Free The Last Resort by Charlotte Oliver Page A

So when Mum rang me about three seconds after I texted her, I’d guiltily put the phone on silent and forced myself not to answer it.
    I know. That sounds really bad, doesn’t it?
    “Mia,” I attempted, “can’t we just—”
    “DON’T YOU TRY TO MANIPULATE ME, AVA. DON’T YOU EVEN TRY IT!”
    “I’m not. Honestly. I need to speak to Mum, Mia. Please .”
    She was breathing heavily on the other end of the line, as if we’d just had a fistfight and she was sizing up the next round. I was pathetically grateful that I wasn’t there in person. If I was, I’d have been running the very real risk of being maimed.
    There was a silence. Then I heard her furious footsteps as she stalked off to find Mum.
    “Hello?” I heard Mum say, eventually, in the quavery voice that she got when she was very upset.
    “Hi Mum,” I said, and burst into guilty, terrified tears. Then, predictably, she burst into tears too.
    Sharon, despite her seething resentment at not having had her fry-up yet, patted me on the shoulder in an attempt at consolation.
    After much noisy sniffing and gasping and not being able to talk, I told her how sorry I was for everything—for not coming home from Paris, for sending the driver round to pick up my things, for not answering her calls for three months.
    “Please, let’s just forget this happened,” she said. “Only please come and see us—you can bring Jack with you. We can put this all behind us.”
    “Mum,” I said, bracing myself, “I’ve left him.”
    There was a silence while she decided how to react to this news. If I were her, I would have been whooping with joy—I’m sure he seemed like nothing but trouble to her. But my mother’s manners were better than mine. “Where are you now?” she asked.
    “That’s the thing, Mum,” I said, “I’ve been sort of rash. I’m not in England. In fact I’m in South Africa. With Sharon.”
    “South Africa?” said Mum, the pitch of her voice rising a little. “Don’t you need your yellow fever injection for that?”
    “No, Mum,” I sniffed.
    “Whatever possessed you?” she said, starting to sound despondent now. “Why didn’t you just come back home? We could have taken care of you. Now you’re off with strangers somewhere—”
    “Mum,” I said, my voice cracking with tears, “I’ve got a lot to deal with and I’m not sure how I’m going to just yet. I had to get away. I’m sorry, Mum.”
    I heard her sigh as the anger left her. “Oh, darling. I just wish I’d known what was happening to you. I’ve been so worried about you. We even phoned the police, but they said there was nothing they could do.”
    I wept again. Out of guilt. Out of bitter regret. Of everything this experience was doubtless going to teach me, I was sure that the key lesson would be that I wasn’t enough of a grown-up to run my own life yet.
    “I’m so sorry,” I croaked again.
    She shushed me for a while, like she had when I was a little girl. “Do you think you’re going to—to divorce him?” she asked delicately, unable to contain her curiosity.
    “I don’t know,” I said. It wasn’t the first time the word had crossed my mind in the last few weeks, but it still had the power to frighten me—to conjure up memories of Mia. “I haven’t decided what I’m going to do. I just had to get away.”
    I could feel her weighing up whether she should ask me why I’d decided to leave in the first place. I prayed she wouldn’t; I couldn’t formulate an answer to that. Maybe in a few days’ time. Once I’d been able to think.
    “Mum,” I ventured, glancing at my mobile again. Still nothing. “I suppose he hasn’t rung there, looking for me, has he?”
    She was quiet. Of course she wanted to ask why I wanted to know, but she didn’t. The soul of discretion. “No,” she said, eventually.
    “Will you tell me if he does?” I asked, feeling pathetic. “Will you tell me right away?”
    “If that’s what you want, darling,” she said,