‘Well, you remember my mum,’ I joke.
I’m sure he probably does remember my mum though. I think she probably scarred him for life. Will came over to help me with my biology homework once (not a euphemism) and he was curious about the lighthouse so I took him upstairs to look out. My mum caught us and thought we were up to no good, and politely asked Will to leave and not to come back – I say politely, but it had the low-key anger that bubbles inside an overprotective mother.
‘I do indeed,’ he replies. ‘And, of course, I’m her doctor now.’
‘Hmm, I’m not sure you’re supposed to tell me that,’ I reply – and if I didn’t know better, I’d think I detected a flirtatious tone to my voice.
‘Probably not,’ he replies. ‘But I’m also not supposed to keep a room full of patients waiting while I’m in here dealing with a fake emergency.’
We exchange smiles.
‘Call me if you need me, OK?’ he says.
‘I will do, thank you.’
Once Dr Will has gone back to work, I feel an enormous grin spread across my face. Wow, I can’t believe that’s Will! He looks so different. I mean, of course he does, the last time I saw him he was a teenage boy and now he’s a man, but he looks really different. Kim’s hair looked very different, but she still looked like Kim. I can’t believe Will grew up to be a hot doctor – I’ll bet everyone who bullied him at school (especially the ones who still live locally) are kicking themselves now.
One thing I can’t help but think though, is that if I don’t call Will and hang out with him more while I’m here, I’ll be kicking myself – well, I would be if it were physically possible.
Chapter 7
Day three stuck on my arse, trapped in the little lighthouse on Marram Bay: I’m going mad.
So apparently, at the moment, the town hall is undergoing some major refurbishments, so my mum and dad have kindly offered the B & B function room as a space for those who usually rely on the town hall for their events.
Ordinarily I would say this was a great thing. Great for the community, great for business, great for raising the profile of the B & B … It isn’t great for me though. From where I’m (stuck) sitting, all I can hear is the local line dancing group practising. It’s a group of mostly retired women, all of whom can move a lot better than I can right now. They’re having fun, which is all that matters, but they’re practising the same song on repeat. If I hear ‘Elvira’ by The Oak Ridge Boys one more time, I’m going to lose my mind.
Bored out of my mind, uncomfortable, and hungry, I decide to venture into the B & B and see if I can get something to eat. My dad is out running errands and my mum is upstairs helping the ladies who clean the rooms and change the beds – my mum is such a perfectionist, and it doesn’t matter to her whether there are employees who are paid to do these jobs; she likes to make sure they are done right, and she’s happy to get her hands dirty. It’s one of the reasons I look up to my mum, but today it’s the reason I don’t have a sandwich in my hand, and what else do I have to live for right now? I want a sandwich of white bread, a little butter and a full packet of salt and vinegar crisps crushed up. A crisp sandwich might not be very refined, but it’s what I want. It’s the thing that’s going to make me feel better today. It’s also only available in the B & B restaurant kitchen, which is far enough away from the function room that I won’t be able to hear the line dancing crowd, the rhythmic pounding of their feet on the floor, the excitable woos, and that bloody song that I must have heard five times today already.
I’m getting a little better at wheeling myself around. I’ve never had much upper arm strength, but my dad reckons that will change after several weeks in this thing, and then even more on crutches, when I’m eventually allowed.
It’s a little tight, wheeling myself through the doorway into the kitchen, but staff will be between meals so I’m not likely to get in anyone’s way at least, and someone will have some time to very kindly make me some lunch.
‘Get out,’ Vince says the second he claps eyes on me.
I frown at him. Vince is a short, bald man, but what he lacks in height he makes up for in Gordon Ramsay style aggression.
‘It’s health and safety,’ he insists, wildly gesturing towards the door with his hands. ‘You’ll be under our feet.’
I glance over at Robbie, the new assistant chef. He’s a tall, skinny twenty-something with his longish brown hair pulled into a man bun on the back of his head. He rolls his eyes behind Vince’s back, which makes me feel a bit like I’m getting a telling-off.
‘I’m not sticking around,’ I quickly explain. ‘I’m just hungry and my parents are busy. I hoped I could order some lunch.’
