‘Well, yeah, but … I mean, we’re just married. It’s not really a good time for guests, you know?’
I swallow hard. I’m not a guest, I’m her best friend. I’m the person who basically organised her entire wedding, right down to that stupid ring-carrying angry swan she insisted she needed me to arrange. When Gia asked me to help plan her wedding, she said she needed my organisational skills … I can’t help but feel a bit used.
‘Oh, no, I totally get that. I wasn’t expecting you to look after me,’ I insist. Well, I wasn’t, I’m just shocked by how not her problem this is sounding.
‘You’re a star,’ she replies. ‘You’ll land on your feet – oops, poor choice of words.’
‘Drinks tomorrow,’ I start, remembering our plans.
‘Yeah, no, let’s just … put a pin in that until after my honeymoon? I’m sure you need the rest.’
‘Erm, yeah.’
‘Maybe try your parents?’
‘Yeah, thanks,’ I reply.
And now she doesn’t even want to hang out with me?! What, just because I’m in plaster, is that not cool? Is she really that superficial?
‘You all sorted?’ Patrick asks, walking out of the bathroom with a towel wrapped around his waist.
As he runs a hand through his hair, I notice his bicep wiggle. Something I suspect he does on purpose, either for my benefit or the mirror’s.
‘Erm, not really,’ I reply. ‘Work have told me not to go in until I can walk, and Gia doesn’t want to know.’
‘Shit, that’s awful,’ he replies. ‘You’d better get calling someone else, or you’re in big trouble.’
Wow, even Patrick doesn’t have much time for injured me. It’s like everyone is happy to have you around when you’re all dressed up and socialising, but when the shit hits the fan and you need help, no one wants to take time away from their awesome, easy life to help out.
‘Yeah,’ I reply. ‘Thanks.’
I frown.
He’s right, I guess. I’d better start working my way through my contacts. There’s absolutely no way I can cope on my own, at least to start with. But if you can’t rely on your boyfriend or your best friend, who else can you ask?
Chapter 4
Life, it turns out, is a pretty fragile thing.
I don’t mean in terms of life and death, although I’m sure that’s a realisation we all come to eventually. I feel very grateful to have not lived through circumstances to cause me that epiphany yet.
What I actually mean is that, having a life is a fragile thing. Having a rich, full, happy life, with everything you’ve ever hoped for, everything you’ve dreamed of … just one little accident, and it falls apart like a fibula on a dance floor (hmm, perhaps that metaphor is a little me-specific to use here, but you know what I mean).
Yesterday I had it all; today none of it is anywhere to be seen. I’m stuck in this wheelchair, I can’t go to my own home, my boyfriend is too busy to look after me, my best friend is too wrapped up in her own stuff, all my other friends are too busy with their own lives too. I rang round every single one of them, but none of them wanted to know. We’re all BFFs when there are fancy nights out and showbiz parties to go to (parties that my job gets us entry to), but now I need a favour from them … nothing. And I call it a favour, like it’s help moving house or a lift to the train station, but I’m here, in this chair, with nowhere to go, and no one to look after me. I don’t need a favour, I need a lifeline. How can they all just leave me to it?
Ordinarily, I would throw myself into work, because I love my job so much, nothing makes me happier than helping other people find happiness … and I can’t even do that. Even work doesn’t want me.
I wiggle carefully in my seat. I’m not all that comfortable at the best of times, but sitting in the back of a car with my broken leg stretched across the seat feels especially awkward. Not just because it makes my break feel especially painful (although it does, everything does, even breathing makes my leg hurt) but because it is an ambitious stretch at the best of times. All this does is rub in my face the fact that I probably do just go to yoga because I think it’s trendy, and because all my friends go. It turns out I’m not actually gaining that much flexibility from it. I suppose I knew, deep down, that I didn’t take it all that seriously. I was in it for the chat with my friends, the funky, colourful yoga pants, and the drinks we would go for after. Now I kind of wish I had taken it more seriously – it might make this drive more bearable.
