Read an extract from Love on the Air by Ash London.
CHAPTER 1
Up until the age of twenty-nine and a half, if I wanted something, I usually got it.
Not because I was pushy or mean or overbearing—I had simply made a habit of giving in to every single one of my urges and desires without a second thought.
From pastries to Balenciaga boots, I said yes to myself without hesitation or regret.
Of course, underneath the designer clothes and delicious lunches and scarily extensive day spa schedule, there was a reason for this life of hedonism and, naturally, it stemmed from my childhood (blah blah blah). But despite my understanding of why certain unfortunate (read: traumatic) events in my early years made me this way, I never had the desire to change. After all, I was yet to find a single one of life’s disappointments that could not quickly be eradicated with something new and shiny.
Until I found myself falling out of a taxi and sobbing in my Aunty May’s front yard at midnight, heartbroken and homeless.
Not even the limited edition bright pink Chanel Dad Sandals I purchased later that week could pick up my spirits. In fact, at one point I found myself wondering if I’d overpaid for them.
And that, ladies and gentlemen, was how I knew that shit was getting real.
While not everyone can simply quit their job, press eject on life and start over, I knew I could and probably would. Because when I wanted to do something, I usually did it. And that is how I found myself here, on a desert island 5000 kilometres away from home, with a raging hangover and a killer tan.
Eyes still closed, I reached down and rummaged through the sea of clothes and towels on the floor. The room smelled like a mix of herbal mosquito repellent and coconut sunscreen. My fingers finally hit a familiar hard spot in the pocket of my favourite Isabel Marant shorts, which were now looking a little worse for wear. It was a shame DHL didn’t do express courier services to tiny islands in the middle of the Philippines. If I were back home I could have had a new pair on the doorstep by the weekend.
Pulling my iPhone close to my face, I tapped the screen, propelling several bits of sand back into my eyes and mouth, causing me to cough, splutter and drop an F-bomb.
It had no battery left.
My God, who was I anymore?
Two months ago, a phone devoid of battery would have signified a life devoid of meaning. Now, I was carelessly letting it die and then falling asleep in a damp bikini.
Is that how you get UTIs? I wondered. I added it to the mental list of ‘things to google later’.
Please, God, let me not get a UTI. Not here. Not now. Amen.
At this point in life, I was pretty sure that God didn’t exist. And after the last five months had unfolded the way they had, if God did exist, then he/she/it must really hate me. In any case, if God wasn’t willing to even attempt to help me out while my entire life was tanking monumentally, then God wasn’t going to lift a finger to save my urinary tract. Fact.
I rolled over towards the familiar mop of brunette hair on the pillow next to me. The same hair I’d been waking up to on and off since, well, forever.
A wave of gratitude washed over me for this fearless, intrepid woman who had dragged me around the world on adventures for over a decade. The girl I’d met on the first day of Year 6 who’d instantly become the sister I never had.
The girl who hadn’t given me an option seven weeks ago when I called her crying from my car with snot running down my face and a half-consumed McDonald’s thickshake in my lap. The one who was waiting on the shore thirty-six hours later, arms open wide, with a sympathetic look on her face, and who simply said, ‘Everything will be okay . . . but first, let’s drink.’
I reached over Vanessa’s corpse-like body to find that, miraculously, the fancy dive watch on her wrist was showing 5:50 am. I hadn’t missed my 6 am yoga class.
No matter what went down on the island of an evening, I’d made myself a rule that I would haul my sorry arse to yoga the next morning. Perhaps it was a way to ensure that amid all the debauchery, I would still leave room for some sort of ‘Eat Pray Love’ spiritual experience. After all, I’d come here to figure out what the hell to do with my life, not just drink cheap booze with sunburned scuba divers.
That’s not to say I got up to much debauchery. That was more Vanessa’s domain, but I gladly allowed myself to get swept up in the madness. Even when we were thirteen, my proximity to my best friend’s adventures made me cool by association.
I was voted class president, but Vanessa was the first one to have a boyfriend.
I was the entertainer, with a natural ability to make everyone laugh. But Vanessa was always the coolest girl in the room.
Seventeen years later and not much had changed, apart from the fact that the life I had built for myself was cooler than that of anyone else I knew.
Was. Past tense.
