‘Oh, that Phillip,’ Doris says with a knowing laugh. ‘Did you know he’s from France? You have to speak to him in French.’
‘Je sais ça,’ Dean replies.
‘Wait, sorry,’ I start, going off course. I can’t let this pass me by. ‘Phillip is a goat and he’s from France?’
‘Yes. Alfie Barton, the farmer up at Westwood Farm, bought him on the internet,’ Doris explains. ‘He’s a pygmy goat, so only small, but he’s mischievous.’
I can’t help but stare for a moment.
‘I used to be his cleaner – Alfie’s not Phillips’s,’ she says.
‘Alfie is my mate,’ Dean tells me. ‘He runs the farm, makes posh fruity ciders. We go to the rugby together – his lad loves it. You’ll be amazed how much random French you can learn from a man constantly screaming at his goat.’
I just don’t know what to say. I feel completely lost.
‘Ah, Alfie Barton, there’s a man I wish was single,’ Kim says with a sigh.
‘Oi,’ Channy says angrily. ‘That’s my boss’s fella you’re talking about.’
‘I know, I know,’ Kim insists. ‘Lily is lovely. But still …’
‘OK, I feel like we’re way off track,’ I say loudly.
‘You’d like Lily,’ Dean tells me. ‘She’s a cockney too.’
‘OK, I’m clearly not a cockney,’ I point out. ‘I was born here.’
‘Sorry,’ Dean says with a cheeky smile. ‘I just thought you sounded like a Londoner.’
‘To talk to people in public,’ I say loudly, hopefully overriding everybody else’s voice. ‘Start by making normal conversation – ask them if they’ve eaten here before, what drink do they recommend. Compliment them on something – nothing weird, nothing sexual. Just, you know, I like your watch; that’s a cool phone case – something like that.’
I look over at Dean, waiting for him to say something mocking. He doesn’t say anything. He just grins.
Everything, from his outfit to his attitude to his bad-boy good looks remind me of Jeffrey Dean Morgan’s character in The Walking Dead. The only thing he’s missing is the baseball bat.
‘Once you’re chatting to people, you have to give them your undivided attention,’ I continue. ‘It’s important to—’
‘Lola,’ I hear my mum call out from a different room. ‘Lola.’
‘Just one second,’ I tell the group before wheeling myself over to the door.
‘What’s up?’ I ask her quietly.
‘I need to talk to you,’ she says. ‘It’s important. It’s about your dad.’
‘Oh God, what’s wrong?’
‘We’ll talk when you’re done here,’ she says. ‘I didn’t realise you were still going.’
‘Mum, you can’t do that – I’m worried sick now.’
‘Just finish up,’ she says. ‘I’ll make us some lunch and we can chat.’
‘Is Dad OK?’
‘He’s fine,’ she reassures me. ‘Talk soon.’
As I wheel myself back over to the gang, I can’t stop worrying about what she’s going to tell me. Is something wrong with my dad? Is he ill? Is this why he’s on a health kick? Oh my God, is that why he’s lost weight, because he’s ill?
‘You OK?’ Kim asks me.
‘Yeah, sorry,’ I say, trying to get back on track. ‘Where was I?’
‘Something about how, when you’re talking to someone, you need to give them your undivided attention,’ Dean reminds me smugly.
I think I’m supposed to find that funny, but I don’t. All I can think about is what is going on with my parents. The sooner I get the session over with, the sooner I’ll know. I don’t know if that makes me want to hurry up or slow it down.
Chapter 20
In the kitchen my mum has laid the table and covered it with finger sandwiches, crisps, scones and little cakes. There’s a large pot of tea and two cups, which she begins to pour the second I wheel into the room.
‘OK, it must be something bad,’ I say. ‘Because, if this is my lunch, there isn’t a carrot in sight.’
‘There’s carrot chutney on the cheese sandwiches, but I take your point,’ she says. ‘Sit down. Or, rather, wheel up, I suppose. Take a sandwich.’
‘I can’t eat until you tell me what’s wrong,’ I say.
‘There’s no easy way to tell you this,’ she starts. ‘Your dad is having an affair.’