Vince looks down at my leg sympathetically and visibly softens. ‘What can I get you?’ he says, crouching down in front of me.
‘I won’t take up too much of your time,’ I reply gratefully. ‘I just want a salt and vinegar crisp sandwich.’
Vince’s eyes widen and he pulls himself to his feet. ‘Absolutely not,’ he insists. ‘I did not train in Paris, under Chef Grégoire Trémaux, so that I could spend my day making … crisp sandwiches.’
Just saying the words ‘crisp sandwich’ clearly leaves a horrible taste in his mouth.
‘But …’ I protest.
‘No, absolutely not, I will make you something that is worthy of my talent or I will let you starve,’ he insists.
Bloody hell, why do chefs have to be so dramatic?
‘I’ll make it,’ Robbie offers. ‘OK?’
‘Of course you will,’ Vince replies. ‘I’m going for a cigarette. There better not be so much as a sprinkling of salt on that worktop when I get back.’
On that note Vince storms off, leaving me alone with Robbie, my saviour, the man who is going to make all my sandwich dreams come true.
‘He seems in a good mood,’ I say sarcastically. ‘Has he won the lottery or something?’
Robbie just laughs. ‘It’s comforting, to see him talk that way to everyone,’ he tells me. ‘I thought it was just me he hated.’
‘How are you finding the job?’ I ask.
‘I love the work,’ he replies. ‘It’s a stressful environment though. Vince likes things the way he likes them, but sometimes he inexplicably likes them the other way. He doesn’t tell you though, you’re just supposed to know.’
I laugh. ‘Yeah, he’s definitely the most highly strung chef we’ve had,’ I reply.
‘You must be Lola then,’ he says as he gathers ingredients to fix my sandwich. ‘The bosses’ daughter.’
‘Is it the family resemblance?’ I ask.
‘No, it’s the broken leg,’ he replies. ‘I’d heard you were coming to stay for a bit. Until you’re …’ His voice trails off.
‘It’s OK,’ I assure him. ‘You can say “back on your feet”. Everyone else keeps saying it.’
I watch a wave of relaxation spread through Robbie’s body. Vince must have him so on edge. I can’t imagine trying to do my job under pressure like that, constantly walking on eggshells – I’d imagine because Vince has been chucking eggs around in temper.
‘I didn’t want to sound like I was taking the mick,’ he replies.
‘Are you a local?’ I ask.
‘I lived here until I was ten, then I moved away with my mum, then I wound up working in the kitchens on a few cruise ships.’
‘That sounds fancy,’ I say.
‘Believe me, it wasn’t,’ he replies. ‘It’s fancy for the guests, it’s Titanic third-class conditions for the staff.’
‘Is Vince better or worse?’ I ask.
‘That’s like asking me which one of my legs I’d rather break,’ he replies absent-mindedly. ‘Sorry, sorry, that wasn’t a joke either.’
‘It’s fine,’ I insist. ‘Or at least it is until you pass me that sandwich. Once I secure some food, I’m never speaking to you again.’
He laughs. Robbie cuts my sandwich diagonally before garnishing my plate with a small s
alad and a few extra crisps.
‘That looks amazing,’ I reply as he places it down in front of me.
It’s so great, to have my appetite back. It’s one of those things that you don’t realise you’ll miss until it’s gone. When I was trying to shave a couple of inches off my hips so I didn’t look like a disproportionally stuffed sausage in my bridesmaid dress, I would’ve probably given anything to curb my appetite and stop me craving Chinese food or red velvet cake or a simple crisp sandwich, but when my appetite was taken from me after my accident all I wanted to do was eat and I just couldn’t face it.
I give the sandwich an unladylike squash with my hands to make sure the crisps are as fragmented as possible, because that’s the way to do it. I squash it so hard I leave fingerprints in the soft white bread before lifting the almost paper-thin triangle to my mouth. I taste it and it’s everything I hoped it would be and more. I feel like I’m eating for the first time in years, even if it has only been a few days that I’ve been off my food.
‘Is that OK?’ he asks me.
