Page 15 of The Next Chapter

Having hauled my kayak, which seems seven times heavier than it had been a couple of hours ago, out of the water, I resolve to spend the rest of the afternoon in a hammock with my Oppenheimer book.

‘I think I might take a nap,’ Seb tells me back at the cottage. ‘That drive yesterday killed me. Can you manage a few hours on your own? I want to work on Lola some more tonight.’

‘Course.’ I wave him off with the calm of a woman who hasn’t been having a prolonged breakdown all morning. ‘I’m going to do some reading.’

He looks at the massive tome that I have tucked under my arm.

And okay, maybe it’s not your standard holiday read, but Dad always loved history and he got me into it.

Now I can’t even see the word Stalin without thinking of him.

Plus, it’s hard to feel sad or lonely when you remember that there’s been billions of humans before you, all going through the same thing. That’s what I tell myself anyway.

Seb, having eaten half a cheese sandwich (and complaining loudly about the rye bread, I might add) and chain-smoked three cigarettes, unfurls his bed and lays down to close his eyes.

‘Hey, did you notice on the hotel schedule that Lola runs basically every activity, except skydiving?’

I have obviously committed the hotel timetable to memory already.

I enjoy the thought that even when we leave, I’ll know what Lola is doing at set points in the week.

It’s creepy yet comforting, like long distance stalking.

Anyway, I reply, ‘Yeah, I did notice that. Do you think she has any help? Aside from Noah.’

‘Doesn’t look that way.’ Seb’s eyes are still shut. ‘Must be why this place is a bit of a dump. It’s a lot to run on your own.’

‘Yeah, it’s a pity. It could be amazing, you know, with the scenery and everything.’

‘Yep. Still doesn’t make sense. If Lola is a total loner and hiding up here, why the fuck does she want to sell her story?’

‘No, I know… No idea beyond the money. Or the sick thing.’

‘I know what I said yesterday.’ Seb opens his eyes briefly. ‘But she doesn’t look sick. Must be the money thing. Either way, should we go to the karaoke tonight?’ he says sleepily.

I wrinkle my nose.

But I’m just not ready for the off chance that Lola will sing.

Heck, I don’t sing. Not since Mum died. It had been a thing we did together, we were in the local choir.

And on an evening, we’d play piano and sing.

It was as wholesome as it sounds. But ever since she died, I just can’t. I can’t sing without Mum.

I think I’ve always been worried that if I sang, I’d like it a little too much. I’d find out that I was like Lola.

And anyway, even if I could sing, I think that really might be a bridge too far, watching Lola do the thing that she loved more than me.

‘I don’t think I can,’ I tell him. ‘Can you go on your own?’

He heaves a dramatic sigh.

‘I can stick it out for a bit.’

I feel bad. It’s not exactly like I’m doing a stellar job of helping Seb lure Lola into signing up for a memoir with us.

‘No, it’s fine, I’ll come. Or actually, no, I don’t want to. Or maybe I should. Argh, I don’t know.’

‘Wow, your ability to spiral is unrivalled. Stop panicking, it’s fine,’ Seb says. ‘Now let me rest.’

‘Okay, thank you, thank you. I’ll see you later.’

I leave him to nap, heading outside in search of a hammock. It’s another hot afternoon and I’ve unzipped the bottom of my trousers, really living life on the wild side.

I find a hammock in the shade around the perimeter of the gardens and have a good go at getting myself in.

It’s not pretty. My massive book throws me off balance more than once.

A couple of times I manage to get in, only to roll straight out of the other side, landing in the dried dirt.

I start to wonder if hammocks are worth the effort it takes to actually get into them.

At least no one but the blind chicken is around to watch.

Finally, clutching my book to my chest, I manage to launch myself in and stay there. My bottle of water is still on the floor, but there’s no way I can reach it. I resolve to just be thirsty for the afternoon.

I’m facing towards the back of the hotel and for a split second, I’m sure I see some movement in one of the upstairs windows.

Probably I did. There are about ten people staying here.

But whoever was there didn’t linger, which is just as well.

I don’t really want anyone to witness quite how at odds with everything I am here.

Of course, now I’m thinking of how at odds I am.

I just don’t fit.

Not in Lola’s life then and not in Lola’s life now. And it’s me, that’s the thing. I’m the one who doesn’t fit. God, even Seb is better on a kayak than me, it’s so patently obvious that I’m the odd one out, the anomaly.

Depressing realizations about my lack of belonging make it hard to concentrate on Oppenheimer, even if it’s one of the things I’ve always liked about history, just how resolutely depressing it is.

