Page 19 of Someone in the Water

Lola

Lola stares at the pale blue blind covering the window.

The room isn’t plush by any stretch, but it’s a thousand times better than the one in that Airbnb.

No loud men stomping around. A lock on the door.

Lola stretches out on the single bed and dips her fingers into the carving on the dark wooden headboard behind her.

She doesn’t know what time it is – she’s still phoneless – but from the strength of the sunshine leaking around the blind’s edges, it feels like morning has been around for a while.

Which means her mum will arrive soon. And she’s not sure how she feels about that.

She was mad with her yesterday, but maybe that wasn’t fair.

After all, it was Lola’s choice to come to Corsica, alone, and in secret.

Her idea to book a room without considering why it was so cheap.

Yes, most mums would have their phone within three-second reach when their child goes on holiday without them for the first time, but her mum has always been different. At least, at this time of year.

When Lola walked up Hotel Paoli’s long driveway yesterday – palm trees and rolling lawns on each side of her, sun beating down – she didn’t know what to expect.

Her mum had lived and worked there, but it was a long time ago, and something bad had clearly happened that brought it to an abrupt end.

The glass door had slid open automatically, so Lola didn’t even have the chance to collect herself before she came face to face with the receptionist. A glamorous older woman with blonde hair and high cheekbones who eyed her suspiciously.

She wanted to tell her story gradually, but in the end, the words tumbled out. She was Frankie Torre’s daughter. She needed help.

The receptionist had looked shocked at first, colour visibly draining from her already pale face.

But she recovered quickly. She introduced herself – Anna Paoli, which told Lola that she was more than a receptionist – and asked lots of questions, like whether Frankie was in Corsica too (no), what she’d told Lola about her time working at Hotel Paoli (nothing) and finally, why Lola needed help.

Once Lola had explained that she’d been mugged, that she was too scared to go back to her accommodation and couldn’t get hold of her mum, Anna had ushered her into the office behind the reception desk, pushed the big phone towards her, and told her to take as long as needed.

When Lola re-emerged and explained that her mum was coming out, Anna’s face had tightened for a moment.

But then it had cleared, and she’d gone on to offer Lola a room in the staff accommodation block while she waited for her mum to arrive.

Anna even said that her son Patrick would pick up Lola’s things from her Airbnb that evening if Lola wanted him to.

Yes, there was an atmosphere – Lola sensed Anna was keeping something from her – but she was too tired, and too grateful, to find out what.

Patrick hadn’t returned to the hotel by nine o’clock last night, and Lola could barely keep her eyes open by then, so she hasn’t been reunited with her bag yet. But she’s desperate to change into fresh clothes, so she needs to track it down soon. She pushes back the sheets and climbs out of bed.

Her room is one of four in a concrete structure set back from the beach, with a shared bathroom at the end.

When Anna showed her the room yesterday, she explained that they recruit most of their staff locally now, but there are two members of staff sharing the accommodation – a Spanish tennis pro and an Italian pianist – so Lola pulls the door open carefully in case they’re around.

But the only thing she sees in the hallway is her backpack, leaning against the wall.

She feels a swell of happiness and says a silent thank you to a man she hasn’t yet met.

After a deliciously long shower, Lola changes into a bikini and board shorts and walks down the beach towards the hotel.

Her eyes are drawn towards the water shimmering in the sunlight.

She has always been at her happiest in the sea.

Especially whipping across it on a windsurfer, up on the plane, the board barely skimming the water.

Tacking with bloody-mindedness, gybing with belief.

When she gets to the water sports area, Lola pauses.

In those postcards to Grams, her mum describes working here as a water-ski instructor.

It will have been her perfect job, Lola thinks, so what went wrong?

As she stares, pondering the mystery, a man appears from a wooden shack.

He’s muscular and handsome in an older man kind of way, with spiky bleached-white hair and a deep tan.

He’s wearing coral beads around his neck and a faded Billabong T-shirt.