‘I have to say, your mum and I are over the moon,’ my dad chirps as he drives.
I can see his face in the rear-view mirror and he certainly looks overjoyed.
‘That’s great,’ I reply, but I can’t muster up much conviction. Not in these circumstances.
‘I mean, your mum and I are sad you broke your leg – obviously.’
‘Obviously,’ I echo.
‘But over the moon,’ he insists again.
‘OK, Dad, calm down,’ I say.
It’s not that I’m not grateful. It’s unbelievably kind of him to drive all the way to London to pick me up, only to hit the road again straight away. It must be at least a ten-hour round trip he’s making. But he could at least sound like he isn’t delighted I broke my leg.
‘Sorry, love,’ he replies.
My dad, Paul James, gives me a reassuring smile in the mirror. One that I imagine is supposed to put me at my ease, but I still suspect he might drive into a tree if it means I have to stay with them for longer. He’s your typical broad Yorkshireman, with an angry brow and an even less friendly resting face. He’s a big softy, of course, but I did find it an advantage, growing up with an intimidating-looking dad. I certainly won every single ‘my dad is bigger than your dad’ standoff, that’s for sure.
That’s what I’m doing, by the way. I’m moving back in with my parents.
It’s only temporary, may I add, until I’m back on my feet, and with this being very literal in my case, I know how long it will be – six weeks. That’s what they told me when I went to have my temporary cast swapped for a regular one, before we hit the road today. They didn’t even say I’d be better in six weeks, they said I could hopefully swap my cast for a brace then, so at least I’d be able to put some weight on it.
So, that’s my countdown. Six weeks. I don’t think I’ve spent six days at my parents’ house since I moved out, with me only popping back for Christmas or encouraging them to visit me. It’s hard for them though, running a B & B, because at the times of year when people have time off and usually want to get together, that’s when they are busiest.
Anyone can survive six weeks back home, right? It might be kind of nice, taking in the sea air, eating my mum’s cooking, watching TV with my dad. It’s been ages since I had some time off, not without a holiday to jet off on. Yes, it will be great, just the chilled-out break I’ve probably been in need of.
I look out of the car windows, admiring the greenery on one side and the sea on the other. We must be nearly there now.
‘It’s a shame Mum couldn’t come for the drive,’ I say.
‘Yes, but you know what she’s like,’ my dad replies. ‘She’s washing the windows and doing the stairs down.’
Almost all of my significant memories involve my mum on her hands and knees, with a cloth and a bucket of warm soapy water, starting at the top of the stairs and working her way down, scrubbing each step along the way.
‘I can’t even go up the stairs,’ I laugh.
‘Oh, she knows, but you know what she’s like. She’s just excited, her baby is coming home.’
I want to remind him that it’s only for six weeks, but he knows. No sense in reminding him and bursting his bubble.
‘How’s the work coming along?’ I ask.
When I was home for Christmas I made a few suggestions about the B & B. Just little things here and there that needed a fresh lick of paint, or new ideas for how to drum up more business.
Driving through Marram Bay, where I grew up, always feels
like looking through an old photo album. You know how sometimes you remember how things were when you were a kid, and even though they look different now because of time or advances in technology, they remind you of the good old days? Well passing through Marram Bay is nothing like that. I always come back to find this place exactly as I left it.
I would hazard a guess there are a few reasons nothing changes in Marram Bay. First of all, it’s a tourist hotspot. People travel from all over the world to visit expecting a Yorkshire seaside town, cute and picturesque, with quirks aplenty.
There are lots of weird and wonderful events that people flock here for. In December, Marram Bay plays host to the Winter Wonderland Festival down by the beach. We have rides, stalls, and performances, but the pièce de résistance is without a doubt the Christmas tree maze. I would always look forward to getting lost in the maze when I was a kid. It’s funny, because I would try so hard to learn the layout so that one year I could walk it – I don’t know how many years it took me to figure out that the layout is different each time.