Now I was single and unemployed, while Vanessa led shark-diving expeditions in paradise and engaged in wild love affairs with the United Nations of scuba-diving lotharios. Balance had been restored.
I got to work rummaging through her drawers and soon commandeered a fresh T-shirt, baggy shorts, clean undies and a hair tie. I had amassed quite the collection of chic designer yoga gear. The kind of pants that made my arse look perkier than necessary, and tops that fell off my shoulder at just the right angle. But as I had no time to get back to my own room this morning, this random get-up would have to do.
Thankfully, the bikini top I’d drunkenly removed as I climbed into bed the night before had dried overnight. Bras were one of two things we never shared. I was a D cup by Year 8. Vanessa’s boobs, on the other hand, were perky and cute, and she could go braless without running the risk of treading on a rogue nipple.
The other thing we never shared was boys. Not because of some high-school pact; we’d just genuinely never found ourselves attracted to the same one. I went for guys who looked like they’d stepped off the set of Pride and Prejudice, or just finished going over your tax returns. Vanessa liked guys who may or may not have been in jail.
It was yet another reason we were destined to be best friends forever.
I set off to class, slightly miffed that my dead phone meant I couldn’t listen to music. Every walk over three minutes deserves its own soundtrack, and today the island was giving me James Blake vibes. Maybe a bit of Bon Iver. But, for now, the island supplied its own symphony. Village dogs barked as they took advantage of the empty beach and enjoyed games of tag, while fishermen in the distance greeted each other on their way out to deeper waters to test their luck.
It was during the quiet moments of this daily pilgrimage that I loved Malapascua the most. The peace. The stillness. The possibility. It was like my own private little island. Soon enough, the harsh sun would force everyone into the shade, and the beachside hotels would be blasting dodgy Euro club tunes to set the holiday mood. But for now, I felt like some sort of reawakening might actually be possible. Like maybe today was the day I’d figure everything out.
My yoga studio back home was seriously bougie and membership cost an arm and a leg—it was one big sea of oversized Chloé day bags and Lululemon. I loved overhearing the small talk between classes as the women around me complained about nannies, mothers-in- law and the quality of stone fruits at the local grocer. It was easy to find your Zen when your life was devoid of real-world problems, I often thought.
Here on the island, it was less of a studio and more of a hut, elevated above the village like a bamboo prayer tower. I made my way up the steps and was met at the top by Pinky, a tiny Filipina hippy, who offered me the same greeting I’d been given every morning since I arrived.
‘Good morning, darling Alex.’
Each time it made my heart swell. I bowed my head with a wink. ‘Good morning, darling Pinky.’
First to arrive, I chose my usual spot in the corner of the hut, rolled out a mat on the warm bamboo, and collapsed into child’s pose, knees wide on either side, arms stretched out in front, forehead on the ground. Pinky was striking matches to light the incense behind her. I took a deep breath in, and let the smoky, sagey goodness fill my lungs and my head. It took just seconds for the familiar tingly threat of tears to appear.
Quitter.
Loser.
Another deep breath. A single, stinging tear.
You’re okay.
It’s okay.
Just breathe.
-
Despite being the final morning of the year, I spent this one in the same fashion I’d spent the previous forty-nine on the island: lazily. I justified this easily thanks to the 6 am yoga session that I already had under my belt, which was one of the main reasons (apart from enlightenment etc., etc.) that I loved a morning yoga class.
As was our usual daily ritual, Vanessa met me after class for breakfast, and then we lay in a perfect little shady spot on the shore with bellies full of acai smoothies.
‘I cried again in yoga today.’
Vanessa was lying on her back with her eyes shut, her legs in the air, feet resting on the trunk of the palm tree we’d plonked ourselves under. Her anklet glistened and the charms made a jingling sound every time she readjusted her legs. She opened one eye and shifted towards me.
‘Again? Is this where I am supposed to ask if you wanna talk about it, or whatever?’ Vanessa’s face was both incredibly sincere and slightly disgusted.
‘I’m fine. Just letting you know so that poor Pinky doesn’t have to be the only one on the island who knows I’m a complete emotional mess.’
I smacked my bean bag a couple of times to fluff it up in just the right place, then lay back to relax in the little nook I’d carved out and took a sip from my water bottle. I rubbed my eyes and let out a frustrated sigh.