‘It might be the best sandwich I’ve ever had,’ I reply, and while it might just be because I’m so happy to have my appetite back, I actually think I might be telling the truth. ‘So, what made you give up a life at sea to come here and be beaten and scrambled by old Vince?’
‘You know what Hope Island is like,’ he replies with a shrug. ‘It just drags you back. You know what they say, people go elsewhere, but they never leave. Their heart is here and at some point they have to come back for it. They can’t live without it.’
‘Well, I live in London,’ I point out. ‘And nothing is dragging me back here.’
Robbie raises his eyebrows and gives me a smug smile. It takes me a moment to realise what he’s getting at.
‘Oh, OK, I know what you’re thinking,’ I start, a little defensively. ‘I do realise that I am technically back living here now, but it’s only temporary, only while my leg is broken – only six weeks, tops.’
‘You think breaking your leg was an accident?’ he asks.
‘Are you suggesting …’ I pause, to gather my words. I’m about to say something so stupid I can hardly even bring myself to do it. ‘Are you suggesting that the island broke my leg? Of course it was an accident – I know it was an accident because it happened to me. I fell on the …’
As I notice Robbie’s serious expression melt into something more playful, I realise he’s winding me up.
‘Oh, hilarious,’ I reply. ‘Very good. If this sandwich wasn’t so good I’d have my parents fire you.’
I’m kidding, of course, but he doesn’t even entertain for a second that I might be serious.
‘Lola, there you are,’ my mum says as she bursts into the kitchen. ‘I’ve been looking all over for you.’
‘Well, you know I couldn’t have got far,’ I remind her.
‘Well, your Auntie Val is here to see you and … What is that?’ she asks, nodding towards my sandwich.
‘It’s a sandwich, Mum,’ I reply.
‘Bread?’ she says.
‘Yes, that’s what sandwiches are made of,’ I confirm.
‘That’s not what you need,’ she insists.
‘You literally made me five slices of toast for my breakfast my first day here,’ I remind her.
I hear Robbie sniggering. He quickly tries to wipe the smile off his face. My mum is, after all, his boss.
‘By the time I removed the eyes and the mouth it was more like three slices,’ she says, like it’s the most normal thing in the world. ‘Where’s Vince? You could have had him make you anything, something helpful, like with carrots in.’
‘Carrots?’ I ask, instantly wishing I hadn’t.
‘Yes, isn’t carotene good for broken bones? I thought everyone knew that.’
‘I’ve never heard that,’ I tell her.
‘Well, what am I thinking of?’ she asks, a little frustrated.
‘Calcium?’
‘Anyway,’ she says, changing the subject as she grabs the handles of my wheelchair to take me into the other room. I quickly grab my sandwich, so that I can bring it with me. ‘Auntie Val is waiting.’
‘Thanks for the sandwich,’ I call to Robbie as my mum wheels me away.
‘You’re welcome,’ I just about hear him call back.
‘He’s single, you know,’ my mum whispers into my ear as she pushes my chair from behind.
I wasn’t expecting to hear her voice so close to my ear. It makes me jump.
‘Bloody hell, Mum,’ I say. ‘And anyway, I have a boyfriend.’
‘Oh, yes, the one I’m not allowed to meet,’ she pointlessly reminds me. ‘The one who you haven’t heard from.’
‘Erm, I have heard from him,’ I reply.
I’ve had a few texts from Patrick, which has made me feel a little better. He explained that he is really busy with work, and without me prompting him he mentioned that he’d hired a cleaner to take care of his flat while he’s away/busy/I’m not there to help out with jobs. I think being stuck up here is messing with my head and making me paranoid. Well, I hope that’s all it is. For someone who is supposed to be a relationship expert, I feel uncomfortably confused about my own right now.
One thing I’m absolutely not imagining though, are the photos of my friendship circle on Instagram, showing everyone out partying together, having a lovely time. So much for Gia insisting she wanted a few weeks of married bonding time with her husband or whatever line it was she fed me. She just didn’t want to look after me. I suppose at least Patrick has work, maybe, I don’t know. I’m trying to give him the benefit of the doubt but I keep feeling like maybe he doesn’t care as much as he should either.
