CHAPTER ONE

Angela prowled the motor home’s interior as though casing the joint, sweeping her hand over surfaces and resting it on seating options, curtseying at each window to appreciate the view.
‘It’s fabulous,’ she whispered.
‘You don’t feel claustrophobic?’ Ruby asked from the doorway where she was cautiously stooped.

Angela gasped at the idea. ‘It’s positively vast.’
Ruby contemplated the glossy brochure in her fist, a page of white vans, each one a slight variation on the other, like a spot the difference. ‘I don’t know how we’re going to choose. I can’t tell which one this is.’
‘I feel like I’m on set.’ Angela draped herself across the dinette’s leatherette bench. ‘Mrs Brakenberg, they’re ready for your close-up.’
‘It’ll take some getting used to. We’ll have to start off slow, take a few shorter trips, just like we discussed.’

‘Scaredy-cat.’ Angela sprang to her feet again. ‘A sink, a microwave, it’s even got a water filter—they thought of everything. I’ve stayed in five-star hotels that weren’t this swank.’ She began opening cabinet doors. ‘There’s more storage here than in our units. Here. And here. And here, and here, and here—’ she laughed, ‘and here, and here …’
‘It doesn’t say anything about price. How do I know how much they cost?’ Ruby was feeling deflated. Of all the things she could spend her money on, this trumped-up donut van had topped the list. She’d equated motor homes with free-dom: safe, comfortable, manageable freedom. She’d fore-seen spontaneity and adventure, something to stop her from stagnating. The idea now seemed oppressive. Escape was never on the cards; you can’t break free from yourself.

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