I had done enough therapy over the years to know that my problems would follow me wherever I went but I’d hoped the sting would have subsided by now. Instead, it popped up in moments of quiet reflection as a cruel little reminder that, despite my perfectly curated Instagram feed filled with sunset cocktails and bikini shots featuring juuuust the right amount of boob, I was still a little lost.
Vanessa stretched her neck from side to side. ‘Well, if you’re going to be an emotional mess you may as well do it in paradise.’
She was right in the sense that we really were in paradise. There was not a single stressful element to life here. Food was cheap. Booze was cheaper. I could do whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted, and nobody on the island expected a single thing from me.
Vanessa continued. ‘Anyway, there’s nothing wrong with running away from your problems for a little while.’
Vanessa had lived in ten countries since high school and changed cities more often than most people changed toothbrushes.
‘No shit you think that, mate. You’ve made an art out of changing scenery every time you get even slightly bored or disillusioned.’
‘Hey, I’d hardly call nearly dying from malaria a boring reason to leave Tanzania,’ she quipped, eyes still closed.
She was right. I would have left too. Although, to be fair, I wouldn’t have lived in a tent (or any dwelling) in Tanzania in the first place.
Vanessa heaved herself up and brushed the sand off her denim skirt. ‘Speaking of Tanzania, remember I sent you a photo of the tiny-arse plane I was about to get on? And at that exact time you were in business class en-route to LA to interview one of the boys from One Direction or some shit. It was the perfect snapshot of how differently our lives had panned out. Man, I laughed.’
‘I would have laughed too if the copious amounts of Valium I’d downed on take-off hadn’t paralysed my facial muscles.’
We were now giggling the kind of giggles that only the truest, best memories can elicit. I took another sip of water, sat up and drew a deep breath.
‘I think I’m gonna go shower then grab a massage. What time do festivities kick off tonight?’
‘My last dive is at two so I’ll be packed up and ready to hang by . . . five-ish. Which gives us seven hours to wreak one last bit of havoc on this island for the year. Speaking of which, that hot American I met at the dive school yesterday is joining the group so I might have company.’ Vanessa winked and then wandered towards the dive school.
‘I knew there was a reason you had the good bikini top on today. Your tits look great, by the way!’ I yelled, a little too loudly, to my friend in the distance, as I gathered my things and trudged through the sand back to my room.
The American would probably fall in love with Vanessa and come out tonight. He would follow her around like a puppy dog for the remainder of the week, before boarding a flight home and becoming nothing but a Facebook friend memory that we’d one day laugh about on another beach in another country. It was the way things always had been and the way things always would be.
It only took me two minutes to get from the shore back to my room.
When I first arrived, I’d booked into the only five-star hotel on the island. My obsession with hotel booking and holiday planning was matched only by my love of Scandi pop music and buying hard-to-find designer shoes online.
The first week was spent lounging about in my king-sized bed, indulging in massages at the spa, and sipping overpriced cocktails by the pool while Vanessa was at work. I kicked off my daily yoga practice, journalled, and listened to copious amounts of happy music (everything from Chance the Rapper to Neil Diamond). When the seven days was up I was shocked to find that I was still depressed and the trip might extend a little longer than originally planned. With my savings account dwindling and the end date of Operation ‘Get My Life Back Together and Stop Crying in Yoga Every Day’ still unclear, I figured it was time to make alternative accommodation plans.
So, after seven luxurious nights, I rented a simple room near Vanessa’s, with an air conditioner and a lockable door.
I walked into my little sanctuary, put my phone on charge, closed the blinds and undressed. The room was small, with a double bed, small set of drawers and an adjoining bathroom that housed a toilet, shower and full-length mirror.
Just as I was about to hop into the shower, my iPhone made a dinging sound, signalling its resurrection, followed by three new message tones.
I stood naked in the bathroom, both tempted to look and desperate to get under the shower and wash my crunchy, curly hair. I chose the hair. If this person really wanted to get a hold of me, they would call.
And call they did. By the third ring, I finally convinced myself that someone had died, rinsed out the expensive conditioner that I was fast running out of, and took three quick hops over to my bedside table, dripping water on the tiles of my tiny room as I went. By the time I dried my hands and picked up the phone, I’d missed the call. Although when I saw the caller ID I wasn’t sure if I would have answered it anyway.
