Truly, Madly, Like Me - Jo Watson Page 0,69

and looked at me. “Hashtag NoWineOClock doesn’t exist here,” he said with a teasing smile.

“What’s that?” Samirah asked.

“Some internet meme thing that Frankie has fallen victim to.” He gave me a playful wink and my spine felt like it straightened.

“It’s YOU!” I heard a voice behind me and turned. The accent was unmistakable, it was definitely Scottish. Thick and sounding like all kinds of smooth, silky honey. The chef from the hotel was standing by the table. He placed a massive hand on my shoulder.

“How was your spiritual awakening. Are you woke?” he asked with a smile.

I shook my head. “But I nearly got bitten by a snake.”

“Aaaah, yes. Those pesky things in the desert. You have to be careful of them.”

“You could have warned me,” I said pointedly.

He smiled apologetically. “As long as you’re okay, lass.”

“Why wouldn’t I be okay?” I asked, a little defensively, somewhat embarrassed by how I’d behaved the last time I saw him.

“Ye was in quite a state that morning,” he replied, softer this time.

I shrugged, trying to be nonchalant about the whole thing.

“What happened?” Samirah asked, as Faizel came to the table and slipped an arm around her shoulder.

“She was taking photos of her breakfast,” he declared loudly.

Everyone looked at him blankly, as if this needed further explanation.

“She was standing on her chair, taking photos of her breakfast. She even made the napkin look pretty. She doesn’t even eat breakfast!”

Samirah and Mark looked at me, both raising their eyebrows.

I looked down at the table and laced my fingers together. “My breakfast photos are the highlight of my social media feed, okay? Do you know how many likes they get?”

Samirah shook her head. “You see, this is what I don’t get about this whole social media thing. Why would you share a photo of your breakfast with the world? Who wants to see it?”

“A lot of people. Especially when I make those purple smoothie bowls with the blueberry hearts.”

Samirah laughed heartily now. “Who has time for that?”

“Not me,” the chef piped up and Mark also laughed at this. “I’m too busy frying up everyone’s bacon.”

“I did, okay. I did! I had the time for that!” I hadn’t meant to say it with such a sting, I hadn’t meant for the words to come out with such a bite to them, and they’d silenced the laughter at the table now. I took a deep breath. “That’s what I did. That was my job. I woke up every morning and made the most Insta-worthy breakfast; sometimes it would take two hours to make. And then I took a photo of it and posted it. Three hundred thousand people were waiting to see what I ate for breakfast every morning, okay!” I paused at that. “Well, that’s not really quite true, is it? Because I don’t eat breakfast. But I act like I eat breakfast, because breakfast is #mostimportantmealoftheday . . .” I trailed off, totally aware of the blatant lie in all that. The deception that I’d been putting out into the world. Showing them this side of me that didn’t even exist. This breakfast-eating side that they’d all bought into, so much so that many of them attempted to recreate my gorgeous spreads, sharing pics of their attempts on social media.

For some reason, saying those words out loud in this environment, in this place that was so far away and disconnected from the rest of the world, made them sound absurd. The whole idea suddenly seemed absurd. As if it was an idea and concept that didn’t exist, and had no right to exist here either. Like bringing some prehistoric beast back to life and popping it in a modern-day zoo. Out of place and time. Strange and foreign.

“Why?” Samirah suddenly asked. I turned to her. “Sorry, I’m not being funny or trying to put down what you did, but why would someone want to see what you ate for breakfast? And why would it be so important to show them? What does everyone get out of it?” She sounded genuinely intrigued, as if she really did have no idea why anyone would want to look at my homemade granola swirls.

Her question wafted across the table and by the time it reached me, it truly confused me. I shrugged. And then I shook my head. “My breakfast always looked pretty. If it was a pink smoothie bowl I would decorate the scene with pink things, you know? Like maybe a pink napkin or pink flowers or