The Road Trip: The heart-warming new novel from the author of The Flatshare and The Switch Beth O'Leary (ready to read books .TXT) 📖

Grace reaches across to pat me amiably on the arm. Her ribs are showing through the fabric of her designer swimsuit, and I frown – she’s getting thinner, too thin maybe. She’s got a modelling job now, and her hair is an uncharacteristically sensible brown: more commercial, apparently. She spends much of her time at coke-fuelled parties in either London or LA; her Instagram grid is full of photos of her draped around billionaires or sunning herself on yachts. She’s not posted about her book on there for a while. I should check in with her more, but Grace is one of those people who I never think to worry about; she’s always been the adult in the group.

‘Marc doesn’t understand himself, let alone you and Addie,’ she says. ‘Ignore him, darling. You’re doing just fine.’

But I can’t shake off the melancholy for the rest of the day. Marcus’s words go around and around in my mind, like wasps circling something sticky and sweet, and I feel it again, the sense of wrongness, as if an object in the scene has been moved between takes.

Do you know how easy it would be for someone else to take her off you right now?

‘If you keep insisting on this, Dylan, you won’t see another penny from us,’ Dad says.

This is the very last horror looming ahead, the final expression of my father’s disapproval. Even Luke still gets a monthly stipend, and he now runs a string of gay clubs in New York.

I square my shoulders. We’re standing in my uncle Terry’s flat in Poole, staring at the roiling grey sea through the floor-to-ceiling windows. I’ve managed to avoid going home since the awful visit at the end of January, but I couldn’t dodge Terry’s fiftieth birthday party. Terry personally hounded me for an RSVP. In the end I accepted, having discovered that Addie would be away on a hen do – I know she has to meet my family eventually, but Christ, not like this. Everyone here thinks poor people aren’t trying hard enough; there’s an enormous swan-shaped ice sculpture in one corner and a string quartet in the other, and I am fairly confident the musicians have been hired because Terry is hoping the violinist will have sex with him.

‘Do you hear me, Dylan? Going back to university isn’t an option.’

If my father stops sending me money, I’ll have to pull out of the flat purchase I’m midway through; I’ll have to fund myself through the Masters degree. It means . . . I’m not even sure I know what it means. As much as it pains me to admit it, I’ve never not had money coming in from my parents.

It’s the last step to freedom, letting go of that money, but I know too that my father’s money is freedom, and by giving it up, I’m signing up to some of the toughest years of my life.

‘Cut me off, then,’ I say, watching the waves crash. ‘I’ll earn my way.’

The next weekend Addie and I meet for a walk in the Bishop’s Palace Garden beneath a dusting of Maytime drizzle. Addie’s wearing a grey cap and Lycra – she ran here from her parents’ house, and her cheeks are still dappled pink from the exercise, and I love her so much I suddenly feel desperate with it.

‘Move in with me,’ I say.

She’s a few steps ahead of me – we’ve stepped into single file to allow a man with a buggy past. She turns slowly on her heels to stare at me.

‘You don’t mean . . .’ Her eyes flick uncertainly from my face to a couple passing by us, hand in hand. ‘You mean at the log cabin? With Marcus?’

‘No, no,’ I say, moving towards her, taking her hands. ‘Our own place.’

Her eyebrows draw together in confusion. ‘Not the flat? Are you not buying that flat any more?’

I haven’t told Addie about the money yet; the one time we talked about financials ended in an enormous and very uncomfortable argument, and these days when I mention my parents her face turns shuttered, so I’ve stopped bringing them up.

‘It was a stupid idea, investing in a flat. I’m only twenty-two, for God’s sake. Let’s rent somewhere. Somewhere that’s mine and yours. Near the school, so you don’t have such a long journey on the bus . . . and near the university.’

Her smile grows slowly, and as she squeezes my hands and beams at me I feel as though I’m better, as if I’ve been in pain and it’s lifted at last.

‘You’re serious?’

‘I’m serious.’

‘You’re going to do the Masters?’

‘I’ve decided to do it part-time, and work. Maybe bar work, I was thinking, or tutoring.’

Her smile gets even broader. ‘Really? You’re going to work?’

I feel a twinge of something like shame. ‘Yeah, of course – no more dicking around on my eternal gap yah.’

She laughs. ‘Dylan . . . are you sure?’

‘I’m sure.’

She hugs me tight and I spin her around.

‘Is this what you wanted?’ I ask her, pressing my lips to her cap. ‘Why didn’t you say?’

‘It’s not what I wanted,’ she says, burrowing her face into my coat. ‘I mean, it’s not like I had an idea of what I wanted in my head, I just want you to do what’s right for you. But I’m happy, yeah. I’m happy I’m in your plan.’

You are my plan, I want to say.

‘Shall we find a café? Get on Rightmove?’ I ask instead, bundling her in beside me as we start walking again.

She nods, still smiling.

‘Have you told Marcus?’ she asks.

The glow of happiness dims a little at that. ‘Not yet. But I will, soon. He’s not – he’s not totally on board with the idea, so . . .’

I trail off. Addie says nothing.

‘He’ll come around,’ I say.

Addie still says nothing.

‘You OK?’

‘Yeah,’ she says. ‘Just . . . I got excited for a minute there.’

‘And then . . . unexcited again?’

‘Well, if you’ve not told Marcus yet, it’s