Ding. A text.
Al. Call me back ASAP! I have news that might finally get your sorry arse home xoxo
A pang of guilt hit me like a punch in the gut. My curiosity was piqued, but I wasn’t ready to face Tom just yet. I shut my phone off and hopped back into the shower.
-
Despite the fact that I’d been on the island for seven weeks, I still hadn’t so much as entertained the idea of a dive. I kept imagining that as soon as I got under the water my brain would explode from the pressure and my headless body would then have to be transported all the way back to Sydney.
What would they even do with a headless body? How would customs handle the blood? Would I have to be cremated first? Would there be an autopsy? So many questions. All that to say that, no, I hadn’t been on a dive. While people from all over the world made the long and arduous journey to Malapascua, week in, week out, keen to dive in some of the best conditions on the planet, I remained safely on the shore, pottering about the island, sunbathing, reading and getting cheap massages.
There were also copious amounts of time spent feeling sorry for myself and wondering how exactly everything had unravelled so spectacularly. Five months ago I’d been deeply in love with my boyfriend, who looked like a tanned Australian version of Robert Pattinson, mentally planning a wedding (despite the fact that he was yet to propose). I had an incredible dream job, and my life was on a positive trajectory, coming together in the exact way I had always planned. Until five words caused it all to come crashing down around me.
I. Can’t. Make. This. Work.
As if our relationship was a dodgy Airbnb Nespresso machine that didn’t come with instructions.
Except he hadn’t really tried. He hadn’t googled it. He hadn’t even turned it off and on again. He just stood there— shrugging his shoulders and avoiding eye contact.
How could he not make it work? I was quite literally the perfect girlfriend. I planned surprise holidays, always paid my way and had made all of his friends fall in love with me, one by one. In fact, most of them chose me in the break-up, such was my ability to crack people wide open and forge lasting bonds with everyone I met.
None of this changed the fact that he hadn’t chosen me. His rejection was devastating and left me feeling weak and pathetic. Perhaps that was the worst part. My biggest fears had come to fruition, and there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it. I wanted him. He didn’t want me back. He had decided that life would be better without me, and so he left.
And there it was. The kick in the gut. The wave of panic. I buckled down and let it wash over me, knowing that, as always, it would subside as quickly as it had come.
Deep breaths.
You’re okay.
It’s okay.
Just breathe.
I never knew getting dumped would feel so much like grief. Sometimes it felt worse. Grieving a dead person was one thing. But grieving someone who’s still very much alive but just choosing to live without you? That sucked in its own very special kind of way.
The one consolation that I repeated to myself, over and over like a mantra, was the fact that if he couldn’t make it work with me, then he was never going to make it work with anyone and would probably die alone. The girlfriend he procured three weeks later would no doubt learn the same lesson in time.
So, despite the fact that I knew a calendar date, was nothing more than another notch in an ancient time measurement system and carried no real-world significance, I was still relieved that this particular year would be over in just a few short hours. And unlike every other new year’s eve of my twenties, this one had required little to no preparation.
Tonight I wouldn’t be partying at a harbourside VIP event hosted by some random vodka company with guaranteed views of the fireworks and a gorgeous boyfriend on my arm. And I wouldn’t spend two hours in hair and make-up to guarantee I looked perfect when our photo was plastered all over social media. Because here on the island I was no longer that girl. I’d left her behind in a radio studio when, halfway through an Adele ballad, I’d burst into tears—become completely overwhelmed by crippling heartache—and simply walked out, never to return.
And now I was here. Shoeless at a (literal) dive bar, downing cheap rum like it was water; wearing frayed denim shorts, a worn-out bikini top and a ratty sarong that was currently wrapped around my head like a turban for no real reason other than that I couldn’t be bothered carrying it.
It was five minutes to midnight when we stumbled out of the bar and onto the moonlit shore, bellies full of laughter and rum. Vanessa had ditched Mack the dumb American, who, I soon discovered, was pretty funny and had a PhD in biochemistry, and she and I were walking, arms linked, towards the water.
‘You know, babe, what happened to you this year was shitty. But you’ve lived through shittier.’
Vanessa knew my life’s history as intimately as her own— after all, she was there for most of it. She knew how hard it had been facing my teenage years without a father, grappling with the fact that, no matter how much I achieved, he wasn’t ever coming back.
