'm sick of this
Dylan exhaled, the knots in her stomach pulling tighter. It was easy to hope that it really could be that simple. That her mother could just... decide not to care about something that really wasn't worth all this emotional turmoil.
Dylan: couldn't have put it better myself
Sean: funny, seeing as your the writer
Dylan snorted.
Dylan: *you're
Sean: asksdf piss off you know I dont care about grammar
Sean: its a social construct, etc etc
Dylan: I mean yes, but I think we can also agree you only think so because you were rubbish at English
Sean: I can't be good at everything dill
Sean: it'd be massively unfair
Dylan: alsjdhdiskahdka
Sean: it would be
Sean: im an adonis
Dylan: omg
Sean: god at maths
Dylan: do people LIKE people who are good at
maths???
Sean: im basically a comedian
Sean: [replying to: do people LIKE . . .] yes. Yes they do
Dylan: right. That makes sense given how many friends you had at school
Sean: THAT WAS OUT OF ORDER
Dylan laughed, a deep, genuine laugh, for the first time that day.
For as long as she could remember, Sean had been the main constant in her life. They were only eleven months apart, but as children they'd moved as a duo, inseparable, as though they were actually twins. Most of her school friends hated their younger brothers, but (barring the Attempted Drowning of 1993) Dylan and Sean had always been as thick as thieves.
Dylan: somehow I think your ego will survive it
Sean: you're cruel
Dylan: that's what they tell me
Afua smiled up at Dylan as she approached, five minutes later, with their tea.
"Ah, cheers, Dylan."
Afua accepted the mug and took a sip, and Dylan tried not to drop too pathetically back into her chair.
She loved her job-really, she did-but she also knew that the people who told you they loved their job (that they really did) were also the same people who spent at least thirty-six of the unnecessary forty hours a week staring up at the ceiling tiles wishing everything about said job was completely different. But Dylan did love her job.
Really.
It was just that her editor was fucking sadistic.
"How's it coming along?"
Afua was eyeing her over the edge of her mug. Dylan groaned and leaned back in her chair, barely stopping herself from going full teenage angst and throwing her head back against the headrest.
"I don't know anything about astrology. Chantel just gave me this assignment to torture me."
Afua laughed softly, her box braids sliding over one shoulder as she leaned forward and set her mug down. Afua had a small coaster in front of her pen cup, a neat resting place so she didn't end up with rings and tea stains all over her desk. (The same could not be said for Dylan, whose desk looked, most days, like the recycling bin had thrown up on it.)
"I doubt she wanted to torture you."
"This is my payback for asking about a column again."
"Well, that might not be entirely off the mark," Afua said, "but I still think calling it torture is a bit extreme."
"You know I deal only in extremes."
Afua snorted. "Fair enough."
Dylan had thought that after writing something as popular and contentious as her March feature, she'd finally be able to have a conversation with Chantel about getting her own column without getting laughed out of the room. Dylan hadn't made it a secret that she was angling for her own column-she'd been talking about it since she joined Buxom three years ago after a long stint writing freelance-but she'd only brought it up three times, once for each year she'd spent languishing behind a desk here, her name scattered across the lesser pages of the magazine. The last time she'd asked had been in March, right before The Article™ had gone live, and she'd thought, finally, that she and Chantel had been getting somewhere.
"We'll see how the feature does," Chantel had said, barely even looking up at Dylan as she speed-walked-yes, she actually did this-at her treadmill desk and furiously typed on her laptop. "We'll revisit it next week."
Next week never came. Or, well, it came, but instead of rich, fulfilling conversations about her future, it was Dylan buried under her duvet at home writing harmless things about Real Housewives and Made in Chelsea without her byline in hopes the trolls would stop flooding the comments with threats.
Apparently putting her mental health, safety, and relationships on the line wasn't enough for Chantel to believe that Dylan deserved her own dedicated column in the magazine.
"You know she's going to be breathing down your neck even more if you don't get the quiz in on time." Afua paused for a second, thinking. "When's she expecting it?"
"Today."
"Fucking hell."
"Tell me about it."
Afua traced her index finger along the edge of her mug. "Is this the moment?"
A simple question, but Dylan knew what she meant. They'd been talking about it in hushed whispers in the kitchen, the loo, the lifts, everywhere possible for the last three years. Every time one of them got even vaguely close to snapping, it always came down to this exact same question.
Was this the moment you valued yourself more than the promise of a paycheck?
"I don't know." Dylan frowned at her computer screen, the bright white blank document blinking sharply against her retinas. "If I go in now, she'll think it's about having to write the quiz."
If Dylan was being honest, it was partially about the quiz. She knew she was a complete disappointment to the queer community because she didn't know the first thing about astrology, and this assignment wasn't going to change that. But she couldn't let Chantel think it came down to the quiz alone. They'd only leave that meeting with Chantel thinking Dylan was "not a team player." Because apparently the only way you could be a team player was by lying down on the tracks and letting Chantel drive the train over you.
