Page 16 of The Next Chapter

‘Look.’ Noah’s voice, all deep and manly, pulls me out of my depressing spiral.

‘Tell me to get lost if you like, but do you fancy coming on a hike with me in the morning? I don’t know if you heard Lola say that Blà Bheinn has amazing views.

I’m going to go first thing. It’s one of my top five and I’d really appreciate your take on it as someone who’s never been before and a fellow writer.

’ The red on his cheeks is back with an absolute vengeance.

I look at the mountain Lola had pointed out on the loch. Looks high.

I’m momentarily stunned. Obviously, Noah hasn’t asked me out in a girlfriend/boyfriend type way. Even if he had, I’m only here for two more nights so at most we’d manage a quick kiss.

My tongue seems wholly on board with that idea. It’s like it’s trying to leap out of my mouth and down Noah’s throat rather than helping me to form actual words.

‘Seb could come too, if you’d feel more comfortable that way.’ He puts his hands on his knees and then takes them off again. I think he might be fidgeting.

This is very interesting. Very interesting indeed.

I haven’t said anything in too long.

‘I’d actually really like that. Not Seb coming, he doesn’t have the lung capacity for a mountain, but I’d be happy to help with your research. Thank you for asking me.’

He smiles. What a smile. Think peak David Beckham. ‘No problem. I’d better go and have a shower, but I could knock for you in the morning. Is eight okay? It’s a bit of a pull up there.’

Walking is not kayaking, I tell myself. I can definitely walk. Maybe there’s still a chance I can impress Noah with my athleticism.

‘No problem, great. I love a challenge. Anything in the name of adventure. And eight is perfect, I’ll be ready then.’

‘See you, Lily.’

‘Bye.’

I wait a respectable five minutes to give him time to get back to his cottage before I hurry back to tell Seb of the latest development.

‘And I said anything in the name of adventure!’

‘And what did he say?’ Seb asks. We’re sat next to each other on the sofa bed, an open packet of seaweed thins between us, though I’m pretty sure that I’m the only person eating them.

‘I don’t know. Everything went hazy after I said that I love adventure.’

Seb cackles. ‘Lily Brown, you’re a liar!’

Possibly it’s true. And a compulsive one at that.

‘I know. He’s just so handsome, it muddles my brain! But it’s not okay to lie to Noah, is it? It’s not like Lola, he didn’t dump me in a bin as a baby.’ Did I mention that there’s an open bottle of wine between us?

‘No one dumped you in a bin.’

I have another gulp of wine and a thin.

‘Should I cancel on him? It’s not like he asked me out, he wants help with his article. And we’re only here for…’ I count on my fingers ‘… two more nights.’

‘Please, he definitely asked you out. The article thing was just his in.’

‘You think?’ I say, not bothering to hide the hopeful edge to my redundant question.

‘I told you I kept catching him looking your way when he thought you couldn’t see.

I was watching him the whole time because, you know, biceps.

Men like him really go for the preppy librarian thing.

He’s all strong and silent like the mountains – god, my mastery of the English language is wasted on memoirs!

You’re prissy and uptight. He’s going to ruffle you up big time. ’

There’s potentially something pretty fucked up about getting ruffled when you’re meant to be getting to know your long-lost birth mum. Potentially.

‘I don’t know if I want to be ruffled up.’

‘When he looks like that, who the fuck cares? We’re only here for another night after tonight, I say have some fun. You can get back to finding Mr Sensible and Boring once we’re home. You know what they say about the Isle of Skye?’

I’ve had a fair bit of wine, but I don’t think they particularly do say anything about Skye. Not in the same way that they do about somewhere like Vegas.

‘What do they say?’ I ask, as Seb tops up my wine again.

‘The people here are proper horny. It’s because of their primitive lifestyles. They get bored, so they shag all the time. That’s why men don’t wear anything under their kilts.’

‘That… cannot be true.’ I laugh.

From somewhere down the side of a sofa bed cushion, Seb’s phone vibrates. He fumbles around for it.

‘It’s Kitty,’ he tells me, unlocking the screen.

‘On a weekend?’

‘Literary agents never sleep. They’re a different breed, honestly. Fuck.’

‘What is it?’

Seb shows me the message.

