Page 52 of Someone in the Water
Lola
Lola lies in bed and stares at the sun leaking around the edge of the blind.
While you’re here, with me, I won’t let anything bad happen to you.
That’s what Patrick said to her last night, but does she believe it?
At least enough to convince herself that it’s safe to stay until the weekend?
She knows it sounds fickle with everything that’s going on, but she’s never taken part in a windsurfing race outside the UK before and the one on Piantarella beach sounds amazing.
More than that, Patrick has already paid the entry fee for her.
Patrick. She knows her urge to stay isn’t just about windsurfing.
Who will die first? Mother or daughter?
She should get up. Her mum will be freaking out. She pushes onto her elbows, then twists and reaches for her phone. Sure enough, there are four missed calls and two texts from her mum. She sends a holding text back, then flops back down on the bed.
Last night, lying on the beach with Patrick, everything seemed simple again.
Mazzeri dreams are just fantasy, so there’s nothing to worry about there.
And Patrick would keep her safe from whoever wrote those notes.
But can he really protect her from a killer or is that just fantasy too?
And what about her mum? She pushes back the sheet and climbs out of bed.
One thing is for sure, she can’t hide from her any longer.
Fifteen minutes later, she’s showered, dressed, and walking along the beach towards the hotel.
The sun is in its usual spot, projecting its warmth over guests lying on sun loungers in angled lines down the beach.
The sea is producing lazy ripples, and a few kids are splashing around in the shallow water.
How can she possibly be scared for her life in a place like this?
She hasn’t eaten since the picnic yesterday and her stomach is full of acid after those Long Island iced teas, but there’s a big chance her mum is waiting for her in the restaurant, and she knows her first question will be whether Lola has picked up her travel documents.
If she collects those first, at least she’ll have some good news for her.
With her stomach growling in protest, she veers away from the restaurant entrance and heads to the reception desk instead.
She slows a little when she sees who’s behind the desk, then shakes herself down and walks up. ‘Hi, Anna, I think my new travel documents arrived yesterday. Is there some post for me?’
Anna looks agitated. ‘No, Lola. I’m afraid there isn’t. Just as Gwen, who was on duty last night, explained to your mum. More than once, as I understand it.’
Lola bites the inside of her cheek. Her travel documents should be here. And even though she hasn’t decided whether to leave Corsica today or not, their absence makes her feel uncomfortable. Trapped even. ‘The email from the British consulate in Marseille said they would arrive yesterday.’
Anna’s smile tightens. ‘This is Corsica, I’m afraid. Not France, and certainly not the UK. It works to a different concept of time. I’m sure they’ll arrive soon.’
‘But the paperwork was sent on twenty-four-hour recorded delivery,’ Lola says as politely as she can. ‘Surely twenty-four hours is the same everywhere?’
Anna gives her a hard stare but then her eyes glisten and she lets out an unsteady sigh.
‘Look, all I know is that they’re not here.
You’re welcome to use the computer again if you’d like to contact the consulate.
’ Anna gestures towards the office door.
Lola gives her a halfway grateful smile, then sidles behind the reception desk and into the office.
Lola soon realises that contacting someone at the consulate is not very easy.
Every hyperlink takes her to another list of frequently asked questions, or an online contact form – which she does complete, but without much hope for a response.
The delivery status on her account doesn’t help either because that’s marked as complete.
And the only phone number she can find starts with 0800, which, if it’s anything like the UK, will gobble up her new credit in seconds.
Feeling defeated, she notes down the number and closes the website.
She’ll call the consulate from her mum’s phone instead.
But before she leaves, she decides to check her emails, and when she sees a new one from Nicole Bassot, her face burns crimson.
Shit. She’d almost forgotten about the email she sent to Izzy’s mother, listing all the suspects in her very own ‘who killed Izzy’ true crime drama.
She feels so stupid now. She turns her head slightly, as though that might help lessen the impact of the email, then clicks to open it.
Dear Lola,
Thank you for owning up to who you really are – I try not to hold a grudge against your mother, and I definitely don’t hold one against you.
Thank you also for confiding in me about your suspicions, although they were quite shocking to me.
You see, one of the names you mention is familiar.
There is a chance it is a coincidence, or unrelated to Isobel’s death, but if you have your doubts too, perhaps not.
I would love to talk to you about this. Could you call me when you get a chance? My number is 00 33 4 48 20 16.
Thank you, Lola.
Nicole
Lola leans back in the office chair, her head buzzing. Does Izzy’s mum have a clue that will tell her who Izzy’s – and possibly, probably, Archie’s – killer is?
And if so, which one of the suspects on Lola’s list is Nicole referring to?
A burst of adrenaline rushes through her and, without giving herself time to question it, Lola taps the number into her phone and presses to call.
But as she listens to the flat European ringing tone, the thump of her heart grows louder.
This is Izzy’s mum she’s about to speak to.
The grieving mother who has blamed Lola’s own mum for nearly a quarter of a century.
The call clicks into voicemail, and she experiences a storm-level wave of relief.
‘Oh, hi,’ she mumbles. ‘This is Lola, from Hotel Paoli. Sorry not to reach you,’ she lies.
‘Anyway, I probably shouldn’t have called.
Never mind.’ She quickly ends the call, then closes down her email account.
She feels exposed suddenly. As though the killer – whoever it is – is going to burst into the room with a vendetta corse and stab her.
She pushes out of the chair with sweaty palms and half-runs towards the door.
When she opens it, she sees Patrick behind the reception desk. Her heart rate slows, then races again as he turns to face her. ‘Hey.’
‘Hey,’ she returns, trying to act normal, even though her head is about to explode.
‘Everything okay?’
‘Yes, no, I think so.’ She breathes. ‘My travel documents haven’t turned up. I’m trying to make sense of it.’
‘Sorry, Corsican post isn’t known for its reliability.’
Lola nods. ‘That’s what your mum said. I guess that’s what it is.’
‘How about I take your mind off it? I’m free from eleven ’til five today. Do you fancy coming out on the catamaran with me?’
‘Won’t the guests want to use it?’ She’s playing for time. On one hand, sailing with Patrick is exactly how she wants to spend her day. On the other, her travel documents are AWOL, her mum is getting threatening notes, and it seems that she’s opened a hornet’s nest in a yoga studio in Lille.
‘I checked the log; no one’s booked it. And their loss …’
‘Is our gain,’ Lola mutters on autopilot.
But Patrick grins, taking that as her acceptance. ‘Meet me on the beach at eleven thirty?’
Lola smiles back. His enthusiasm is contagious. ‘Okay, yes, great,’ she hears herself say. Then she gives him a quick wave, steels herself, and heads into the restaurant.
She sees her mum before Frankie notices her.
Her face is pinched, and there are dark circles under her eyes.
She’s drinking a cup of coffee, with both hands on the white porcelain and elbows resting on the table, like the cup is too heavy for her to hold without support.
Guilt flares up. Lola knows her insistence on staying is making things a hundred times worse for her mum.
But Frankie’s life has been messed up for over twenty years.
Is running away again really the answer?
And anyway, what choice do they have without Lola’s new travel documents?
She walks over to her mum’s table and sinks into the chair opposite. Frankie squeezes her hand, and she gives her a smile in return. Then she tells her.