Page 25 of Someone in the Water

Frankie

Five minutes later, we’re seated at an outside table.

The air is still warm, and I can hear the gentle lapping of the sea rolling onto the beach.

‘I hear you’ve bought a house in Sartène,’ I say to Dom.

‘What brought you back?’ What I really want to ask is how the hell could he set foot in Corsica again after that awful summer, but Raphael is right that Dom wasn’t affected by the tragedies in the same way I was.

Archie’s suicide knocked him of course, but they were never that close.

And there was no love lost between Dom and Izzy.

‘It’s an amazing place,’ Dom says. ‘Mountain views in one direction, sea views in the other. The architecture is stunning, and the whole town is one big history lesson. The wine’s good too.’ He pauses. ‘You should come for a visit.’

‘Maybe.’ I know I should want to visit the town my father grew up in, but being in Porto Vecchio is challenging enough.

‘I promise you’ll love it. There’s even an art museum.’

‘Well, you’re right there,’ Lola says. ‘Mum’s an art teacher. She was always dragging me around museums and galleries when I was little.’

‘Okay, guilty,’ I say, forcing an apologetic smile. I find Dom mentioning art unnerving, but I know it’s this place making me paranoid. An art museum is a draw for most tourists, not just art teachers.

‘Have you been back to Corsica at all, since …’ His voice trails off.

I shake my head, don’t quite trust myself to speak.

‘Mum still feels bad about the way Izzy died, don’t you, Mum?’

‘Well, you shouldn’t,’ Dom throws back, then he clears his throat. ‘Sorry, that came out wrong. It’s just annoying. You blaming yourself when you did nothing bad. Unlike her. I’m not saying Izzy deserved to die of course,’ he adds quickly. ‘Just that you shouldn’t be suffering for it.’

‘She was my friend,’ I murmur.

‘She was a bitch,’ Dom mutters, circling his wine glass and staring into the spiralling liquid.

Then he looks up. ‘Look, I know she was fun, always the life and soul of the party. But she was ruthless. It suited her to be nice to you because she wanted someone to adore her. But woe betide anyone who tried to cross her.’

‘That’s not how I remember it,’ I mumble. ‘None of you gave her a chance.’

‘Us? What about the way she treated Jack?’

‘She had her reasons—’

‘And I suppose she had her reasons for talking to me like I was shit on her shoe too?’ Dom sighs.

‘And sorry, but she was a liability in that job as well. I mean, what would she have done if we hadn’t rescued the situation when that kid lost his finger?

She didn’t even have a first-aid kit on board.

’ Dom shakes his head. ‘And she still charmed Raphael into letting her keep her job. I think we can all guess how she managed that.’

The waiter appears at our table, and I breathe a silent sigh of relief at the distraction.

We all choose Aziminu , a chunky fish soup that sounds delicious, and it only feels like a few minutes later when the waiter returns with three bulbous white bowls and a basket filled with chunks of baguette.

As I rip off a piece of the warm bread and dunk it into the reddish liquid, I think about how different mealtimes were when I worked here.

Staff food was served in a basement room with a TV and a couple of tatty sofas.

Sometimes we were treated to a proper dinner – roast chicken and chips, or barbecue ribs and salad – but more often than not, it was a platter of curling cold meats, limp lettuce and leftover baguettes.

I look around the busy restaurant, humming with holiday chatter.

When I left Corsica that August, I vowed never to set foot on the island again.

But now I’m here, maybe I don’t feel as scared as I thought I would.

Salvo is gone. Anna has found her voice at Raphael’s expense.

Jack hasn’t lost his hostile edge, but maybe he’s more wistful than angry now. Less threatening.

And Dom. Tonight, here, Dom is reminding me that there are good memories from that summer too. Even that being forced to come out here, to face my fears, could possibly be restorative.

An hour later, Dom pushes back his chair. ‘It was really great to see you, Frankie, and meet you, Lola, but I should be getting off. If you find you have time for a visit inland, I’d love to show you around Sartène.’

‘Thank you,’ I say, as graciously as I can without accepting anything, and then watch him walk out of the restaurant. ‘I’m sorry about that,’ I say to Lola. ‘I didn’t know he was going to show up.’