Kitty: Just heard that the deal we definitely didn’t discuss this week is off. Client has pulled it apparently.

In the distance, the karaoke starts up. The music is faint, we can only hear the beat, but I have to resist the urge to hide under the sofa at the thought of Lola over there.

‘Shit,’ I say. ‘If we don’t get Lola’s memoirs, all that kayaking will have been for nothing.’

I feel like it’s helpful for us to maintain that we’re here for the business and the business alone.

Feels less complicated than any other motivations that we could possibly have.

Like finally getting to the end of Dad’s death admin list. Or seeing Lola in the flesh for the first time in thirty years.

Seb is frowning at his phone.

‘Maybe I came on too strong earlier. I should have realized she was jumpier than I expected.’

‘Nooo,’ I tell him, even though he was laying it on a bit thick. ‘You’re brilliant at getting clients. What should we do?’

‘I don’t think we should give up. It would be a brilliant memoir.’

I do a nervous laugh. The thought of Lola having it all written down, even if we’re the ones writing it, is terrifying.

‘Noah might tell me more about her. She’s definitely… different to what I expected. Or, I know, he might help us persuade her even!’

‘It’s not a bad idea. I’ll try again tonight. Take a more softly, softly approach. She can’t know that Kitty would message me. Speaking of which, I’d better go. Time and tide, or Lola’s Saturday night karaoke at least, wait for no man.’

‘Have fun touting for business with my birth mum!’ I call as he gets up from the creaking couch.

‘Hey, at least this means that Lola probably isn’t riddled with cancer, if she’s changed her mind.

’ It’s a faint silver lining to the thought that we might have driven all this way for nothing, but it’s a silver lining, nonetheless.

Seb rolls his eyes.

‘I’ll see you later, sister dearest.’

‘Knock ’em dead,’ I answer. ‘Not actually dead, though. You know what I mean.’

Seb, halfway out of the door, turns back and looks at me.

‘Wow, every moment of the day really is a trauma for you, isn’t it?’

And you know what, he’s not wrong.

With Seb gone, the small cottage feels distinctly empty. Still in a way that suggests I get to be alone with my thoughts when I’d really rather not be alone with my thoughts. They’re all jumbled up and messy, and like I said already, I hate mess.

I turn on my laptop, thinking that only Gossip Girl can save me now, but instead of loading up Prime, I’m Googling Lola Starr again, thinking that there has to be something I missed. Something that explains how this Lola is the Lola.

There’s nothing.

It’s just the same articles I’ve read a thousand times already. Reams and reams of them. I’ve read them all. The newest ones all wonder where Lola the party girl went. Join the club.

It occurs to me then, that I do now know more than I did all of the other times I searched for her.

Excited, and wondering why I didn’t think of this already, my fingers fly across the keyboard. Lola Vain , I type, Broadford, Skye.

There are fewer hits this time, only three, in fact, that look relevant. But still, three new articles! I’m giddy with excitement.

They’re all from the local newspaper, The Broadford Echo , about the hotel.

One, from 1994, saying that Lola is the new owner.

There’s a short Q and A with her where she says that animals and the outdoors are her passions, alongside music.

It uses the word nurturing, which is a real kick in the teeth.

But onwards I go. Another short piece says that she’d had planning permission to build a barn in the gardens. I guess she never got round to it.

The third article is about a midsummer fête in the town.

There are pictures, people! It’s from seven years ago and Lola is there, her hair and her dungarees, and nothing has changed.

Except she’s smiling in both the pictures she’s in.

In the first one, she’s dancing around a maypole, a flower in her hair.

In another, she’s standing next to a man.

He’s much taller than her, wiry with dark hair streaked with silver.

I read the caption underneath: Local business owners Lola Starr (Broadford Hotel) and James Duncan (vet) smile under the midsummer sun.

And Lola is smiling. I’m not sure I’ve seen her smile like that in any picture I’ve ever seen. All unguarded. She looks happy.

I’m more confused than ever. I think all of this time, I assumed that giving me up, whatever her motivations were, made Lola sad. But perhaps it really didn’t. Maybe it’s straightforward. She had a baby she didn’t want, so she gave me up and moved on with her life.

And that realization… well, not even Gossip Girl and wine can save me from that.