Page 32 of Someone in the Water
Lola feels her cheeks flare, like the shame of Izzy’s death is contagious. ‘Everyone has been very kind so far,’ she says, trying not to sound defensive. ‘Your mum’s even given her a hotel room for free. Maybe I’m being a bit optimistic, but I’m hoping that my mum spending some time out here will make her realise that Izzy’s death wasn’t her fault.’
Patrick nods and their eyes catch. ‘She’s lucky to have you.’
‘Thank you,’ Lola mumbles, smiling back, wondering why she suddenly feels coy.
‘And I also hope your mum finds she’s able to enjoy her time here.’
Lola smiles. ‘That’s kind of you.’
He smiles back. ‘Don’t be too nice. My reasons might be a little more selfish than they sound.’
Frankie
27th July
I stare at my reflection in the full-length mirror and wonder if Raphael still likes his guests to dress for dinner. I’m wearing the nicest outfit I brought – claret red pleated midi-skirt with a fitted white T-shirt – but who knows if it’s smart enough for him.
After my walk on the beach with Lola, my confession, I felt my whole body shutting down with exhaustion – a combination of barely any sleep over the last two days, and the trauma of taking myself back to that night – so when Lola demanded that she visit the police station alone, part of me even felt relieved. I dragged myself up to my room on the third floor – my bag was already inside, just as Anna had promised – then pushed my phone volume up to the highest setting and laid down on the bed.
Perhaps my body had hit rock bottom by then, or maybe telling Lola the truth released some of the tension inside me, but I fell straight to sleep, and didn’t even dream. It was bliss. And when I woke up a few hours later, I felt more rested than I have for days. And with that came a kind of optimism. I’d told Lola the truth about Izzy. She was shocked, yes, but the world hadn’t imploded. And when I called her after my sleep to suggest she move her stuff into my room, she told me that she would do it after dinner because she was too hungry to pack, and that response was so default-teenager that it made me smile.
I add mascara to my eyelashes, run some gloss over my lips with my forefinger, and slide on my Birkenstocks. Then I pick up the room key and head downstairs.
Lola is sitting on a stool at the bar, her nails tapping a glass of Coke. ‘Hey, Mum,’ she says as I sink down beside her. Then she looks up at the barman as though she’s going to ask for something, then turns back to me. ‘You look better.’
‘Would you like a drink, madam?’
Now it’s my turn to look at the man in a white shirt and black trousers behind the bar. He reminds me of someone, but maybe it’s just his Corsican looks that seem familiar. ‘Yes, thanks.’ I don’t drink much alcohol these days, but I hear myself order a glass of rosé, like I’ve travelled back in time. As I watch the barman pour a pale pink wine into a glass, I feel someone coming up on my right. I expect it to be Anna, or Raphael, so when I turn, I let out a gasp.
‘Hello, Frankie.’
‘Wow.’ I take a moment to settle my breathing. ‘Anna said you lived on the island now, but I wasn’t expecting …’
‘Yeah, I’m sorry to ambush you like this. It’s just that Jack messaged me, told me you were here. I live only about half an hour away, so I figured I couldn’t miss the opportunity to come over and say hi. I hope you don’t mind.’
‘No, of course not, it’s, um, it’s good to see you,’ I say, stumbling over my words. I can’t believe how little Dom has changed. His face is a bit leaner perhaps, and there’s the hint of crow’s feet around his eyes. But otherwise, he has the same open face and quick smile that I tried hard not to fall for two decades ago. I notice the scar on his forehead, now just a thin white line, and remember how my heart thumped when I saw him with blood running down his face.
‘Sorry,’ I say, snapping back to the present, trying to find some equilibrium. ‘This is my daughter, Lola. And Lola, this is Dom. He worked on the waterfront with me too, as a water-ski instructor. He lives in another part of Corsica now.’
Lola nods, but she’s wearing a guarded expression, and it makes me think about her comment earlier, her suggestion that maybe my first instinct about what happened in the water that night was correct. Is she sizing Dom up as Izzy’s killer? I think about her suggestion that it could have been a prank. And how Dom loved pranks. But no, he wouldn’t risk people’s lives like that. Even if he’d grown to hate both Izzy and me by then.
‘Nice to meet you,’ Lola finally says.
‘And you too. Jack filled me in on what happened to you. Mugged in Porto Vecchio. Absolutely shocking. I promise that kind of thing is rare around here. Although I suppose you know that already. The local police like to do a PR job whenever a tourist reports a crime.’
‘Actually, I haven’t spoken to the police,’ Lola says. ‘So it is good to know, thank you.’
‘You haven’t?’ I can’t help blurting out. ‘But I thought you went this afternoon? I gave you the money for the cab ride! You can’t start the process of getting temporary travel documents without it, Lola, and we need to get home.’
I hate how manic I sound, and especially in front of Dom, but for all my bravado about the world not imploding, we need to leave before Thursday, the 31st of July. The Foreign Office website says it takes twenty-four hours to produce the paperwork. If they send it out on a fast service, we should still be able to get out in time if we apply tomorrow, but it’s very tight.
‘Hey, chill, Mum. I’ve applied this afternoon. And they work seven days a week apparently, so the papers should be here by Tuesday.’
‘But I thought you needed a crime reference number as part of your application?’ I take a sip of wine, then another.
‘You do, yeah. But when I went to reception to book a cab, Anna’s husband was behind the desk and he said that he could get me one without me going to the police station, that he has a friend who works there who would do him a favour. He spoke to someone on the phone, and the reference number came through twenty minutes later.’
‘Hah, typical,’ Dom says. ‘It’s like getting planning permission. If you’re foreign, it takes months. If you’re Corsican, it takes a bottle of wine.’
