Page 8 of Someone in the Water
‘You slept on the beach?’ I interrupt, my pitch rising. ‘Why didn’t you go back to your apartment? Where are your friends?’
There’s a long silence on the other end of the phone. I become aware of my own breathing. Like a rush of wind. ‘Lola?’
‘I’m not in Ayia Napa with the others,’ she finally whispers.
Something heavy drops into my belly and my spine curves. ‘What? Where are you?’
‘I’m in Corsica.’
I gasp. I can’t help it. I think I might have a panic attack, but I mustn’t. I need to stay in control. I push myself out of the chair and stride outside. The deck is already bathed in sunshine, and I try to use the brightness to steady me.
‘Mum? Are you okay?’
‘What are you doing there?’ I ask, managing to keep my voice steady, which is a miracle.
‘Um, I’m sorry, I wanted to find out more about where Grandpa came from. But you knew that, didn’t you? I’ve been asking to come here for years.’
I close my eyes. ‘I told you before,’ I say, slowly, with as much authority as I can muster. ‘I have no interest in going to Corsica, and neither should you.’
‘But that’s not true.’
Her words are spoken quietly, but they hit like a slap.
‘What do you mean?’ I ask carefully.
‘I know that you spent time in Corsica,’ she says. ‘In the summer of 2004. That you worked at Hotel Paoli.’
‘No,’ I whisper. Not a denial, just horror that she has found out. ‘How do you know?’
‘I found some postcards in Grams’ workshop.’
For a second, I’m back there – sitting on my bed, scrawling a postcard to my mum, Izzy doing a handstand against the wall as she waits for me to finish. I shake the image away. ‘You need to come home,’ I say, silently pleading that Mum destroyed that final postcard, that Lola doesn’t know how my time in Corsica ended. ‘You can’t stay there.’
‘I know something really bad happened to you here.’
My face crumples and I sink down until my legs reach the warm decking. ‘Please, Lola. You don’t know anything, not really. If you come home, I can explain.’
Lola sniffs, and I suddenly realise that she’s crying too. ‘I want to, Mum,’ she whispers. ‘After everything that’s happened. But how can I? I don’t have my phone, my passport, any money. My backpack is at the Airbnb, but no one is answering the door. And I’m scared to keep going back to that neighbourhood on my own after what happened last night. I don’t know what to do.’
Neither do I. The urge to get Lola out of Corsica is so powerful that I can’t think straight. What are you supposed to do if you lose your passport? Is there a British consulate in Corsica? How can I get money to Lola if she can’t access her accounts?
Then I open my eyes as another thought jolts in. ‘If you’re not at your accommodation, where are you? And whose phone are you using?’ I check the small screen. ‘The number looks like a landline?’
Maybe it’s the silence. Or maybe it’s true that mothers and daughters can communicate without speech. But either way, I know where Lola is calling from before she says the words. Although when they crash out of her mouth, I’m still not ready for them.
‘I’m at Hotel Paoli, Mum.’
‘And who … who let you use the phone?’
‘The lady behind reception. She’s English. Anna. She said she remembered you.’
I scrape my lip with my teeth until I taste blood. Anna. Of course she remembers me. People hold on much tighter to the bad memories. And nothing could be worse than what happened that summer. But I can’t let Lola hear about it from Anna, or her husband Raphael. It doesn’t surprise me that they still run the hotel – it’s a family business, and family loyalty is everything in Corsica – but I never thought I’d have to worry about keeping Lola away from them.
‘Did she say anything else?’
‘Like what?’
I lick blood off my lip. ‘Have you spoken to the police? Reported the mugging?’