‘I just don’t want you thinking that any of this stuff defines you. Your life didn’t end when your dad left . . . It shouldn’t end now just because some arsehole broke your heart.’
‘All right, Oprah,’ I quipped back at her sarcastically.
‘I’m serious! You’ve always kicked total arse, why stop now?’
Even in my boozy, happy state I knew she was right. I had to stop letting disappointing men dictate the trajectory of my life and how I felt about myself.
I took a long sigh. ‘You’re right. I guess shitty dudes are my kryptonite.’
‘Yeah, well, you’ve still got a choice, ya know,’ Vanessa mused. ‘I mean, you didn’t exactly get a choice in how this year ended, but you can choose how the new one starts.’ She paused for a moment. ‘Fuck, I really do sound like Oprah.’
I laughed as I walked beside her, taking a sip of rum.
‘I’ve got an idea,’ she said, as she stopped and crouched down ahead of me. A moment later she was dragging her hand through the sand.
‘What are you doing?’ I asked, confused.
‘Drawing a line in the sand. Duh. It’s both literal and metaphorical. Once that countdown is finished, you’re gonna hop over it. And you’re gonna leave your bullshit behind. Agree?’
I scrunched up my face. ‘Babe, this is seriously lame.’
‘No. Lame is you, the most talented person I know, rotting away on an island because you’re sad you got dumped.’ She tapped the dive watch on her wrist, then looked back at me. ‘You’ve got one minute till the new year starts. It’s your choice.’
I stared at her for a moment, and then down at the dodgy line she’d fashioned in the sand.
‘Well, it can’t hurt, I suppose,’ I said, giving in. I sighed and placed my drink down then squeezed my eyes shut. A handful of people laughed as they made their way out of the bar and onto the moonlit shore, a sense of quiet anticipation in the air.
One last time, I let myself remember.
‘Ten! Nine! Eight!’ their loud screams echoed.
The nothingness on his face when he told me he was leaving.
The deep ache of desperation as I wept on the kitchen floor, begging him to make me understand.
‘Seven! Six! Five!’
The explanation that never came.
‘Four! Three! Two! One!’
I drew on every ounce of strength I could muster and willed myself to let go of the year that had taken away so much.
The boy I’d thought I was going to marry.
The job that I’d thought defined me.
The life I’d thought was unfolding.
‘HAPPY NEW YEAR!’
In one quick move, I hopped over the crude line in the sand. It was done. It had to be done. I had to find a way to move forwards alone. When I finally opened my eyes, Vanessa was running towards the ocean, her naked silhouette leaping joyously into the water as she looked back at me and squealed.
Seconds later, I was ripping my clothes off and following her in. The cool water against my bare body rushed through every part of me as I dove in, cleansing me of the pain and regret that I was so desperate to leave behind. When I emerged back on the surface, I felt the warmth of deep, cathartic tears running down my face, the salt touching my lips as they fell. I looked to the sky, naked and free, with nothing to offer except a promise. A promise that I would never give up on my life again.
I was nobody’s hero. I was nobody’s girlfriend. I was nobody’s. And maybe I never would be again. I was nothing but a girl swimming naked in the sea with a smile on her face the size of the moon, and for the first time in forever it felt as though that was enough.
Happy fucking new year indeed.
-
Six hours later, I sat on the shore, hugging my knees into my chest and watching the sun rise over the water. I looked out at the calm blue sea, closed my eyes, and slowly exhaled.
The island were real, the sand and the ocean and the rum and the sea breeze were all real . . . but the life I was living here wasn’t, and there was only so long I could pretend that it was.
I wanted my life back. And I knew that if I was given one more chance, I’d never throw it away again. Certainly not on account of love.
I reached over to check my phone. The message was still there. Still unanswered.
Al. Call me back ASAP! I have news that might finally get your sorry arse home xoxo
I stared out at the endless blue ocean until I felt a familiar sense of knowing settle into my gut. I knew what I had to do.
It was decided. And once I decided something, it was generally always done.
Extracted from Love on the Air by Ash London.
Love on the Air
by Ash London
A vibrant enemies-to-lovers romance full of radio drama and unexpected love stories, from beloved radio presenter and podcaster Ash London.
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