Page 25 of Someone in the Water
When Lola re-emerged and explained that her mum was coming out, Anna’s face had tightened for a moment. But then it had cleared, and she’d gone on to offer Lola a room in the staff accommodation block while she waited for her mum to arrive. Anna even said that her son Patrick would pick up Lola’s things from her Airbnb that evening if Lola wanted him to. Yes, there was an atmosphere – Lola sensed Anna was keeping something from her – but she was too tired, and too grateful, to find out what.
Patrick hadn’t returned to the hotel by nine o’clock last night, and Lola could barely keep her eyes open by then, so she hasn’t been reunited with her bag yet. But she’s desperate to change into fresh clothes, so she needs to track it down soon. She pushes back the sheets and climbs out of bed.
Her room is one of four in a concrete structure set back from the beach, with a shared bathroom at the end. When Anna showed her the room yesterday, she explained that they recruit most of their staff locally now, but there are two members of staff sharing the accommodation – a Spanish tennis pro and an Italian pianist – so Lola pulls the door open carefully in case they’re around. But the only thing she sees in the hallway is her backpack, leaning against the wall. She feels a swell of happiness and says a silent thank you to a man she hasn’t yet met.
After a deliciously long shower, Lola changes into a bikini and board shorts and walks down the beach towards the hotel. Her eyes are drawn towards the water shimmering in the sunlight. She has always been at her happiest in the sea. Especially whipping across it on a windsurfer, up on the plane, the board barely skimming the water. Tacking with bloody-mindedness, gybing with belief.
When she gets to the water sports area, Lola pauses. In those postcards to Grams, her mum describes working here as a water-ski instructor. It will have been her perfect job, Lola thinks, so what went wrong? As she stares, pondering the mystery, a man appears from a wooden shack. He’s muscular and handsome in an older man kind of way, with spiky bleached-white hair and a deep tan. He’s wearing coral beads around his neck and a faded Billabong T-shirt.
‘Can I help you?’ he asks in a London accent.
Lola eyes the brightly coloured sails hanging together neatly, then pans out to the glistening sea, the strengthening breeze lifting the water into champagne spray. Maybe this is exactly what she needs to wash away the bad start to her time in Corsica. ‘How much is it to take a windsurf out?’
‘Forty euros for an hour, seventy for two.’
‘Oh.’ Lola’s face drops. She has never had to rent windsurf kit before – she’s always had her own, courtesy of Grams’ industry contacts and massive discounts – and that’s more money than she can spare.
The man tips his head. ‘Are you staying at Hotel Paoli?’
Lola wonders how to answer that. ‘Why?’
‘Because it’s free of charge for the all-inclusive guests. At least, it’s part of their overall package.’
‘Right.’ Lola bites her lip. She is staying on the hotel grounds, and she’s kind of like a guest of Anna’s. Does that count? Even though she’s not paying a penny?
‘Are you worried about managing the sail with the wind picking up?’ the man continues. ‘Because I can rig you up something small?’
‘No, it’s not that. I windsurf a lot back home; the more wind the better. It’s just that while I am staying at the hotel, it’s not as a paying guest,’ Lola admits. ‘It’s complicated.’
‘Oh?’
‘They’re helping me out because I was mugged,’ Lola explains to the man’s inquisitively raised eyebrows. ‘Some guy took my phone and money; my passport.’ She wafts her hand like it was yesterday’s news. ‘My mum used to work here, like twenty years ago, so I thought I would see if there was anyone here who remembered her. Turns out Anna did, and she kindly offered me a room in the staff block.’
Lola watches the man’s face grow curious. ‘What’s your mum’s name?’ His tone carries a new weight, and Lola feels an instinct not to tell him.
‘Why?’
‘Because I was working here twenty years ago. I might know her.’
Simple words, a rational explanation. So why does it sound like a threat?
But that’s ridiculous, Lola tells herself. This is just her own anxiety playing tricks after everything that’s happened so far in Corsica. She shakes the tension out of her limbs. ‘You were? That’s crazy,’ she says, because it’s the right response. ‘She’s called Frankie Torre. I think she taught water-skiing here.’
He nods but doesn’t speak. Finally, he turns to the rack of windsurf sails. ‘You can take a windsurf out on the house. A four-point-eight sail okay for you?’
‘What? Oh, yes, that’s perfect,’ Lola says, struggling to keep up with the change in conversation. ‘And thank you. For the freebie.’ Lola watches him unhook a red-and-white sail from the middle of the rack, then disappear into the hut for a moment before coming out with a harness. He throws it to her, then attaches the sail to one of the shorter boards while she steps into the harness, pulls it over her shorts, and tightens it. Despite this man’s weird reaction to her mum’s name, a burst of anticipation swirls in her belly.
‘You beach start?’
She nods.
‘That figures: a child of Frankie’s.’ He proffers the sail towards Lola, and she curls her fingers around the boom. But she hesitates before carrying the rig into the water.
‘You knew my mum well, then?’
‘We worked together for a couple of months. Before everything went to shit. But I guess you know all about that.’
For some reason – to save face, she supposes – Lola nods. ‘You stayed though,’ she says slowly, maybe hoping he’ll give her a clue as to what happened. ‘But I guess it was worse for my mum,’ she gambles.