In summer we have the 1940s weekend, which we take seriously – and I mean very seriously. It’s exactly as it sounds too. The entire place hops into a time machine and goes back to the World War II era. Locals cover their windows in white tape, hide their cars and dress up in their 1940s’ best, and if you even think about breaking character, they probably force you into moving house.
Other annual events include a hot air balloon festival and a Valentine’s Day Festival, dedicated to all things love. It’s no wonder we get so many tourists.
People in little towns like this are always so set in their ways. They don’t want things to change. They hate change. New builds, Tesco Expresses, Nando’s – no one can get a look in.
As we drive through Marram Bay I spot the Little Acorn Primary school – the first school I attended – before passing the small park where I had my first kiss. I can pretty much map my pre-London-move life events across this small but beautiful stretch, although I’m not sure how much interest there would be in a tourist pamphlet like that.
‘Oh, just in time,’ my dad says as we approach the causeway to Hope Island. ‘It closes in ten minutes.’
When I was growing up on Hope Island, I didn’t give the causeway much thought. I was just so used to it that it became little more than an annoyance that stopped me getting to see my friends or returning home after. Now that I’m older and it isn’t something I get to see very often, it absolutely captivates me.
Twice a day, when the tide comes in, the mile-long road that connects Hope Island to Marram Bay will be completely covered by the North Sea, isolating Hope Island from the rest of the country. Then, when the tide goes back out, and the road beneath becomes visible, the tidal island is connected again.
So, what used to just be a road closure that annoyed teenage me is now a real marvel of the natural world that I can’t get enough of. That said, if it had been closed just now, I would have been annoyed at being stuck on the mainland for even longer – hours probably – because I really need the loo (which is an absolute ordeal that I’d rather not go through with my dad in a public lav) and I’m so uncomfortable in this car.
‘Thank goodness,’ I reply as we drive along the causeway. I look out of the window only to see the water edging closer at both sides of the road. It’s fascinating, how it just looks like a centimetre or two of water creeping in slowly, but come high tide this road can often be under six foot of water. The locals know the causeway and the tide like the backs of their hands. They know how long they have to drive the mile-long road and they know what will happen if they drive when it isn’t safe.
Tourists, however, who aren’t familiar with our tidal island, will often think they can take a chance and cross, either expecting the road to keep clear for them, or that it will only be like driving through a big puddle. Of course it’s nothing like that; it’s so dangerous, which is why people get halfway across and realise the tide has them surrounded, leaving them marooned in their car, but not for long. Soon the sea takes their car too, and that’s when they wind up in big trouble.
Growing up here, the risks with the tide were always made very clear to us, and I remember the consequences – along with the costs involved – clear as day. A sea rescue costs £2,000 whereas an air rescue costs £4,000 – and of course you’re in danger if you need rescuing, and then there is the damage to your car, so why even risk it?
‘Hopefully your mum will have finished tidying and we can have a nice cup of tea,’ my dad says.
The thought of sitting there in pain while my mum tidies around me makes me anxious. I know she’s just trying to make the place nice for me, but all I care about is getting comfortable in a room with an adjoining bathroom that doesn’t involve any steps.
Hope Island is gorgeous, packed with cute little cafés, homely-looking B & Bs and plenty of tourist hotspots, like the old abbey ruins, but I’ve no time to stop and admire them today. I’m really starting to regret keeping hydrated on the drive here.
‘Home sweet home,’ my dad says as he pulls up outside the Lighthouse B & B.
On the coast, looking out to sea, sits the old converted lighthouse that my parents live in. Their bed and breakfast is in the newer building attached to it. I grew up in the lighthouse – the tall, slightly off white, weather-battered building with the red stripe across the middle.
Growing up, my old bedroom was on the top floor, which was as magical as it sounds. There’s no chance of me getting up there today though so the bottom floor – also known as the family living room – will be my bedroom for the foreseeable future. Thankfully there is a bathroom just off the living room, so I’ll be able to roll between the rooms with ease.
