Free The Last Resort by Charlotte Oliver

a sweet banana scent that permeated our little room. Our luggage was already neatly stacked between the twin beds. Citronella-scented candles burned on the centre table, with more headily-fragranced jasmine arranged between them. Peter was certainly in the running for host of the year.
    While Sharon took the longest pee in human history, I lay back on the cool cotton-wrapped bed and looked up at the reed ceiling. Crickets hummed outside, but the noise of the bar was mostly absorbed by the trees.
    It was nice to be somewhere quiet. Unfortunately, I couldn’t enjoy it. What was he doing? I made a calculation in my head. It was about 11 p.m. here. Which was—what? 9 p.m. at home? Or 1 a.m.? Either way he must have noticed I wasn’t there. A knife twisted in my chest—maybe he hadn’t noticed at all.
    Don’t be ridiculous , I told myself, of course he has.
    Wouldn’t he have rung if he had? said a little voice, dusty with misuse. I think it was the voice of reason.
    The sound of the party receded as exhaustion took over my senses. I climbed under the covers and slept a little, without dreaming.

Chapter 8
    Of course, during every trip abroad there comes a time when you must phone your mother to let her know you’re alright. I prayed Mia wasn’t at home. If she answered the phone, I was done for. Please let Mum pick up, I willed the universe, please let her pick up . . . I promise if she picks up I’ll never swear again or wish anyone ill and I’ll stop reading that gossip blog . . .
    The phone rang with no answer. I glanced at my mobile. Still no word from my husband.
    Sharon was languishing next to me in the little Skype booth that was installed in the common room of the Hideaway. I’d forced her out of bed at 7, after being woken by the grey dawn at 5 and lying in bed with my stomach painfully churning with anxiety. I’d fully expected to have at least a text from him by now. What was going on?
    “Why are you doing this to me?” Sharon whined, fanning herself dramatically with her Lonely Planet Guide. “Can’t we ring her after breakfast?”
    “Shush,” I muttered, glancing at my mobile again. The last chance I had to keep my sanity was to find out whether Jack had rung my mother. He’d never met her (I know that’s awful), but he knew her number because it was the only one on my next-of-kin notice. I was clutching at straws, and no mistake.
    I owed my mother an apology anyway—and I clung to that motive in an attempt to absolve myself. No reply. I redialled, valiantly hanging on to my last shred of hope.
    “If you want to know why he hasn’t rung you, why don’t you ring him ?”
    “Don’t be ridiculous,” I scoffed.
    “And if you’re so keen to hear from him, why did you run off in the first place?”
    “Ssh!” I could hear her rolling her eyes, but now was not the time to be entertaining her outlandish notions. It was time to be practical.
    I heard the click of a receiver being lifted. My heart leapt. “Hello?” said a voice—it was Mia’s.
    “Hi,” I whispered, as I screwed my eyes closed and prepared for impact. “It’s—”
    “DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA WHAT YOU HAVE PUT HER THROUGH?”
    “I—”
    “DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA HOW LONG SHE CRIED FOR AFTER YOU TEXTED HER YOU’D GOT MARRIED ?”
    “Mia—”
    “Six days. SIX FUCKING DAYS! FOR YOU!”
    “Please—”
    “You selfish bitch. YOU UNGRATEFUL LITTLE COW! AFTER ALL SHE’S DONE FOR US!”
    I hung my head in shame. It was true. I’d texted Mum our happy announcement—and I know that sounds so horrible. To be fair, at the time I didn’t want Mia to know, not after the whole mess with her divorce. I wanted to give her some time, so texting seemed like a kinder alternative. That way, Mum could easily keep it to herself if need be.
    But I couldn’t pretend that was the only reason: I had to admit, I didn’t want to answer any uncomfortable questions, like “what the hell are you doing” and “have you thought this through”.