One person who does care, more than I’d like, is my mum.
‘There’s my little showgirl,’ my auntie greets me.
Auntie Val has referred to me as showgirl for as long as I can remember, which I’m sure is a weird thing to call a child, but it’s an obvious riff on my name so I can let it slide.
‘Hi, Auntie Val,’ I say. ‘How are you?’
‘I’m doing better than you, love,’ she points out. ‘Although your mum was just trying to convince me to join the biddies in the line dancing room.’
‘I just thought it might be a more age-appropriate activity,’ my mum says.
My Auntie Val is my mum’s younger sister, although not by much. She’s nearing the end of her fifties but you’d never guess if you spent a little time with her. She certainly doesn’t look or dress her age, with her peroxide blonde hair and her trendy high-street clothes that she travels all the way to Leeds to buy. Otherwise Val is in great shape (she loves her yoga) and I suppose without the stress of a family or a man in her life, she dedicates her time to looking after number one, which I really respect her for. Lots of people need an other half to feel whole, but not my Auntie Val. Ever since she and my Uncle Robert broke up, she’s either been happily single or just casually dating.
‘A more age-appropriate activity than what?’ I ask.
‘She’s …’ my mum lowers her voice. ‘She’s trying to boink the roofer.’
‘Boink the roofer,’ I can’t help but repeat back.
‘I am a vibrant woman in my sexual prime,’ Val insists. ‘And Ben is a single young man who just so happens to be doing my waterproofing.’
‘Is that what the kids are calling it?’ I joke.
‘I haven’t done it yet,’ Val insists. ‘But Auntie has needs, and things didn’t work out with Karl.’
‘The man who fitted her new kitchen,’ my mum tells me with an uncomfortable yet satisfied I-told-her-so kind of tone. ‘I did warn her not to boink where she eats.’
I’m not really sure whether my mum means she advised my auntie not to sleep with the people working on her house renovations, or whether she literally just warned her not to have sex in her kitchen. Either way I wish she would stop using the word boink.
‘If you’re looking for someone to spend some time with,
why don’t you let me help you?’ I suggest. ‘I literally mean to spend time with though – I’m not helping my auntie find hook-ups.’
‘Really?’ she replies.
‘Yeah, why not?’ I say. ‘I’m bored, I’m stuck on my arse – and matchmaking is my job. You might not have been on Love Island but I’m sure the same rules apply for finding love for the general public.’
‘Oh, Lola, you always were my favourite niece,’ she insists, gently hugging me.
‘I’m your only niece,’ I point out.
Well, I am bored out of my mind, so I may as well help my auntie out. Just because my own love life seems like it’s a bit of a mess, doesn’t mean I’m not still amazing at putting other people together.
Chapter 8
I am feeling the best I have felt in days and it’s all thanks to love. Well, love and maybe having my appetite back. Oh, and I suppose the codeine is probably helping quite a lot too, but really it’s mostly love.
I had a long chat with my Auntie Val, over multiple cups of tea and far too many custard creams, about how she can attract and potentially keep men around for longer. With my mum giving us some peace and quiet to get on with work (not sure if she meant me or her) we had a natter about the ins and outs of my auntie’s love life. Sure, at first it seemed a little bit odd, but as soon as I put my working head on, that’s when we started making progress.
Understandably, since my auntie and uncle broke up (which it turns out was down to infidelity on his part – no pun intended) her man-eating ways are really just a front. Of course she wants to someone to spend her time with and of course she doesn’t want to grow old alone, but she’s scared about getting hurt again and so she puts up this tough front. Men being men, they don’t see this as a front, they just see my auntie as a woman out to have a good time with them, not a long time with them. Once we realised this (it’s amazing how much a sympathetic ear and a packet of biscuits can draw from a person; I might retrain as a therapist) it was easy to offer advice to my auntie from there. All she needed to do was change her approach – not the way she dresses or her young personality, but just the way she interacts with men in the initial stages.
Make or Break at the Lighthouse B & B Page 5