I burst out laughing. ‘As if,’ I practically cackle. ‘No offence, Mum, but even you struggle to tolerate Dad. No other woman would put up with the excessive snooker watching and those weird little undies he’s wearing.’
‘It’s not a woman,’ my mum corrects me, ‘it’s a girl – one of the girls from the tourist centre. She’s nineteen.’
My dad is a volunteer for the tourist board, working out of a little hut on the beach a couple of times a week. He’s one of a few people who work there. It’s mostly retired people or young people looking for something to put on the CV. I considered it myself, in the summer before I went to uni.
I stare at my mum. I’m speechless.
‘I realise this is a lot for you to take in,’ my mum tells me calmly.
‘How can a nineteen-year-old girl find a man my dad’s age attractive?’ I ask in astonishment.
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ she says. ‘Maybe she thinks he has money because we own this place. Hah! Someone wants to tell her how much we spend on little bars of soap – it’s more than you’d think.’
‘How do you know he’s having an affair?’ I ask.
‘He’s been volunteering much more. I’ve seen calls to the tart on his phone – he wipes his text messages.’
‘Yeah, because he’s scared of identity theft. He’s deleted every text and email he’s ever received,’ I say with a laugh. ‘And I take it her name isn’t “the tart”?’
‘It’s Karla.’ My mother snorts and rolls her eyes. ‘With a K.’
‘That tart,’ I joke.
‘You don’t believe me and that’s fine. He’s your dad and you think the best of him, but do me a favour, Lola, just keep an eye on him, you’ll soon pick up on it.’
It’s easy to make jokes and write my dad off as too old to bag young chicks but my mum really does seem worried about this, and while she’s always assumed I’m up to something (usually for no reason), she has always trusted my dad implicitly. It really worries me that something has been able to rattle her.
‘Mum, if you’re really worried about it, let me look into it. I’ll get to the bottom of it,’ I promise her, leaning over in my chair to hug her, careful not to fall out this time.
‘Thank you,’ she says, preening my hair for me. ‘Don’t eat too many crisps, OK?’
‘OK, Mum,’ I say with a laugh.
‘So, enough about me,’ she says. ‘How are the sessions going?’
‘Yesterday was great, but I really struggled with today’s.’
‘I saw that dreamy new fella who started today,’ she says. ‘I let him in earlier, told him you were in your bedroom.’
I laugh. ‘Unbelievable,’ I say to myself.
‘What is?’ my mum asks, sipping her tea innocently.
‘You told me I had a lifetime ban on boys in my bedroom,’ I remind her. ‘And today, you just sent a random man up.’
‘So I sent a client up to your bedroom,’ she says, unaware of how dodgy that sounds. ‘Plus, it’s not like you can get up to no good with that thing on your leg, is it?’
Don’t I know it.
‘Well, the new guy is very annoying,’ I say. ‘His sister arranged this for him, she made out like he’s a hopeless case – she might be right. He was acting the class clown the whole time, refusing to take things seriously.’
‘Well, did you ever think that might be some sort of front, for some sort of insecurity?’ my mum asks curiously.
‘It did cross my mind that there might be some reason he doesn’t want to meet someone, yes, but it could also be that he doesn’t want my help,’ I
reply.
‘Give him the benefit of the doubt, hey?’ my mum suggests.
‘Like you’re doing with Dad?’
‘Well, I am now, because you told me to,’ she replies.
I think for a moment. ‘Maybe I’ll give him a few one-on-one sessions, see if I can get through to him when he isn’t playing the clown.’
‘Is he a comedian?’ my mum asks.
‘He’s a policeman,’ I reply. ‘A detective.’
‘Wow, that’s a respectable job,’ my mum says. ‘Not quite a doctor, but it’s up there. Speaking of doctors, have you heard from Will today?’
‘Nope,’ I reply.
Don’t think this hasn’t been at the back of my mind all day – I feel like I’ve really blown it with him. Things just got so awkward last night – but it’s hardly my fault, is it? I mean, I know it was my broken leg that, erm, halted proceedings, but I didn’t ask for a broken leg. I gave it my best shot.
‘What do we have here?’ my dad asks as he walks into the kitchen.