‘Can I help you?’ he asks in a London accent.

Lola eyes the brightly coloured sails hanging together neatly, then pans out to the glistening sea, the strengthening breeze lifting the water into champagne spray. Maybe this is exactly what she needs to wash away the bad start to her time in Corsica. ‘How much is it to take a windsurf out?’

‘Forty euros for an hour, seventy for two.’

‘Oh.’ Lola’s face drops. She has never had to rent windsurf kit before – she’s always had her own, courtesy of Grams’ industry contacts and massive discounts – and that’s more money than she can spare.

The man tips his head. ‘Are you staying at Hotel Paoli?’

Lola wonders how to answer that. ‘Why?’

‘Because it’s free of charge for the all-inclusive guests. At least, it’s part of their overall package.’

‘Right.’ Lola bites her lip. She is staying on the hotel grounds, and she’s kind of like a guest of Anna’s. Does that count? Even though she’s not paying a penny?

‘Are you worried about managing the sail with the wind picking up?’ the man continues. ‘Because I can rig you up something small?’

‘No, it’s not that. I windsurf a lot back home; the more wind the better. It’s just that while I am staying at the hotel, it’s not as a paying guest,’ Lola admits. ‘It’s complicated.’

‘Oh?’

‘They’re helping me out because I was mugged,’ Lola explains to the man’s inquisitively raised eyebrows.

‘Some guy took my phone and money; my passport.’ She wafts her hand like it was yesterday’s news.

‘My mum used to work here, like twenty years ago, so I thought I would see if there was anyone here who remembered her. Turns out Anna did, and she kindly offered me a room in the staff block.’

Lola watches the man’s face grow curious. ‘What’s your mum’s name?’ His tone carries a new weight, and Lola feels an instinct not to tell him.

‘Why?’

‘Because I was working here twenty years ago. I might know her.’

Simple words, a rational explanation. So why does it sound like a threat?

But that’s ridiculous, Lola tells herself.

This is just her own anxiety playing tricks after everything that’s happened so far in Corsica.

She shakes the tension out of her limbs.

‘You were? That’s crazy,’ she says, because it’s the right response.

‘She’s called Frankie Torre. I think she taught water-skiing here. ’

He nods but doesn’t speak. Finally, he turns to the rack of windsurf sails. ‘You can take a windsurf out on the house. A four-point-eight sail okay for you?’

‘What? Oh, yes, that’s perfect,’ Lola says, struggling to keep up with the change in conversation.

‘And thank you. For the freebie.’ Lola watches him unhook a red-and-white sail from the middle of the rack, then disappear into the hut for a moment before coming out with a harness.

He throws it to her, then attaches the sail to one of the shorter boards while she steps into the harness, pulls it over her shorts, and tightens it.

Despite this man’s weird reaction to her mum’s name, a burst of anticipation swirls in her belly.

‘You beach start?’

She nods.

‘That figures: a child of Frankie’s.’ He proffers the sail towards Lola, and she curls her fingers around the boom. But she hesitates before carrying the rig into the water.

‘You knew my mum well, then?’

‘We worked together for a couple of months. Before everything went to shit. But I guess you know all about that.’

For some reason – to save face, she supposes – Lola nods. ‘You stayed though,’ she says slowly, maybe hoping he’ll give her a clue as to what happened. ‘But I guess it was worse for my mum,’ she gambles.

It’s one that doesn’t pay off though because he lets out a bitter crack of laughter. ‘I’m Jack.’

He says his name as though it’s an explanation, but Lola doesn’t know what of, or how to respond. ‘Nice to meet you. I’m Lola,’ she tries.

But it’s another misstep. His face darkens. ‘That name doesn’t ring any bells?’ he asks. ‘Your mum hasn’t bothered to mention me?’

Lola bites her lip, wishes she’d just taken the rig without asking him anything.

‘The love of my life died, Lola,’ Jack snaps. ‘That’s how bad it was. And the one person who could have saved him was your mum. But she didn’t.’