‘They’re like that because they’re too big for him on the hips,’ she whispers to me. ‘And yet still far too tight.’
‘Oh, I’m going back to bed,’ he says with a bat of his hand.
‘I can’t believe you’re up,’ I say. ‘Either of you.’
‘I wanted to check my emails,’ he replies. ‘And I realised your mum was missing. Anyway, goodnight.’
‘He says things like that all the time,’ my mum tells me once we’re alone again. ‘Wearing clothes that are too young for him, checking his messages all the time, banging on about how fit he is – he jogged the other day, can you imagine?’
My mum usually complains that my dad doesn’t take pride in his appearance and that he isn’t active enough. The poor bloke can’t win.
‘So, why can’t you sleep?’ I ask.
‘Your dad was watching snooker in the bedroom. I couldn’t sleep, then he fell asleep and I didn’t. I came down looking for you to chat and you weren’t here so I thought I’d wait.’
‘Well snooker is a notoriously noisy sport.’
My mum pulls an unimpressed face. ‘London has made you much cheekier than you were before, and don’t think I don’t notice that accent you’re putting on.’
I am absolutely not putting on an accent. I suppose I’ve just lost my Yorkshire twang, living away from home for several years, trying to speak clearly so that people could understand me. Up here, people don’t think I sound Yorkshire anymore. In London, especially when I first moved there, people found me difficult to understand at times, because of my Yorkshire accent. I didn’t want to tone it down, I had to tone it down so that people could understand me.
‘Are we going to talk about what happened?’ my mum asks. ‘With your fella?’
Oh God, a mother-daughter chat.
‘Mum, ideally not ever, but especially not now.’
I sound like a teenager again. It’s amazing how much I’ve regressed since I arrived here.
‘It just didn’t work out,’ I say, softening a little. ‘He wasn’t who I thought he was.’
‘Well, if he had been, I wouldn’t have got my daughter back,’ my mum says, squeezing me with one arm around my shoulders. ‘Even if it is only temporarily.’
For a moment I enjoy a genuine warm moment with my mum. I know that she loves me, even when she’s meddling in my life. I feel myself relax into her arms for a moment, but then she opens her mouth again.
‘OK, well, you get some sleep,’ she insists. ‘Terrible black bags under your eyes.’
‘Night night, Mum,’ I call after her. ‘You know where I am if you need to talk.’
‘We’ll see.’ She laughs. ‘Night, love.’
I do feel exhausted. I have so much on my mind I decide to just push it all out and let myself fall asleep. I’ll work out what’s wrong with my mum, I’ll figure out what I’m supposed to do about Will, I’ll plan my Unmatchables meeting and I’ll cancel that bloody trip to the Lakes … just … tomorrow.
Chapter 18
Messy room, messy mind, that’s what my mum says.
For that reason, after climbing the lighthouse stairs backwards, on my bum, where my mum was waiting at the top for me with my wheelchair, I am now in my old room.
I definitely couldn’t do this all day, every day, so I’ve ruled out sleeping up here, but the living room was starting to get pretty full so we agreed we’d put my stuff in my old room, and I fancied a bit of privacy, so I could make some calls without my mum listening. I told her I wanted to spend a bit of time in my old room, which is true. It’s an interesting activity, given how well preserved is it. It’s like digging up a time capsule.
My mum hung my clothes in my old wardrobe, which, as far as I’m concerned, has sealed the deal that I’m staying here for a while still. Wherever I hang my hat (clothes, shoes and other accessories), that’s my home.
She squashed as much in the wardrobe as she could but it’s still packed with clothes from my teens. I suppose I could clear it out while I’m here, take them to one of the charity shops in town perhaps – or open a branch of Tammy Girl, because I have enough stock for it. There are lots of clothes in here that I didn’t wear for a long time before I moved out.
I wonder if any of it might still fit me, but I’m not sure how much use I have for combat pants and fishnet tops – an ensemble sixteen-year-old me would have loved.