‘Paul,’ my mum says nervously, like she’s the one who has been caught with her pants down. I suppose she feels disloyal just suspecting him. ‘What are you doing here? I thought you were volunteering all day?’
‘Thought I’d pop home for lunch with my girls,’ he says. ‘And what a lunch it is.’
‘I thought Lola deserved spoiling,’ she says. I notice her relax a little. She must feel relieved that he’s come home to have lunch with her. If he were having an affair, would this not be the prime time to do it in?
‘So how’s it going today?’ I ask my dad. ‘And can you pass me the cream please.’
‘It’s going great,’ he replies. ‘You know the Valentine’s Day Festival is coming up? Well there’s talk of having it outside, on the island, at the abbey.’
‘Erm, the abbey haunted by a jilted bride?’ I ask. ‘Cream please.’
‘It’s a proper romantic spot – lots of couples go there,’ my dad insists. ‘Lots of proposals there.’
‘Pass me the cream,’ I say slowly. ‘And, go on, give me the tourist bit about the abbey. I don’t quite remember how the story goes.’
‘Hope Abbey, an eighth-century building that has been in ruins since the eighteenth century. Rumour has it there’s a secret tunnel network underneath the island, which the monks who lived in the abbey used as an escape route in times of trouble,’ my dad says, reeling off the tale like I’m sure he does all the time. ‘It’s a popular spot for lovers, with hundreds of marriage proposals happening there each year. This is in spite of the rumours that it is haunted.’
It’s nice to see my dad light up like this, nerding-out over the history of the island.
‘Paul, are you going deaf in your old age?’ my mum teases. ‘Lola asked you to pass her the cream.’
Instead of laughing it off like he usually would and passing me the cream before continuing with his story, my dad pushes his chair back in temper and yells at my mum at the top of his voice. ‘I am not getting old!’
My mum looks like she wants to cry but she doesn’t and that must take strength because I’ve got a lump in my throat just watching. This is completely out of character for my dad. I don’t think I’ve ever heard him raise his voice like that before, not even at a snooker foul.
Affair or not, there is certainly something weird going on with my dad. I just need to work out how I can get to the bottom of it.
Chapter 21
It’s been a few years since I visited the Hopeful Ghost pub – I think it might have been Christmas three years ago. I come home every year to spend Christmas with my family, but I always head back to London to spend New Year with friends.
This pub is one of the few things in Marram Bay that moves with the times. Everywhere else prides itself on being classic, which is what the tourists want. When it comes to the pub though, no one seems to want a little old bloke pub full of guys with flat caps and their elderly dogs. Instead, the Ghost is a super modern gastro pub, with shabby chic, intentionally mismatched furnishings, uber cool folk bands and weird and wonderful drinks – more than your average pub. Being the home of Westwood Farm, the Ghost has the widest variety of their fruity booze I have seen – fruit ciders, fruit-infused spirits, fruity wines.
I’m sitting by the lovely warm fire (the harsh January weather feels even harsher up here, by the sea) sipping on an alcohol-free elderflower cider, waiting for Dean to arrive. He’s been working this evening, but we absolutely need to talk about what he wants to get out of our sessions, so I agreed to meet him here when he finishes. My mum dropped me off, wheeled me in, and told me to message Will to make sure he knew nothing funny was going on, that it was strictly work. I didn’t have the heart to tell her that I haven’t heard from him – I suppose he’s busy at work. That, or last night was just so embarrassing he doesn’t want to see me.
I notice Dean walk in. He glances around the room and gives me a thumbs-up before heading to the bar to grab a drink.
‘How’s it going?’ he asks, sitting down at the table next to me.
‘Not bad,’ I say, shuffling in my wheelchair.
‘Can’t we get you some crutches?’ Dean says.
I can’t help but pull a puzzled face at his use of ‘we’.
‘I have a check-up soon. I’m going to ask,’ I reply. ‘They said I have to keep my weight off it, and the cast is so heavy, my boyfriend negotiated to get me a chair. I think he was worried he’d have to help me if I had crutches.’
Dean looks at me for a second.
‘Ex-boyfriend,’ I correct myself. That must be what gave him pause.
‘So it’s a recent break-up?’ he asks.