"Maybe casually mention it when you send the quiz in," Afua suggested.
"Yeah." Dylan smiled gratefully. "Thank you."
"Anytime, babe."
Before she could let herself get too distracted (again), she plugged in her noise-canceling headphones and opened Radio 1's website. She didn't listen to the radio often, but there was something about letting go of control of what was playing that helped ease her mind into concentration.
Apparently, though, her bad luck wasn't finished, because the song (one of her favorites) was fading and the announcer was speaking when the site finally loaded.
"That was the latest smashing single from Little Mix off their new album. Stay tuned because we'll be back with Maisie Peters next. But before that, I know you're probably most excited about this, we're finally opening up phone lines for the Around the World contest we've been teasing all week. We're giving away a holiday around the world, and I don't know about you, but I can't think of a better way to kick off the new year. This is the biggest giveaway we've ever done, and it's all thanks to Plum Tree Hotels, whose gorgeous hotels will greet you at every destination. Get ready because we're opening up those lines now and we're looking for caller number ten!"
Dylan wondered how the host managed to talk so quickly without drawing breath.
She lined up Post-it notes on her desk and started drafting her quiz questions, half listening to the announcer telling people they hadn't won and half wondering what the hell kind of sex a Sagittarius was supposed to have.
The more she tried to rack her brain for questions, though, the more her thoughts started drifting to the vacation giveaway caller number seven had just missed out on. It would be glorious to be sitting on a beach somewhere, far away from Wi-Fi and even farther away from her family (excluding, exclusively, Sean). It was the kind of thing she'd dreamed about-fantasized about-but even her most serious thoughts had only featured a weekend away. Going around the world felt like a radical wiping clean of the slate, the perfect opportunity to finally take a deep breath and start moving forward from the hell her life had become.
Because, yes, today was particularly bad as far as her luck was concerned, but she'd had to deal with far worse over the last nine months from both the internet and her incredibly insistent parents.
The announcer clicked off the line he'd been on and said, "The next one is going to be the big one! Caller ten, what's your name?"
The person on the line screamed and Dylan frowned as she tapped the volume down a few notches.
"Susan!" The caller damn near shouted it down the line. "Susan Meyers!"
"Congratulations!" The host sounded like he was trying to beat Susan Meyers in a volume contest. "Are you ready for your holiday?"
"Absolutely!"
"Now, Susan." The host's voice became suddenly grave, and in spite of herself, Dylan tapped the volume up again. "I have to let you know there's a catch."
Susan gasped. "Oh, no. Really?"
"Yes. Do you want to hear it?"
Susan sighed heavily, and Dylan breathed a laugh. You didn't normally get this kind of overacting outside of Emmerdale. "Yeah, go on."
"The catch..."-the host sounded like he was biting back laughter now-"is you have to go on this holiday with one other person that we get to pick out of your phone." He paused for a moment to let it sink in before he said, "What do you think?"
"Oh, uh-I don't know, I-"
"Is that something you'd be open to?"
Susan was quiet for a long, painful moment before exhaling shakily. "No. There're too many risky people in my contacts."
"So you're turning down a free, around-the-world holiday?" The host sounded flabbergasted. Dylan herself had barely managed to keep her jaw from hitting the desk.
Susan's anguish was palpable as she replied. "Sounds like it."
She turned down a free holiday. A free bloody holiday. Who in their right mind...
"Alright, well, thanks for playing then, Susan, but it looks like we’re going to have to open up those phone lines again, caller number ten, the prize is yours."
Without thinking, Dylan snatched up her phone and unlocked it, fingers fumbling as she dialled the station’s number. Afua looked up, concerned at Dylan’s sudden jolt into action, and Dylan smiled in a way that she hoped was more reassuring and less completely unhinged (though she had a sneaking suspicion which side she’d come down on).
She wasn’t expecting anything — she wanted a free holiday, sure, and there were probably a few risky people in her contacts who should make her think twice about this whole thing, but honestly.
It wasn’t like she was going to win.
The people who won these things had some sort of strategy, a plan, whereas Dylan had just picked up her bloody phone.
The phone which had just stopped ringing.
"Thank you for calling Radio 1, we’re going to whack you on hold, when Scott picks up, you’ll be live on the air."
Dylan cleared her throat and grabbed her pen again, twirling it between her fingers. "Uh, okay."
"Great." The person on the line didn’t even wait for Dylan to finish speaking before they clicked off.
Dylan sandwiched the phone against her shoulder and resumed writing her quiz questions while she waited. She was relaxed until Scott came back and started picking up lines, and then Dylan’s entire body went rigid.
Especially because she wasn’t caller one. Wasn’t caller three, or six or nine.
The line went live and, suddenly, she heard Scott’s voice in her ear, followed by a slight delay over her laptop speakers. “Caller ten! What’s your name?”