I wheel myself over to my desk. I admire my CD rack, which boasts everything from Savage Garden to Slipknot. I went through many phases. If you look around the room, you can map out these phases from a pink-and-pop-loving girly girl child, to football-loving tomboy as I hit double digits. After that short-lived sporty phase I transitioned to a rock chick. The CDs make so much sense once you have this knowledge. Poppy me would’ve been horrified at Slipknot, and rock chick me would’ve rather died than admit Savage Garden were great. These days I feel much more comfortable liking a bit of everything but when you’re young, you forge these strong identities and live your entire life by them.
I’ve brought my laptop up with me (well, my mum carried it up for me) so that I can cancel this trip to the Lakes. I was going to call Patrick, have him forward me the email, or get him to cancel it, but I cannot bring myself to call him – in fact, I don’t want to contact him at all. I don’t want to hear his stupid voice but, most of all, the fact he hasn’t called me speaks volumes. I don’t want to be the first one to make contact. Petty? Perhaps, but if it makes me feel better then I think I’m allowed a bit of pettiness.
I open my laptop, type in Patrick’s email address and rack my brains for his password. He’s definitely told me his email password before, and I was sure it was W35tHam87. It doesn’t seem to be working though. I try a few different combinations but none of them seem to be working, so I try a few things he might’ve changed it to. I’d say I feel like a hacker, but I have no idea what I’m doing.
Wait, did I just click to have my password reset via my phone? Oh God, it’s not going to tell him the location his emails are being accessed from, is it? Because I doubt he knows many people living on a tiny tidal island in Yorkshire.
And now my battery is dying. Brilliant. I grab my charger from my bag and reach down under my desk to plug it in. It’s maybe just an inch of two out of my reach, but with one big stretch …
I fall out of my chair and hit the floor with a loud thud. My God, that hurt. Not just my broken leg, but every other bone in my body, which I hope and pray are not now broken too.
I fight off the inevitable tears as I try to pull myself up but I can’t do it. Without both legs, I don’t have the strength the pull myself up from the floor.
‘Help,’ I call out. ‘Help, Mum, please, help.’
A few seconds later, a man appears at my bedroom door.
‘Oh, thank God,’ I say. ‘Can you help me up please?’
‘Yeah, of course,’ he replies.
The stranger scoops me up from the floor with a gentle ease and places me down on my bed.
‘Are you OK?’ he asks. ‘Are you hurt?’
‘I don’t think so,’ I say, looking myself up and down. ‘Just achy.’
‘Oh no,’ he says seriously.
‘What?’ I ask, looking myself up and down for wounds or protruding bones I might’ve missed.
‘I think you’ve broken your leg,’ he jokes.
I laugh.
The stranger looks like he’s in his late thirties maybe, early forties max. He’s got very dark hair that is blown backwards, and a short, neat dark beard. He’s got a bit of that super sexy salt and pepper colour going on, mostly in his beard and then just the tiniest bit in his sideburns, creeping up into his hair. He’s wearing dark blue jeans and a black leather jacket. He looks like a bit of a bad boy, but the fun kind, with good looks and cheeky charm.
‘Thanks for your help,’ I say. ‘I was just trying to hack my ex-boyfriend’s email account and it went a bit wrong. My laptop needed plugging in, and then I just fell.’
‘You were trying to hack your ex-boyfriend’s emails?’ he repeats back to me.
I can’t tell if he’s impressed or offended.
‘Yeah,’ I reply. ‘What are you going to do, call the police?’ I laugh.
‘I am the police,’ he points out, suddenly very straight-faced.
I stop laughing. ‘What?’
‘I am the police,’ he says. ‘DC Dean Gardner.’
‘Wha … Are you here to arrest me, Detective?’ I ask sarcastically. ‘For failing to hack into an email account I have forgotten the password for?’
‘Relax,’ he insists, as a smile erupts across his face. ‘If anyone’s going to need a pair of handcuffs slapping on them, it’s going to be me. My sister has roped me into your sad singles club.’
My eyes widen with horror. ‘You’re Faye’s brother?’
‘I am indeed,’ he replies. ‘And you’re the one taking money off her to try and sort out my love life?’
