Page 5 of Someone in the Water
Lola
Lola wipes the sweat off her forehead and drains the last of her water. The sun is pounding down, there’s no shade, and she’s got a killer headache. But she’s got no choice except to wait. She thinks about her girls, whether they’ve made it to the beach yet, if they’re missing her.
And can’t help wondering if she should have gone to Ayia Napa with them after all.
She remembers their expressions when she first revealed her plans, three months ago when they were booking the trip.
At first, they were disappointed – the four of them have been mates since primary school and were all looking forward to their first holiday together as adults, with no parents or teachers setting the rules.
But when Lola explained her reasons, her need to find out what’s behind her mum’s insomnia, why it gets so bad in the summer that she disappears over Lola’s birthday every year, that disappointment had morphed into understanding, even admiration.
Lola adjusts the straps on her backpack and checks the time on her phone – again.
When she looked at the bus timetable on the airport website, straight after she booked her flight to Corsica, it said that there was a bus to Porto Vecchio every hour, and that it takes forty minutes to get to the town centre.
No advance booking was required, and it accepted Apple Pay.
It was supposed to be a simple journey. But she’s been waiting for over two hours now and nothing has appeared.
How can public transport from an international airport be so non-existent?
‘You want cab, miss?’
Lola eyes the man with crooked teeth smiling at her from the dusty silver people carrier.
‘No thanks. I’m getting the bus.’ Porto Vecchio is over twenty kilometres away, and while she’s noticed that Grams has put three hundred pounds in her account – which was a nice surprise – she’s not squandering her limited supply of cash on private transport.
After all, she doesn’t know how the next nine days are going to play out.
‘No more buses today,’ the driver says. ‘Where you going? I take you.’
Lola bites her cheek and considers her options.
He could be lying about the buses to get her fare, but it is five o’clock now – she can’t believe she’s spent most of the afternoon pointlessly standing here – and if he’s right, she’s screwed.
Even the airport shuts at night. ‘How much to Porto Vecchio?’
‘Twenty euros.’
Lola sighs. ‘Fine.’ She opens the back door, climbs inside, and immediately decides it was a good call. The air conditioning is blasting cold air, and even the sticky plastic seating is a relief after standing for hours.
The driver swings onto the road and looks at her through the rear-view mirror. ‘What hotel, miss?’
‘Umm,’ Lola murmurs, scrolling through her phone for the booking reference. ‘It’s an Airbnb, not a hotel. Hang on, I’ve got the address.’ As she says the street name in badly accented French, she watches the cab driver’s expression change and her belly tightens.
When she first planned this trip, she envisaged staying at Hotel Paoli, the hotel where her mum worked when she was eighteen – literally retracing her mum’s steps to try to get to the bottom of what happened to her there.
But that plan imploded when she checked the prices.
Even with the money she’s been saving from helping out at Grams’ windsurf repair workshop every Sunday, the swanky hotel with beach frontage was way out of her budget.
And, it turned out, so were all the other hotels to a lesser or greater degree. So she changed tack and booked a room in someone’s home via Airbnb instead – and has been wondering ever since whether she’s about to step into a serial killer’s lair. So the cab driver’s reaction isn’t a good sign.
At least she gambled and only booked for three nights, even though her flight back to the UK isn’t until next Sunday – the same day the girls fly back from Cyprus.
She figured that if she liked it, she’d offer cash for the final week, and if not, she’d have three days to find something better.
Okay, so there’s also the thing that she’s been daydreaming about – the owner of Hotel Paoli giving her a massive discount as soon as he hears who her mum is.
But that wasn’t the driving force behind her decision. She’s not that na?ve.
‘I know it,’ the driver says, nodding. ‘But it’s not a good neighbourhood. You know, my brother-in-law has small hotel. It’s on the edge of town, away from the beach, but very safe area. He might have a room. I can call him?’ He points at a phone nestled in a cradle by the aircon unit.
‘Thanks, but I’m good.’ Lola can’t read the driver’s face now, whether there’s genuine concern on it or the recognition of opportunity, but as soon as the words are out, his warning taps at her skull again – not a good neighbourhood .
She thinks about her mum. She knows that something happened to her in Corsica that scarred her for life, and here Lola is, risking moving in with a serial killer. Is she even crazier than her mum?
The driver nods and shrugs like it’s no skin off his nose, then turns his gaze back to the road.
Fifteen minutes later, they take a left turn at a roundabout signposted Porto Vecchio.
The sign is vandalised with small dents and graffiti, like most of the others she’s seen, but the roads are lined with luscious trees – a strange mix of oaks, firs, and palm trees – and there’s a beautiful mountain range rising in the distance.
Lola can’t quite work out whether Corsica is a sunny beach resort or a rugged wilderness.
Eventually they reach the town with its narrow streets, and brightly coloured residential blocks.
As the cab driver turns left onto the coast road, Lola stares at the marina with its line of sparkling white boats, and it reminds her of home.
She thinks about Grams busy in her workshop, her mum fighting her private demons in some mystery location, because why the hell should her only daughter be trusted with the address.
Neither of them knows that Lola’s in Corsica, but she doesn’t feel guilty.
If her mum can have secrets, disappear every year, so can she.
The car follows the coast road for another five minutes, then heads inland again.
There’s a mix of patches of scrubland and big apartment blocks.
Originally white, but greying now, and decorated with cracks that span out like tree roots.
The cab driver takes a few more turns and then parks up outside one of the buildings that all look the same.
He twists to face her. ‘This is it. Happy holidays.’
‘ Merci ,’ Lola mumbles, embarrassed by how much her hands are shaking as she gives him twenty euros. Then she hoists her backpack onto her shoulder, slides out of the car, and walks towards the front door with her heart pumping.