Page 47 of Someone in the Water

Lola

Lola murmurs a few swear words as she looks over towards reception.

She was hoping that Patrick would be behind the desk, but it’s Anna.

Anna who Lola still can’t imagine getting her hair wet when she swims, never mind dragging a young woman under water.

Although for some reason, that doesn’t make her any less scary.

She takes a breath and walks over. ‘Um, morning. Patrick said I could use the computer in the office again. I was hoping to check my emails, see whether my travel documents have been sent yet.’ While she wouldn’t admit it to her mum in the bar, last night’s dinner did rattle her.

Not enough to convince her they need to leave Corsica.

But knowing it’s possible suddenly feels important.

Anna looks pensive as she glances at the closed office door. ‘Yes, I suppose so. Just give me a minute.’ She disappears into the office, then returns moments later, more relaxed. ‘She’s all yours.’

Lola slips around the reception desk and into the office, pulling the door closed behind her.

The desk is clear except for an old-fashioned telephone made of yellowing plastic and a boxy computer and keyboard.

When she used it on Sunday to apply for her emergency travel documents, she had Raphael watching over her.

It’s a relief to have the place to herself this morning.

She opens her email account. There are two official-looking messages from the British consulate in Marseille, both sent yesterday, the first confirming that her documents had been produced, and the second that they’d been posted out.

That means they should arrive today. Relief settles over her and she turns towards the window, as though the postman might suddenly appear.

But there’s just a gardener digging up weeds and a topless man in too-short shorts doing shuttle runs up and down the drive.

She turns her attention back to the screen.

There are loads more unread emails. Mainly marketing ones which she deletes without opening.

There’s one from her school about A level results day next month, and a good luck note from Southampton University.

The emails from the various water sports clubs she’s involved with make her pause. Home feels so far away right now.

She’s just about to close her account down when a new email pops up in her inbox.

She feels a burst of adrenaline as she looks at the name.

Nicole Bassot. She’s not sure why she filled in the yoga studio’s contact form in the library yesterday.

Maybe because she had time to spare before meeting Patrick.

Or perhaps because the raw grief in Nicole’s blogpost got to her.

Either way, she hadn’t expected a response.

Why would Nicole care that a stranger wanted to pass on her condolences?

But it looks like she does.

Dear Lola,

Thank you for your kind message, and for giving me an opportunity to practise my English.

I think of Isobel every day, and it is comforting to know that people are still finding out about her story.

I had no idea that the hotel had a plaque made in her honour – although they do owe her that and much more.

It sounds like you are enjoying your sailing teacher job there, but please be careful.

Lola squirms in the chair. She didn’t want to mention her mum in her message to Nicole – at the very least, the girl who survived when her own daughter didn’t – so she had to make up a reason for knowing about Izzy’s death.

A plaque in the hotel was the first thing that jumped into her head.

But then she worried that Nicole might have visited the hotel, so she put the plaque in the staff accommodation.

Which meant giving herself a fictional job.

Why she chose the same job that Izzy did is harder to explain.

She pushes hair away from her forehead – already sticky with sweat – and continues reading.

I try very hard to find peace in Isobel’s passing.

I have learned to accept that she made the wrong choice that night – like we all have the capacity to do – and so was partly to blame for the tragic consequences.

But there was another girl in the water with her who I understand put her own wellbeing before Isobel’s life.

I try not to blame her, but it is a daily struggle.

And as you mentioned that you’ve read my blog, you will know that I have an intimate understanding of blame.

I lost my husband when Isobel was young, and there are two people responsible for his fatal car crash.

I am ashamed to say that I am one of them.

I will carry that guilt forever, and I only hope the person I share culpability with feels an equally heavy burden.

But that is an episode I won’t let myself dwell on for long.

Thank you again for getting in touch, and I hope you have an enjoyable summer. Please stay safe. Corsica has its own unique dangers.

Nicole

Lola leans back in the chair. Corsica has its own unique dangers. Of course Nicole would say that – her daughter died in the island’s waters – but it still makes Lola shiver. Because her own mum could have written those words.

She looks back at the email. It’s horrible that Nicole has blamed her mum all this time, just as Frankie has blamed herself.

But Nicole will have been fed the official police line, so doesn’t know to be suspicious of anyone else.

Lola wonders how Nicole would react if she confided in her.

Explained her suspicions about there being someone else in the water, an actual killer.

Would Nicole be glad to have a real villain to remove Izzy’s portion of blame?

Or would dismantling her theory that Izzy had some control over her destiny shatter Nicole’s search for peace?

Lola opens Nicole’s website and clicks on her image.

Nicole and her mum have more than a fear of Corsica in common.

Grief and guilt threaded together like rope, always threatening to hang them.

And both of them with the shadow of another person looming in the background.

Lola wonders who Nicole is referring to when she talks about sharing the blame for her husband’s death.

Then she leans forward and hits the reply button.

She’s had enough of secrets. Nicole deserves to know everything.

As she hits ‘send’ on her email, the door opens, and she instinctively shuts down the website.

‘Hey, Lola. My mother said you were in here.’ Patrick closes the door behind him – an act that causes a weird clenching in Lola’s belly – and perches on the desk. ‘Have you got what you need?’

‘What? Oh sorry, yes,’ she says, still flustered by Nicole’s email and now Patrick’s proximity.

‘My travel documents should arrive today.’ Lola is pleased to see a hint of disappointment wash across Patrick’s face.

‘But they last six weeks,’ she hears herself follow up with.

She watches Patrick’s eyes light up and pushes away an image of her mum’s pleading face.

‘It’s my day off today,’ he says. ‘I wondered if you wanted to go for a picnic?’

‘You and me?’ Lola asks, her heart suddenly thinking it’s got a one-hundred-metre race to win.

‘We can ask your mum to come too if you’d like?’

‘No, God no. You and me, that would be great.’ She catches his eye, then looks away, hiding the grin that’s spreading across her face. At least she knows that Patrick isn’t dangerous.

‘I’ll take you to my favourite secret beach.’

‘Secret?’ Lola’s excitement wanes slightly. She’s grown to hate that word lately.

But Patrick nods, oblivious. ‘Not a tourist in sight. Probably not another person. You’ll love it, I promise.

’ He smiles again, then twists off the table and opens the door, his palm leaning on the handle.

‘I’ll get some picnic stuff from the kitchen.

It’s ten thirty now, so shall I meet you out front at eleven? ’

‘Sounds good. Do we walk there?’

‘Oh, it’s too remote for that.’ He laughs. ‘Twenty minutes in the car, then a half-hour hike around the headland. Does that sound okay?’

Lola looks at Patrick’s hopeful face. He may be eight years older than her, but he looks like a little boy now. She feels her shoulders relax. ‘It sounds perfect,’ she says.