As my dad helps me out of the car and up the path, my mum runs out to meet us.
‘Lola, darling,’ she says excitedly.
‘Hi, Mum,’ I reply. I allow her a moment to kiss my cheek before wheeling myself past her. ‘I need the loo, then we’ll talk.’
‘She didn’t even mention the new curtains,’ I just about hear her say to my dad as I struggle to close the door behind me.
It’s just six weeks, I remind myself. Just six weeks.
Chapter 5
‘Lola … Lola, honey, time to wake up.’
When I hear my mum’s voice my first thought is that I’m going to be late for school. I always had a tendency to oversleep but she would talk me awake ever so gently.
It only takes a few seconds for me to realise that I haven’t travelled back in time to my teens. I am here as a thirty-two-year-old grown person – one who has nothing to get up for.
‘Just five more minutes,’ I plead. Well, old habits die hard.
‘Nope, I won’t let you be an invalid,’ she insists. ‘I’ve made you some breakfast, come on. Do you need me to help you up?’
‘No,’ I insist, pulling myself into more of an upright position. ‘It’s OK, I’m a fully grown woman. I can do it.’
If there’s one thing I don’t want, it is to feel like a child again.
To prove a point I shuffle from the sofa into my wheelchair, being as careful with my leg as possible. I am most definitely overdue some painkillers because an agonising electric shock type pain shoots up and down from the break.
‘Shit, shit, shit,’ I say as I settle into my chair. I exhale deeply as I realise I’m going to have to move from my chair to the toilet. Perhaps I’ll wait until after I’ve had my painkillers, before I attempt moving again.
‘Oh, love,’ my mum says. ‘Please let me help you. Can I help you to the bathroom? Do you want to get changed?’
I remove a scrunchie from my wrist and scoop my long blonde hair up into a bun on the top of my head.
‘I’ll have something to eat and take my painkillers first,’ I say. ‘But then that would be great, thank you.’
Well, I can’t do it on my own, and a little help isn’t exactly going to make me feel like a big baby, is it? I do have a broken leg;
I need to cut myself some slack.
I grab my phone from next to the sofa before my mum wheels me from the lighthouse into the B & B. We go through the door into the B & B office where there is also a door into our private family kitchen, separate from the bistro kitchen where food is prepared for the guests.
A quick glance at my phone turns up two surprising pieces of information. First of all, it’s only 8:30 in the a.m. – way earlier than I want to get up when I don’t have work, but also evidence that my mum has allowed me to sleep in. She’s probably been up since 5:30 a.m., getting ready for a busy day in the B & B, working on her permanently flawless hair and near invisible make-up.
I’ve never really pulled off the natural look like my mum does. I have to spend time on my hair – lest it look like a bird’s nest, like it does today – and it pretty much always takes a full face of make-up to get me looking well rested and healthy. I need to contour and highlight and open my eyes up. Otherwise I look like I do today – old, tired and like I just don’t care anymore. That’s not to say I do it because I think I have to though. I’ve always been a girly girl who loved doing her hair and messing around with make-up; it would just be nice to be a little more effortlessly polished like my mum is.
The other piece of disappointing information gathered from my phone is the fact that Patrick hasn’t sent me so much as a text to see how I’m doing. I know he’s in Amsterdam and I know he’s working, but his phone is never out of his hand, and it wouldn’t take him more than thirty seconds to punch me a quick text to see how I’m feeling, or if I got home safe.
‘There’s my two favourite ladies,’ my dad says as my mum wheels me into the private dining kitchen, parking me at the table.
‘Morning, Da … Oh my God.’
My sentence is derailed by the breakfast on the table in front of me.
‘What?’ my mum asks.
‘Is this for me?’ I reply.
‘Yes.’
‘All of it?’ I check.
‘Of course,’ my mum says. ‘We need to get your strength up, get you back on your feet.’
Make or Break at the Lighthouse B & B Page 3
