Free One Night in Italy by Lucy Diamond Page B

small card from the kitchen noticeboard with the wifi log-in details and put it next to Sophie.
    ‘Thank you.’ Just like the old days, it seemed impossible to have an ordinary conversation with her mum without some petty sniping in the mix. Staying here was going to be more exhausting than the hostel, she could tell already.
    ‘Sophie’s looking for a job,’ Trish said to Jim that evening when they went back to visit him.
    ‘Oh aye? Where are you off to this time? And can I come with you? I could do with some sunshine to shake off this cough.’
    Sophie scowled at her mum. It wasn’t that her job quest was a state secret or anything, but she didn’t like the way Trish had announced it, with a hint of mockery as if it was all a big joke. ‘I’m not off anywhere yet. That’s why I need a job.’
    ‘Ahh.’ He thought about this for a moment. ‘Where do you think you’ll go next time, then? Any ideas?’
    ‘Maybe a ski resort over the winter,’ she replied. ‘Or I might save a bit more and travel around south-east Asia for a few months. Wherever the wind takes me.’
    He nodded, his eyes on her keenly. ‘And then what? Are you just planning to keep on moving, year after year, until you’re my age? Do you never think about putting down roots, making a go of anything properly?’
    The questions felt like an attack. Making a go of anything properly? That was a bit harsh.
    ‘Dad, you have no idea what I’ve been doing for the last few years,’ she said, hackles rising.
    ‘I do, actually. I know quite a lot. What’s it called again, that blog of yours? “Independent Traveller”, is it?’
    ‘You . . . You’ve been reading my blog?’
    ‘Well, of course we have. It’s up there for the world to see, isn’t it? How glad you are to be shot of your interfering parents, how delighted you are to be free of the shackles of home life . . .’ His eyes narrowed. ‘How lonely you’ve been at times. How you hate having to pretend that you’re having a wonderful adventure when occasionally you’re downright miserable.’
    ‘How . . . ? But . . .’ She couldn’t actually speak for a moment, just gaped. Oh shit. They’d read it?
    ‘What are you running away from, Soph?’ he asked, gentler now. ‘Surely not us any more. Yourself?’
    ‘I’m not running away from anything!’ she cried, feeling as if she was a teenager all over again. Why couldn’t they just get off her back? ‘What’s it to do with you anyway?’ Then she whirled around and rushed out of the room.
    She ran blindly down the corridor, her heart pounding, her breath tight and short in her lungs. The thought of her parents spying on her like that, reading about her intimate experiences – and some had been really intimate – was mortifying. How could they? How dare they?
    Leaning against a wall, she shut her eyes, feeling sick as detail after detail flashed up in her mind. So they’d have read about her being hospitalized in Wellington when she came off her bike and was knocked unconscious. They’d have read about her tempestuous affair with Dan, and how broken she’d been left afterwards. And they’d have read all the nasty stuff about them , too; she’d savagely ripped them apart in print, blaming them for her hang-ups, mocking them for their dull suburban lives.
    Shit. She thought she might throw up. No wonder her mum had been so off with her. No wonder she’d freaked out when Sophie had asked about the wifi code – she probably thought a new blog entry was in the making, all about how dreadful it was to be back chez Mum and Dad!
    The impulse to run beat loudly through her. She’d known all along she wasn’t welcome back in Ranmoor. She’d collect her stuff then get a train somewhere and start afresh. Her dad was on the mend, wasn’t he? Anywhere was better than here.
    Then she hesitated. It was already eight in the evening and dark outside. A horrible sleety rain had pelted them as they’d dashed from the car park to the