There’s this real mocking tone in his voice that I don’t appreciate. But I did promise his sister I wouldn’t tell him I wasn’t charging her for this.
I raise my eyebrows.
‘No judgement,’ he says, with, actually, quite a lot of judgement. ‘It’s just … not sure I want someone sorting out my love life when their own is clearly a car crash.’
‘OK, well, you need to leave my bedroom,’ I insist, snapping into formal mode, ignoring everything he just said. ‘Go wait in the function room, please, with the other … the other …’
‘The other sad singles?’ he asks with a devastatingly handsome grin. ‘OK, sure. You need help getting back into your chair?’
‘No, I … Oh, erm, could you get my mum for me please?’ I ask pathetically.
‘She just nipped out,’ he replies. ‘She seemed like she was in a bit of a hurry, so she let me in and rushed out with your dad.’
Well that’s weird.
‘Oh …’
‘You need help getting downstairs?’ he asks.
‘No,’ I reply insistently, but I absolutely do, or I’ll be stuck in this teenager’s bedroom all day. ‘Actually … yes, please. I can find a way to get to the top of the stairs and go down on my bum; I just can’t get the chair to the bottom.’
‘I’ll take the chair first, come back for you?’ he asks.
‘If you could take the chair to the bottom of the stairs, please,’ I say. ‘But you don’t have to come back.’
‘Back in a sec,’ he says, ignoring me.
I feel a little rattled if I’m being honest. Who does Dean think he is? Waltzing into my bedroom, making me feel like a criminal?
With no other options I grab my phone from on top of my bed and punch a quick message to Patrick, telling him to cancel the mini break. With a bit of luck he’ll do it, and he won’t text me back.
Dean walks back into the room, still smiling widely, like he’s reading my mind. He knows he’s rattled me.
He removes his jacket to reveal a grey T-shirt that clings to his biceps in a way that makes me sit up and take notice – much to my own annoyance.
‘Are you making yourself at home?’ I ask.
‘As warm and welcoming as you are,’ he starts sarcastically, ‘no, it’s just easier to carry you downstairs without this heavy jacket on.’
‘You don’t have to carry me, honestly,’ I insist. ‘I can scoot down on my bum.’
‘As funny as that would be to watch …’
We’re interrupted by my phone ringing.
‘Ergh, it’s my ex,’ I blurt out. ‘I just texted him and asked him to cancel a holiday I booked in his name, but I don’t ever want to talk to him again … which is why I was trying to get into his emails.’
Before I realise what is happening, Dean takes my phone from me and answers it. My jaw drops.
‘DC Gardner,’ he says before giving the other person a chance to speak. ‘Hello?’
He has a thoughtful look on his face as the person on the other end of the line talks.
‘No, this is Lola’s phone,’ Dean explains. ‘Sorry, they just get so easily mixed up on the bedroom table when you have the same phone, you know? Imagine if she accidentally took my calls – violent assaults, gruesome murders … Anyway, pal, while I’ve got you, I think Lola was just after you cancelling that trip she booked. Looks like the two of us are going to be jetting off somewhere on those dates, is that OK …? Super, thanks … Bye.’
Dean hangs up and hands my phone back to me.
‘I don’t think he’ll call back,’ he says with a triumphant grin. ‘Can I carry you downstairs now so we can get this weird workshop out of the way, please?’
I nod. Dean scoops me up and, of all the people who have carried me in recent weeks, I have never felt so safe. Usually, I feel on edge, like I’m going to be dropped, but I slot into Dean’s arms just right, like the space was made for me.
‘You’re a regular superhero, aren’t you?’ I tease.
‘All part of the job, ma’am,’ he replies.
Chapter 19
Two things are very different at today’s Unmatchables meeting. First of all, we have an extra person, because Dean is here. Second of all, unlike during our first session where everyone was attentively watching me and hanging off my every word, today, so far, no one is paying much attention to me at all. Everyone is staring at Dean.
