Zoe’s Modern Life

What a week it’s been.

But we’re finally packed and currently tucking into a pre-holiday Domino’s. The house is clean, the cases are sorted, the passports are ready and I don’t intend to wash another dish before we leave.

Therefore, it’s pizza night.

This week has mostly consisted of packing for myself, my husband and our son.

Now, I’m lucky enough not to be married to a man-child. My husband is perfectly capable of sorting himself out, but he also works—a lot.

He’s spent the week travelling all over the country while I’ve been packing, supporting him and dealing with the guys and whatever problems they’ve managed to create that day.

We employ ten people, and my role mainly involves making sure they’ve eaten, had enough sleep and are generally kept alive—all while listening to their problems as though I give a shit.

It’s like having ten children I don’t love.

As I may have mentioned, my usually highly empathetic self fucked off somewhere around September. Now, I’m on a journey to remember who the fuck I am.

Tomorrow morning, we have a 3 a.m. alarm.

That’s going to be fun.

Then we’ll be embarking on one enormous family holiday.

And when I say family holiday, I mean *family* holiday.

My mum, my husband, my siblings, my in-laws, all of our children—ranging from eight to twenty-three—and even the older kids’ boyfriends and girlfriends.

Officially, we’re all going away to celebrate my 40th. It’s a big birthday; I’m allowed to celebrate it in style.

Unofficially, it’s more of an *oh shit, our dad died unexpectedly in September and we all desperately need some quality family time with our mum* holiday.

So, yes, September explains quite a lot.

But that’s a slightly morbid name for a family holiday, so we’re sticking with “Zoe’s 40th.”

The alarm went off at 3 a.m., and the usual travel-day chaos began: showers, teeth brushed, bags checked, taxi loaded and the relevant family members collected.

Then it was through security and—most importantly—to Starbucks.

This was where my traditional preflight beer was replaced by a Frappuccino.

I asked my husband for a coffee.

He asked what kind.

I said a Cookies and Cream Frappuccino.

What I apparently failed to specify was that I wanted actual coffee *in* the Frappuccino.

It was five o’clock in the morning, and this did not feel like a promising start to the holiday.

We had one of those hushed marital arguments where neither of you wants to draw attention to yourselves, but you’re somehow communicating absolute fury through clenched teeth—all while I attempted to wrangle an overexcited eight-year-old.

Ten minutes later, there was coffee in my Frappuccino.

I wasn’t any less tired, but somehow everything felt slightly more manageable.

Once we were on the plane, my husband settled into his extra-legroom seat. He’s six foot four, so it’s less of a luxury and more of a medical necessity.

Armed with a book—probably something by Tom Clancy—he was perfectly content.

I was sitting with my mum and George. He was thrilled by the prospect of two and a half hours of uninterrupted iPad time, and I knew there were a couple of cheeky glasses of wine waiting for me somewhere above the clouds.

Everyone was happy.

Marbella, here we come.

Because we’d taken such an early flight, we arrived at the hotel at around midday—long before our room was ready.

This did not go down well with our usually easygoing eight-year-old, who proceeded to have the mother of all tantrums.

He had one single-minded mission: get into the pool as quickly as humanly possible.

So quickly, in fact, that he refused to acknowledge two fairly important facts: as a ginger, he requires factor 50, and as a human being, he requires swimming trunks.

For thirty minutes, my husband and I tag-teamed the situation—trying to calm him down, wrestle him into his swimwear and cover him in enough sun cream to protect him from the Spanish sun.

Eventually, my husband managed to settle him. He gave me ten minutes to myself because he knew I’d done most of the parenting that morning.

Well, technically, the iPad had—but he didn’t need to know that.

Finally, George was happily splashing around in the pool. Our room was ready, but my husband and I were both too stressed and exhausted to feel remotely excited about it.

Then, like an actual angel, my mum appeared.

“Why don’t you two grab a drink, go and unpack and get settled? I’ll watch George.”

And just like that, she became my favourite person in Marbella.

George was happy because he’d finally had his pool time. We were happy because we’d finally unpacked.

After a seriously early start, there was only one thing left to do:

Nap.

Our first evening was spent at the all-inclusive buffet.

None of us are really buffet people, but after ridiculously early starts and three different flights leaving from three different airports, a couple of beers, some easy food and much-needed time with the people we love was all anyone wanted.

I know how lucky I am. When the shit hits the fan—and this year, it really has—I can truly rely on my family.

Whatever happens, we always have each other’s backs.

The next day was spent around the pool, but my absolute favourite part of the holiday quickly became our long breakfasts.

There were enough of us to form a professional football team, so people would come and go throughout the morning. We’d catch up on what everyone had done the day before, discuss our plans for the day ahead and simply enjoy being together.

That evening, my husband, George and I decided to visit Puerto Banús.

As a millennial who grew up loving *Sex and the City*, I have always had a soft spot for luxury fashion—even if it sits firmly outside my day-to-day price range.

I’m definitely a bag girl rather than a shoe girl. My collection mostly consists of Kurt Geiger, with a couple of Michael Kors and Marc Jacobs bags thrown in.

Before the holiday, my husband had asked what I wanted for my birthday. We’d agreed on a budget, and I’d asked for a Louis Vuitton bag—so naturally, I needed to investigate what the birthday fairy might be bringing me.

I loved wandering around the fashion houses, looking at clothes, shoes and bags I could ordinarily only imagine owning in my wildest fantasies.

Don’t worry—my husband was doing exactly the same thing with the supercars and yachts.

When we arrived at Louis Vuitton, George was given very strict instructions:

Indoor voice only.

Do not touch anything.

And absolutely everything in this shop is out of your price range.

None of that stopped him from asking for a capybara bag charm.

Firstly, who knew Louis Vuitton had jumped aboard the capybara train?

Secondly, absolutely not. Not in a million years.

Yes, I looked at a bag.

Yes, it was perfect.

And yes, my husband very quickly reminded us that we had a restaurant reservation and needed to leave immediately.

Later, sitting beside the marina with a cold glass of prosecco and eating my body weight in calamari, I remembered what happiness felt like.

Slowly, I was beginning to remember who the fuck I was.

Or, at the very least, who the fuck I am in my fantasies: Prada, Louis Vuitton, a Bentley Continental convertible and—let’s not forget—the Sunseeker yacht.

But the real me is still in there somewhere too.

Beneath the grief, the numbness and the chaos of the past year, I can feel a glimmer of the girl I was before September beginning to come back.