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Page 24 of The Next Chapter

‘Fuck no.’ Harper has her eyes closed, listening to the song. ‘It was bad enough listening to Jake and Sharon singing that thing from Grease on Saturday night. The duet one. Made me want to pull my own ears off.’

I laugh. The song ends and another starts with a similar feel. We don’t talk anymore, though. Instead, I think about what Harper said, about how she wanted her mum to be a better mum.

Harper’s mum, Lola’s mum, Lola. Maybe it’s just that none of them knew how to be a mum. Because it’s a bit of a myth, isn’t it, that as women we’re all born knowing how to look after kids.

The thought of hearing in Lola’s own words how she didn’t want to be a mum, for whatever the reason, sends this deep rolling swell of unease through me, like I’m on a train that’s going to crash with no way off.

And even if there was a way off, I don’t know if I’d take it.

Because now I’m on it, it’s like I need to know how mine and Lola’s… how our story ends.

‘There you are.’

I jolt at the sound of Noah’s voice. ‘I wasn’t asleep or anything,’ I tell him, trying to rearrange my limbs into a position that’s slightly less sprawling in nature.

‘You totally were,’ Harper pipes up unhelpfully, ‘you were snoring and everything.’

Great. He caught me semi asleep. Again.

Probably not the time to reveal that in all other settings I have low key insomnia. No one would believe me anyway. On Skye, I’m halfway to narcolepsy.

Noah laughs softly as I squint at the clock in the bottom corner of the laptop. Jesus, two hours have passed since I last looked. Maybe I did take a nap, just a short one that lasted several hours. It’s all this island air.

‘How was your morning?’ I ask.

‘Good, thank you. I made a start on the article. It’s not due till the end of summer so there’s plenty of time.’

Noah doesn’t look like he’s been sat inside working all morning. But then, I bet he’s the sort of person who looks refreshed after a plane journey, not dehydrated and achy like the rest of us.

‘I need to go for a walk to check out another hidden gem tomorrow, if you’re still okay to help with the article?’

Hm. Confusing. Is he asking me out, or asking for help with the article? Because it sounds like the latter, but then he did just push his hair back where it’s flopped in his eyes. And Harper is mimicking sticking her fingers down her throat.

I ignore her.

‘Yeah, course, I’d love that! So long as I wouldn’t be imposing or anything. It’s totally fine if you change your mind. But if you don’t change your mind, then, yes, I’d like to come. Thank you.’

‘Fucking painful, mate.’ That’s Harper.

Noah smiles, which is a very generous reaction to my unprovoked outburst.

‘Do you have any Pringles?’ she asks him. ‘All she has is rabbit food.’

Noah looks down at the little spread on the table.

‘Are those crisps made of vegetables?’ he asks, outraged but slightly flushed.

‘I know, right,’ Harper once again unhelpfully interjects, before coughing and saying loser at the same time. ‘Earlier she tried to get me to eat a grass and hummus sandwich. And this lemonade doesn’t taste like Sprite at all. It isn’t even fizzy.’

I can’t help but notice that Harper is being far friendlier with Noah than she’s been with me, and he hasn’t even shared his Wi-Fi yet. It’s the whole slightly shy and disarming thing he has going on. We’re all powerless in the face of it. Even Harper.

‘It was rocket,’ I say, smiling through gritted teeth because I don’t want Noah to think I’m the sort of person who is mean to children. Especially ones who look so desperately in need of a friend like Harper does. ‘And it’s still lemonade.’

‘I did get some Pringles from the hotel shop,’ he tells her.

She lets out a groan of delight. ‘Lifesaver.’

My stomach drops a little. It’s not like it’s exactly a prerequisite to a relationship, is it?

That you have the same taste in crisps. Not in the same way that, say, living in the same country and not lying to each other might be, but still, it would be nice to have one tiny little sign that I’m not the black sheep around here.

Especially when it comes to Lola and Noah.

Noah goes to retrieve said stomach-falling Pringles, passing them over to Harper, who clutches the tube close to her chest. I add Pringles to the shopping list of food that I need. I want to be prepared in case she comes again. Like I would if she were actually a stray cat.

That feeling where my skin becomes too tight and my arms and legs get jittery comes over me again. It’s the point at which, if I were at home, I’d write a really great to-do list. Except, I’ve already done that today.

‘I’ve had an idea, for you know what.’ Noah says, looking at me.

My brain isn’t working properly, I’ve no idea what he’s talking about. Forming cohesive thoughts is like trudging through sludge.

‘You know what,’ I repeat back to him like an idiot.