As far as the ladies go, I get it. Dean is undeniably handsome, and he’s definitely up there with Will on the list of Marram Bay’s most eligible bachelors (even though, so far, they seem like complete opposites). Dean is clearly Kim, Channy and Doris’s type. What I don’t understand is why Toby can’t take his eyes off him, although now that I’m looking more closely, I can see a harmless aggression in his eyes. I suppose he feels threatened.
‘Do you have handcuffs?’ Channy asks Dean, after he finishes telling us a bit about himself.
Dean – a local detective – was born and raised in Marram Bay. He looks and sounds like a real man’s man, from his manly good looks to his passion for rugby league. He mostly talked about his hobbies and his job, only briefly mentioning that he is divorced. It doesn’t sound like he wants to talk about that.
‘I do have handcuffs,’ he says with a chuckle. That cheeky glimmer in his eye sparkles.
‘Do you actually use them?’ I ask. ‘Is there any real crime in Marram Bay?’
‘Well, I cover a larger area than Marram Bay,’ he explains. ‘And if there isn’t any crime, then I’m obviously doing a good job.’
‘Anyway,’ I start, changing the subject. ‘Today we’re going to work on how to talk to members of the opposite sex. Build our confidence, work on our conversational skills … Toby, do you want to help me out?’
‘Oh, no, I couldn’t,’ he says. ‘I’m not ready yet.’
‘You don’t really need to do anything,’ I tell him. ‘It’s just to give an example to everyone.’
‘I can’t,’ he insists.
‘OK, no worries,’ I tell him.
For a moment, the function room is in complete silence. We’re all sitting in the middle of the big empty room again, in a circle on what is usually the dance floor area.
‘I’ll do it with you,’ Dean offers.
‘It’s OK,’ I start. ‘I’m sure I can do it alone.’
‘Well, that isn’t the spirit of this club, is it?’ he says. ‘We’re not here so we can keep doing things alone, we’re here so we can do things with other people.’
I can’t help but feel like he’s taking the piss out of me.
‘God, do it with him,’ Channy insists with a sigh. ‘Before I do.’
‘Young lady, he is far too old for you,’ I insist firmly. Where the hell did that come from?
‘Ah, so I’m old,’ Dean muses. ‘That’s why I’m single?’
‘I didn’t say you were too old,’ I reply, getting a little flustered. ‘I said you were too old for a twenty-two-year-old. Anyway, conversation.’
I take a
few seconds to compose myself. Yesterday went so well and now, with Dean here, I can’t seem to get anything right.
‘OK, well, before I demonstrate how to talk to the opposite sex, it’s worth noting that, before you can get to know someone else, you need to know yourself.’
Dean scoffs. I shoot him daggers.
‘I know that it sounds cliché, but it’s a lot harder to be happier with another person if you’re not happy with yourself. And that’s not to say you need to change yourself, but you do need to know who you are, what you want – and you need to believe in yourself. Know your worth. If you know how amazing you are, how can anyone else possibly miss it?’
‘That makes sense,’ Kim says.
‘So, talking to people – and these rules can apply to anyone, really, male, female, just to chat, or if you want to make friends. These aren’t strictly romance rules. Dean, say you walk into a coffee shop and I’m standing there, what would you say to me?’
‘You have the right to remain silent …’ he jokes. The room roars. Everyone finds him so funny and so charming – everyone but me.
‘Assume you’re not there to arrest me,’ I point out. ‘How might you strike up a conversation with me?’
‘Well, I wouldn’t,’ he says. ‘You don’t look like the kind of woman who would appreciate a man cracking on to her while she’s just trying to buy a coffee, and even if you did, I can’t know that for sure.’
I massage my temples. This isn’t even sincere; he’s just doing it to screw with me because he doesn’t want to be here.
‘Am I annoying you?’ he asks.
‘No,’ I lie.
‘I’m a detective, remember, I can tell if you’re lying.’
‘You’re a Marram Bay detective,’ I remind him. ‘The only thing you investigate is which goat ate the flowers in the school garden.’
‘Probably Phillip,’ he replies, as though I’m just supposed to know the local goats.
Make or Break at the Lighthouse B & B Page 11
