Page 45 of The Next Chapter

I don’t even think. ‘That would be nice, thanks Lola.’

Lola stands up, dislodging the chicken who’s fallen asleep next to her. Or at least, I think it’s fallen asleep. I do wonder how anyone will know the difference between it being asleep and dead.

I take the chance to text Seb.

Me: Guess who’s having a picnic with Lola!

Seb: If it’s not you, that was a seriously misleading message.

Me: It is me!

Seb: Such a nauseatingly uplifting tale. Families reuniting. Warms my cold, dead heart.

Me: Except Lola doesn’t know that we’re reuniting.

Seb: She still hasn’t dropped the B bomb, then?

Me: Nope, no mention of baby me. She did say how much her and Ashton got along though again, and how she was half in love with him. It has to be him.

Seb: If you say so.

Me: Got to go, Noah and Lola are coming.

Seb: Sounds like you’re working really hard up there.

Me: I am! I sent Mr Vandergilden a draft last night. He was emailing every day. Do you know how many times I typed the words ‘and then I shot…’

Seb: Relax! Jeez, I was kidding. I wish you’d work less not more. You highly strung people are so touchy.

Me: I really have to go.

Seb: Have fun with lover boy and Mum.

Seb: That sounded dark. Enjoy!

‘Look who I found!’ Lola smiles up at Noah with something that looks close to maternal pride. It makes my skin feel all itchy. Those bloody ants better not be back.

‘I was trying to finish painting the bedroom,’ Noah protests, being dragged down onto the picnic blanket by Lola.

‘Ah, there’s time a plenty for painting. I’ve never known you to turn down food.’

‘That’s true. Hi.’ Noah smiles at me.

‘Hi.’ I can’t help my stupid face from smiling. Lola hums.

‘You should have seen him when he was eighteen.’ Lola starts pulling food out of a wicker basket. We have affable Lola for lunch, then. ‘Right scrawny little thing, I couldn’t fill him.’

I look at Noah, with his lovely bicep vein. He’s no one’s definition of scrawny.

‘He’s actually the only person who eats whatever I cook without complaining,’ I tell Lola.

‘Well, once I ate tarantulas in Cambodia so Lola’s right, I’ll eat anything.’

‘Hey! But also, gross.’

There might be many, many ways in which Lola and I are different. But if there’s one thing that can be said to bond us, it’s our shared passion for the humble salad.

Lola produces Tupperware full of different types and I pile up my plate.

‘These radishes are amazing,’ I tell her.

‘Thanks, Lily. They’re from the patch.’

‘It really makes a difference. Is that the giant cucumber too?’

‘Yep, seemed a shame to cut it up in the end.’

Lola’s one step away from that character in Encanto who shoots literal flowers from her fingertips.

I think of the rota I have to water Dad’s plants. Printed and laminated and pinned to the fridge. Lola probably just looks at a plant and knows instinctively that it’s at risk of dehydration.

Lola tells me stories about Noah.

‘There was this one time I was caught kissing the vicar’s daughter in the food shed,’ Noah says.

‘The vicar’s daughter.’ I laugh. ‘Painfully clichéd.’

Noah holds up his hands. ‘I was nineteen and she was… enthusiastic.’

We all laugh because Lola’s funny. Not in the way that Mr Cains is funny, all in your face. Lola’s humour comes from quiet observations.

‘Y’all should come to the karaoke tomorrow night. You can play piano, Lily, isn’t that right?’ Lola asks. ‘Noah mentioned something.’

‘Yeah but, I don’t know, I never sing in public. I’m not really a karaoke person. And I haven’t played since I was eighteen.’

When Mum died.

Lola looks at me for a second longer than might be considered normal. I’m worried that my grief is written all over my face. I attempt a bright smile.

‘I’ve been before, it’s not too bad. You don’t have to sing.’

I get what Noah’s saying, but actually I reject the premise that karaoke people are fun people. I’m not sure that karaoke makes anyone feel good about themselves, ever. It’s like an all you can eat buffet. Sounds great in principal, but everyone leaves feeling like they’ve lost a bit of their soul.

‘You don’t have to do anything if you don’t want to.

’ Lola is stretched out on the grass. ‘I just know that Harper’s foster mum would really like her to take part in some more of the activities.

When she does them, she always has fun. But she’s still mighty reluctant to join in.

I thought she might be more likely to come if you were both there. She seems real taken with you.’

Harper is still quite insulting towards me, though maybe less than she was originally. Whenever I’ve seen her around her foster family, she’s always seething in silence. I can’t help but feel like they’re so preoccupied with Blake, no one seems to have realized that Harper isn’t coping well either.

Anyway, there’s no way I’ll say no after that. Guilt is my primary motivator in all walks of life.

‘Okay fine, but I don’t think I’ll play or sing. I’ll just watch.’

‘Course. Whatever y’all like.’

I relax again after that. None of us make a move to leave the willow tree.

Time stretches out and I think what it would be like if we could all stay here in this endless summer, this endless day. How nice it would be if I got to keep Lola and Noah like this forever, if this was my life. Where everything is relaxed and easy.

But that’s the thing about holidays, they aren’t real life. This isn’t real life. It won’t last. Real life is coming for us all and I’m just not sure how I’m going to cope with it.