‘Don’t apologise,’ Lola says. ‘He seems nice. Actually, he seems like he’s into you.’

I feel my cheeks getting hot and wonder if Lola can see it. ‘Don’t be silly. We haven’t seen each other in twenty years. Anyway, shall we go over to your room and collect your stuff?’ I ask, changing the subject.

‘Um, about that,’ Lola says, looking down at the table. ‘I’ve decided that I’m going to stay where I am.’

‘What? Why? No.’ I shake my head. The serenity I was feeling earlier was clearly very flimsy because it has dislodged in an instant. ‘I want you closer to me than that.’

‘I’m practically eighteen, Mum. I don’t need a babysitter.’

‘Yes, I know, but …’ I quickly run out of words.

Because how can I explain? Say that I’m scared that some terrible fate awaits Lola because my friend drowned twenty-one years ago and I had a dream where I killed an eagle owl, and then saw my daughter’s face?

I have hidden that side of me from Lola for a decade and a half; I mustn’t risk exposing it now. ‘Never mind.’

‘I just like having my own space. That’s fair, isn’t it?’

Of course it’s fair. I just hate not being able to watch over her. I push my lips together.

‘I am beat though,’ Lola adds, filling the silence. ‘So I might head off to bed now.’

‘Me too,’ I murmur, although I know I won’t be able to sleep. One night, I think, then I’ll try again tomorrow to persuade her.

We push back our chairs in unison, and Lola lets me hug her goodnight at the restaurant entrance. Eventually I slacken my grip, and she disappears through the glass doors towards the beach. I walk reluctantly over to the staircase.

‘Frankie?’

My shoulders tighten at the sound of Raphael’s voice. I turn around. ‘Is everything okay?’

‘I think I owe you an apology for earlier. It’s a lot to take in, seeing you again, after everything that happened. But I think enough time has passed for us to at least be civil to each other.’

I try to hold eye contact with him. The last time I saw Raphael, he angrily accused me of killing Izzy.

But he’s right that it was a long time ago.

Can I trust him now when he says he wants to move on?

‘Yes, you’re right,’ I say carefully. ‘And thank you again for the room. Lola’s travel documents should be here on Tuesday, and I’ll book a flight as soon as they arrive, so we won’t take advantage of your hospitality for too long. ’

‘Actually, I thought you might want to stay for my father’s send-off,’ he says, his expression too blank to read. ‘With Salvo being a childhood friend of your own father’s. We’re having a gathering to remember him on Thursday evening, in Sartène.’

I don’t want to honour Salvo’s memory at any time, but especially not on Thursday, the anniversary of Izzy’s death, the mazzeri’s darkest night. Does Raphael realise the significance of that date? Could he have arranged it on purpose?

‘I’m sorry but I barely knew him really,’ I say. ‘I don’t think it would be appropriate for me to attend something like that.’

‘Didn’t he travel all the way to England to pay his respects to your father?’

I stare at the tip of Raphael’s ear until I blink. Salvo did make a big effort to come to my dad’s funeral. But then he ruined my life. I don’t owe him anything. ‘I’ll think about it,’ I lie.

‘Good,’ Raphael says. ‘By the way, you don’t need to use the stairs anymore. We had a lift fitted.’

‘The stairs are fine,’ I mumble. There’s no way I’m going to shut myself inside an airless metal box right now. I climb to the third floor, walk down the corridor to my room, and edge the key in the door. Finally, some peace.

Except.

I see the note before anything else. A white piece of cardboard lying on the light blue carpet. I hold my breath as I read the words, large and bold in black ink. Who the hell would write that?

Who the hell could know?

My vision feels fuzzy suddenly. I had convinced myself that the dream I had in Gatwick Airport was harmless, a sign of my stress, not a premonition of tragedy. But now a note? Clearly a real person is messing with my head.

I slowly reach down. My fingers shake as I pick the note off the floor. The nightmare feels so close that I can almost touch the sticky feathers of the eagle owl. Tears burn my eyes as I read the words again.

Hey, mazzera, did you dream about Lola?

Un, deux, trois …