Alison hadn’t, nor had she remembered the impressive cooker and hob, the beautiful ivory kitchen units with beech worktops, the double-glazed windows and the proper domestic radiators that indicated a fully functioning central heating system. No wonder the caravan felt so warm and welcoming.
‘This is lovely, Rosie,’ she’d said, gazing round in admiration. Bathed in lamplight and the glow from the fire, the caravan felt snug and cosy.
Rosie beamed at her. ‘Come and see the rest of it.’
The shower room had a large, walk-in shower, and plenty of room to move around in, which wasn’t something Alison had expected. There was even a heated towel rail. Rosie’s bedroom had its own en suite which, although small, suited Rosie perfectly well.
‘You can have the bigger shower room,’ she said generously. ‘I’m fine in this one.’
‘Are you sure?’ Alison asked doubtfully. ‘It seems a bit unfair.’
Rosie had given her a worried look. ‘Well, it’s a sort of trade off. You haven’t seen your bedroom yet.’
‘Ah.’
To be fair, it wasn’t a bad size, and at least the two single beds, separated by a bedside cabinet, were full-size ones, and not the usual caravan bunk-style beds that Alison had seen on the rare occasions she’d holidayed in a caravan. There was a single wardrobe at the end of the room, along with a tiny chest of drawers.
‘I know it’s not exactly huge,’ Rosie had said worriedly.
‘It’s fine,’ Alison assured her. ‘It’s only for three months, after all. Anyway, I’ll only really use it for sleeping in so how big does it need to be?’
Rosie nodded, relieved. ‘I mean, there’s always the sofa if you’d prefer…’
‘God, no! With us both coming and going with our shifts I’d never get a wink of sleep. No, I’m fine tucked away in here. Thanks, Rosie. It’s perfect.’
Well, Alison reflected, as she restocked a shelf in the chiller cabinet with cans of cola, not perfect perhaps, but certainly much better than she’d anticipated. It really hadn’t taken her long to feel at home in the caravan, thanks to Rosie’s thoughtful gestures – not least the journal she’d presented Alison with that first night.
‘Okay, so you know I like to keep a journal,’ she’d said, as they’d settled themselves on the sofa in their pyjamas, mugs of tea in their hands as they’d valiantly resisted hot chocolate.
‘Oh, do you?’ Alison had grinned. ‘You never mentioned.’
Rosie was obsessed with her journal. She wrote everything in it and decorated it beautifully with washi tape and stickers, torn pages from her favourite books (Alison almost cried in horror at the thought of it, though Rosie assured her she only ever used tatty old second-hand copies), bits of ribbon and lace, old greetings cards and anything else that took her fancy. What started as a fairly standard-sized – albeit stunningly beautiful – journal had ended up twice the thickness, so crammed full were its pages.
‘Well,’ Rosie said, ignoring the sarcasm, ‘I got you a gift.’
She handed Alison a rather classy-looking cardboard box. Inside, under a layer of tissue paper, lay a pale blue hardback journal, embossed with silver waves. Its pages were thick and appealing, just waiting to be written upon.
‘Got you these, too,’ Rosie said, and handed Alison a bag which contained a whole assortment of stickers, washi tapes and other bits and bobs. ‘Just spare ones,’ she explained. ‘I thought they’d do to start you off, and when you’ve got into it you can buy ones that really speak to you.’
‘Oh, Rosie,’ Alison breathed, ‘they’re lovely. This journal – it’s absolutely gorgeous. But what am I supposed to do with it? You know me. I’ve never been one for arts and crafts.’
‘I thought this could be your three-month diary of your time in Kelsea Sands. You could use it to chronicle Project Alison! Write about what happens every day. Maybe make your own weight loss chart, so you can colour in a square for every day you manage to stick to your diet. Write down your thoughts, and how you’re feeling about everything. And you can stick things in it that reflect your mood. Whatever you like.’
She scrabbled in the bag and lifted out some of the washi tapes for her cousin to admire. ‘Whenever you get peckish – especially on evenings cos we all know what a hard time that is when you’re on a diet – you can take out your journal and start decorating a page or two. Honest, it’s so absorbing that you forget all about food! Trust me.’
She paused, giving Alison a worried look. ‘Do you like it? You don’t have to use it if you don’t want to. I won’t be offended.’
Alison reached over and hugged her cousin. ‘It’s perfect! Just what I need to keep Project Alison on track.’
Though so far, she thought now, as she stacked the last of the cola cans in the cabinet, her journal entries hadn’t been anything like what Rosie probably imagined. There was nothing positive or exciting written on the pages yet. She could remember the first entry with depressing clarity:
Sunday 1 February – Project Alison Day 1: Messaged Jenna to tell her I was staying with Rosie for the foreseeable and to send my love to the twins. She didn’t reply.
She’d toyed with the idea of messaging again, telling her daughter that she’d be happy to take the girls to Kelsea Sands to see the family if she would like her to, but Rosie had warned her that if she did, she might find herself back at square one before she knew it. Jenna could be very persuasive. Worse than that, though, was the possibility that Jenna would repeat what Joel had said and tell her she wasn’t allowed contact with the girls. That would make it all too real and too upsetting.
Monday 9 February – Project Alison Day 9: Visited Mam and Dad. Dad’s done an online quiz to see which Doctor Who monster he’d be. Apparently, he’s a Slitheen. They’re very flatulent according to the description. He’s bitterly disappointed and says the results are fixed because it should be obvious to everyone that he’d be a Dalek.
Yes, that had literally happened. Mam had thrown up her hands in despair and said, ‘He doesn’t even watchDoctor Who! What’swrongwith him?’