It’s hard to feel bad about things in the here and now when confronted with the past. I mean, annoyed that you’re not feeling well?

Let me tell you about the Black Death circa 1381.

Think our leaders are dodgy? Here’s a guy called Pol Pot.

It takes serious effort to be miserable about the state of the world now when in lots of ways, we have things so much better than people from the past. Proper mattresses didn’t even exist for millennia, people had to sleep on straw.

Maybe humans are just born to suffer.

But actually, this isn’t helping. I don’t feel better knowing that other people have had it worse than me.

I’m not even pretending to read now. I’m just laid in my hammock, the sky all blurry in front of my eyes.

I feel exhausted again, definitely something about the island air. I close my eyes for a second, ruminating on how we can get Lola to let us write her memoir and when I open them again, two hours have passed.

There’s movement to the side of me, Noah walking through the gardens.

He’s looking my way, so I close my eyes. I don’t know why I do this. But I do. And when I chance opening my eyes again, he’s walking away.

Argh, come back, Noah.

‘Afternoon!’ I call from my hammock.

Noah stops again and comes towards me.

‘Hi, Lily, I’m so sorry if I woke you up,’ he says. ‘I didn’t realize you were asleep.’

The patches of red on his tanned cheeks are back.

‘I was reading,’ I tell him. ‘You just saw me in the middle of a long blink.’ I do another exaggerated blink for some reason.

It feels awkward, laying down while Noah is stood next to my hammock, so with all the grace I can muster (not an awful lot), I roll myself out of it, avoiding sprawling in the dirt at his feet but by the grace of God.

I stand up with my water bottle. ‘Thirsty,’ I tell him, having a long drink.

Be normal.

‘Have you had a nice afternoon?’ I ask, my head still fuzzy from the nap. I never nap. I quietly judge people who nap. I blame the fresh air.

‘Yeah, just got back from a hike.’ Noah gestures over to a picnic bench, like he wants us to sit there.

Honestly, how Noah could have been good to go for yet more exercise is beyond me. We literally spent the whole morning moving.

I don’t exactly know what’s happening, but I follow him over. There’s a small tabby cat curled underneath the bench and when we sit down it jumps onto Noah’s knee and starts padding. Lucky cat.

The bench, I notice, has a massive hole in the middle of it and the broken wood around it is jagged. It has ‘tetanus’ written all over it.

‘I know I said yesterday, but I really do love your writing.’

‘Thanks.’ He looks at the ground. ‘It’s the travelling I want, so much as the writing.’

Not sure why I hadn’t realized that Noah would be a travel writer since he wrote actual travel books about Skye. Of course he wouldn’t just write about one island. Travel writers really are the cool kids of the writing world. The tattoos, the hair, the shy sex appeal.

‘Wow, how amazing. You must have been all over.’

‘Pretty much,’ he agrees. ‘I love being away. But I always come and stay with Lola if I’m in Scotland. I’m doing another piece on Skye for Lonely Planet.’

‘I’m surprised there’s anything left for you to write about here, you’ve done so much already.’

‘Ah, the island has a lot of secrets. Lola knows that as much as I do.’

I don’t want to ask how he knows Lola, it seems strangely personal. And I also don’t want to admit that I find holidays to be peak stress. I can’t imagine going on holiday for a living. I’d absolutely hate it.

‘I’m a writer too,’ I tell him instead. He probably already knows this. Chances are no one at kayaking missed Seb talking about our jobs. But Noah plays along.

‘No way, what do you write?’

‘Personal memoirs. Say if someone wants their history writing down, that’s what me and Seb do.’

‘That sounds really interesting. It’s so cool that you work with your brother.’

Yes. Right. Everyone here thinks that Seb is my twin brother.

‘Yeah, it’s great.’ I’ve started to sweat again. I wish my neck fan wasn’t broken. ‘We’re good friends. What’s your piece on?’

‘Those secrets I was telling you about. Hidden Skye.’ He reels off what must be the title of his article.

‘That’s exciting,’ I answer.

‘Yeah,’ he agrees. ‘Though I grew up here, so it’s hard to see it through the eyes of someone visiting for the first time.’

‘That makes sense. I’ve never been before. I’ve been to Scotland, I mean, to Edinburgh a couple of times. It feels starker here, more remote.’

Noah looks at me for a second and then nods. ‘That’s why I love it here. Lola too.’

I can’t think of anything to say to that. Maybe that’s why Lola never got in touch. Because she liked it out here too much.