‘My summer plan.’ He drops his voice, but Harper is deep in Pringle bliss. ‘I was looking in the archives. You know, the hotel used to host an annual race around the lake. Way back in the day.’

‘Wait, the hotel has archives?’ That does jolt me out of whatever trance I was in.

‘Mm hm, it’s pretty old. Early nineteenth century. The original owners kept decent records.’

I look again at the hotel just through the gardens. It is old. Not like Tudor old, but still. I love a good archive.

‘A race could be a cool idea,’ I tell him.

‘Apparently, people from the local town would dress up as Scáthach, even the men. Scáthach was a mythical warrior queen who had her fortress on Skye, in case you’re wondering.’

‘I was, I was wondering. Wow, that sounds great. Why did the race stop?’

Noah shrugs.

‘I can’t see any record of it after the Second World War, so maybe that, I don’t know. But it would be a cool thing to bring back. Do you want to check out the route with me?’

What the hell am I meant to do with the information that Noah is kind, hot and interested in mythical warrior queens?

Thankfully, Harper comes to my rescue.

‘You should definitely go on the warrior run,’ she says, standing up. Noah and I just look at each other. ‘I can’t believe forty-year-olds run for fun, though. Tragic.’ She wanders back towards the hotel, the crunch of Pringles getting quieter as she walks.

‘Do you think she’ll be all right on her own?’ I ask Noah.

He nods. ‘I saw her foster parents out front, think they’re back from a hike. The warrior run, though; I like that.’

‘Me too.’ I pause. ‘But for the record, I’m not forty. I’m thirty. Not one bit of me is forty. I did one of those “what age is your heart” quizzes on the BBC website and it said I have the heart of a twenty-eight-year-old.’

Noah laughs. ‘I never thought you were forty. But I bet you’ll look just as hot at forty.’ My brain deems this the perfect time to embark on a full body flush.

‘Okay, right, great. You too. I bet you’ll look brilliant. At forty.’ Looking at Noah makes me struggle to form human words. ‘So shall we get…’ I gesture back towards the cottage and then realize it sounds like I’m propositioning the poor man.

‘RUN. I mean shall we get ready to run? Or you could go your way and I could go mine. I could purposely run in the opposite direction from you, and we could see which way is best for the hotel run, if that’s what you’d like to happen. I’d just need to know your route.’

I chance a look up at Noah. The edges of his mouth are twitching. I think he’s trying not to laugh at me.

‘We should go together and compare notes at the end.’

‘Excellent plan. Two ticks!… Wait, do you think there’ll be ticks?’

I dart inside. It’s only a degree or two cooler in here, but being away from Noah makes it much easier to breathe.

There’s a text from Seb to distract me. He’s telling me that he’s back at the office and found Clementine putting shellac on her toenails. There’s a picture of the LED lamp on her desk.

Seb: Gen Z are fucking useless.

Seb: Did you send an out-of-office notice to your WhatsApp? Who does that?

Me: She’s not that bad. I don’t want people to think I’m ignoring them. I’m going to be too busy out here to keep on top of things. I’m going on a run with Noah in a minute. Part of his save the hotel plan. I’ll explain later. There are archives here!!

Seb: You really do not know how to take a holiday, do you?

Me: It’s a working holiday. I’m ghost-writing Lola’s memoirs, remember.

I feel a pang of guilt at the fact that at this point, I’m basically lying to everyone. Including, and worst of all, probably myself.

Seb: The WhatsApp thing is definitely going in your eulogy.

Me: It’s fun that you think I’ll die first.

Seb: My nana smoked thirty a day and lived till ninety.

Me: That’s an anomaly! It’s not the norm. I sent you the Reddit post about how a sample size of one isn’t a sample size, remember? Try that gum, please. I’ve got to go, this race idea could really help Lola.

Seb: LILY brOWN, DO NOT, I REPEAT DO NOT TAKE ON A HOTEL MAKEOVER THIS SUMMER. YOU HAVE ENOUGH ON!

I ignore him. Of course I’m not going to try to save the hotel. That would be ridiculous. Plus, it looks to me like Lola just needs a good business plan… I do love business planning… But no, Seb is right. I have enough on maintaining my web of lies.

I quickly pull on my running shorts and a strappy top. Don’t get me wrong, I’d rather wear leggings or, better yet, a sleeping bag to run in with Noah, but it’s hotter than the surface of Venus out there. It’ll be like running through soup as it is.

Skye is meant to be the misty isles, that’s what I’d read in Noah’s book. But I haven’t seen one bit of mist yet. Just the baking sun.