‘Yes,’ I reply. ‘But, in hindsight, it was always going to happen. We casually dated for too long, made it official but still didn’t see each other much. He had work and … things.’
‘Ah, things,’ he repeats back to me. ‘I understand things.’
‘Well, we’re not here to talk about my love life, we’re here to talk about yours,’ I remind him. ‘Have … things ever got in the way of your relationships?’
Finally, things make sense. If Dean’s wife cheated on him, it’s no wonder he’s struggling to get back into a relationship. He’ll have a hard time trusting.
‘Nope,’ he replies. ‘Never been cheated on but you don’t need to be, to recognise that it’s a crap thing to go through.’
I nod in agreement. Damn, I really thought I’d had him figured out then. I can tell that he doesn’t want to talk about what went wrong with his marriage, not yet at least, so I’ll leave it for now.
‘How’s the drink?’ he asks me, changing the subject.
‘Great,’ I reply. ‘These booze-free ones are so good, you actually don’t care that they’re not alcoholic.’
‘My buddy makes them,’ he tells me.
‘Ah, yeah, you said earlier,’ I reply. ‘That’s really cool.’
‘Yeah, it’s great for me, when I go to his house. Cider on tap – literally,’ he jokes.
As he has a little chuckle at his own gag, I get lost looking at him. Little creases frame his eyes and his cheeks pull into that huge grin of his. It’s a contagious one. You can’t help but smile too (unless he’s ruining your dating classes or catching you hacking your ex’s emails that is).
‘Look, there’s a reason I asked to meet with you,’ I start.
‘Uh-oh,’ he replies. ‘Someone’s in trouble …’
‘OK, see, this is the problem: you don’t take things seriously,’ I point out. ‘I know that you don’t want my help and you think that this is all just a big joke, but what you need to remember is that your sister set this up for you because she loves you, because she’s worried about you, because all she wants is for you to be happy.’
Dean’s face falls into something more serious. ‘I know,’ he admits. ‘I know that. Her heart is in the right place I just … I don’t want this. I don’t need this.’
‘I’m sure you don’
t,’ I reply. ‘You’re a good-looking bloke, you’ve got a good job, great friends. You seem like you’re happy. But, you know, what’s the harm in humouring me? It’s something to do, it keeps me busy – don’t you feel sorry for me?’
I smile and bat my eyelashes, deciding that maybe a little playful humour of my own might be what’s needed to get through to him, but that’s not what he picks up on at all.
‘You think I’m good-looking?’ he asks.
‘What? No! I …’ I’m babbling. ‘I’m just saying, you’re not bad-looking.’
‘Not bad-looking is good-looking though, right?’
Perhaps this is why he’s single.
‘You are just incapable of taking things seriously,’ I tell him. ‘And you might think it’s cute, and other people might think it’s cute, but I don’t. I’m just trying to do my job and I’ve got enough on my plate and enough of my own stupid shit with my wanker ex-boyfriend and my parents are driving me mad and I’ve got all these responsibilities, and Will isn’t texting me, and I just want to go to the bloody toilet on my own, without any help, and shower myself, and not need my mum to help me and …’
Ah crap, I’ve unravelled. I need to try and pull it back.
‘Sorry,’ I say.
‘Don’t apologise,’ he insists. ‘Listen, I’m sorry about your ex, but if I know him, and I think I do after our conversation – cockney, scares easy, doesn’t know a good thing when he has it – then I think we can both agree, you’re well rid. I’m sorry about your leg, but you’re on the mend. I’m sure your parents are doing their best. And I don’t know who Will is, but he’s an idiot if he doesn’t text you.’
I smile. ‘You’re actually pretty charming when you want to be,’ I point out. ‘Will is someone I went on a sort of date with. It was a bit awkward and I haven’t heard from him since.’
‘Do you think maybe you’re moving on a bit quickly?’ he asks. His eyes narrow and his brow furrows, like he’s genuinely concerned for me.
‘Do you think maybe you’re moving on a bit slowly?’ I reason.
‘Touché,’ he replies with a chuckle. ‘Just, you know … Ahh, forget it. OK, you’ve convinced me. I will give this a go, for my sister, because I love her.’
Make or Break at the Lighthouse B & B Page 12
