Make or Break at the Lighthouse B & B

Chapter 5

‘Lola … Lola, honey, time to wake up.’

When I hear my mum’s voice my first thought is that I’m going to be late for school. I always had a tendency to oversleep but she would talk me awake ever so gently.

It only takes a few seconds for me to realise that I haven’t travelled back in time to my teens. I am here as a thirty-two-year-old grown person – one who has nothing to get up for.

‘Just five more minutes,’ I plead. Well, old habits die hard.

‘Nope, I won’t let you be an invalid,’ she insists. ‘I’ve made you some breakfast, come on. Do you need me to help you up?’

‘No,’ I insist, pulling myself into more of an upright position. ‘It’s OK, I’m a fully grown woman. I can do it.’

If there’s one thing I don’t want, it is to feel like a child again.

To prove a point I shuffle from the sofa into my wheelchair, being as careful with my leg as possible. I am most definitely overdue some painkillers because an agonising electric shock type pain shoots up and down from the break.

‘Shit, shit, shit,’ I say as I settle into my chair. I exhale deeply as I realise I’m going to have to move from my chair to the toilet. Perhaps I’ll wait until after I’ve had my painkillers, before I attempt moving again.

‘Oh, love,’ my mum says. ‘Please let me help you. Can I help you to the bathroom? Do you want to get changed?’

I remove a scrunchie from my wrist and scoop my long blonde hair up into a bun on the top of my head.

‘I’ll have something to eat and take my painkillers first,’ I say. ‘But then that would be great, thank you.’

Well, I can’t do it on my own, and a little help isn’t exactly going to make me feel like a big baby, is it? I do have a broken leg; I need to cut myself some slack.

I grab my phone from next to the sofa before my mum wheels me from the lighthouse into the B & B. We go through the door into the B & B office where there is also a door into our private family kitchen, separate from the bistro kitchen where food is prepared for the guests.

A quick glance at my phone turns up two surprising pieces of information. First of all, it’s only 8:30 in the a.m. – way earlier than I want to get up when I don’t have work, but also evidence that my mum has allowed me to sleep in. She’s probably been up since 5:30 a.m., getting ready for a busy day in the B & B, working on her permanently flawless hair and near invisible make-up.

I’ve never really pulled off the natural look like my mum does. I have to spend time on my hair – lest it look like a bird’s nest, like it does today – and it pretty much always takes a full face of make-up to get me looking well rested and healthy. I need to contour and highlight and open my eyes up. Otherwise I look like I do today – old, tired and like I just don’t care anymore. That’s not to say I do it because I think I have to though. I’ve always been a girly girl who loved doing her hair and messing around with make-up; it would just be nice to be a little more effortlessly polished like my mum is.

The other piece of disappointing information gathered from my phone is the fact that Patrick hasn’t sent me so much as a text to see how I’m doing. I know he’s in Amsterdam and I know he’s working, but his phone is never out of his hand, and it wouldn’t take him more than thirty seconds to punch me a quick text to see how I’m feeling, or if I got home safe.

‘There’s my two favourite ladies,’ my dad says as my mum wheels me into the private dining kitchen, parking me at the table.

‘Morning, Da … Oh my God.’

My sentence is derailed by the breakfast on the table in front of me.

‘What?’ my mum asks.

‘Is this for me?’ I reply.

‘Yes.’

‘All of it?’ I check.

‘Of course,’ my mum says. ‘We need to get your strength up, get you back on your feet.’

My mum, Linda James, has always taken a very domestic approach to any problem she’s ever encountered. This kitchen is her Situation Room and her weapons of choice? Usually food. Today that food is scrambled eggs and toast, but not just any scrambled eggs and toast, a mountain of scrambled eggs and a stack of smiley face toast. She used to make me this when I was younger. I think it came from my obsession with the Teletubbies, but that was over twenty years ago, and I was probably too old for it even back then.

Ordinarily, I’d probably find it cute that my mum has made me my favourite childhood breakfast, but now, in these circumstances, it just makes me feel even more like I’ve regressed.

‘There’s no way I’ll eat all that,’ I blurt out.

My dad chuckles from behind his newspaper. ‘Told you, Lin.’

‘Shush, you,’ my mum ticks him off. ‘This is just what she needs to get her life back on track.’

‘Eggs?’ my dad asks in disbelief.

‘Home cooking,’ my mum replies. She gives my wheelchair another short, kind of sharp, push towards the table. ‘Eat up, baby.’

‘I’ll give it my best shot,’ I say.

I twist my body around awkwardly to try and eat from the table. The eggs are kind of on the cold side and the toast is definitely cold because it is rock solid, but I can see the love that has gone into making it, from carving the faces to including finely chopped chives and pieces of smoked salmon because she knows that’s my favourite. I owe it to my mum to eat as much as I can, without throwing up from the pain coming from my leg. I just need to eat enough to take my painkillers; once they kick in I won’t feel so tetchy.

My mum watches me like a hawk as I eat. She nods encouragingly as I raise my fork to my mouth.

‘It’s so good to have you home,’ she tells me again. ‘Isn’t it, Paul?’

My dad reads his newspaper with that dad brand of harmless ignorance. You know he’s in his own little world, no longer listening to either of us. I suppose that’s a defence mechanism he’s developed over the years, living in a house with two women. Whether my mum and I were at odds over me wanting to go to some house party or other, or if we were just having an in-depth natter about Emmerdale, my dad has perfected the art of tuning out. The only problem there is that he doesn’t always tune back in when we need him to.

‘Paul,’ my mum snaps.

‘What?’ he replies with a similar faux anger.

‘I said it’s nice to have Lola home,’ she tells him.

‘Lovely to have you home, love,’ my dad says, suddenly all warm and welcoming. He immediately goes back to his newspaper.

My mum and dad have always had a happy marriage, but the two of them couldn’t be more different on paper. My dad is, for the most part, the strong silent type. He likes to keep himself to himself and he’ll mostly keep his nose out of other people’s business too. This makes him the perfect B & B owner really, because he isn’t just discreet, he’s oblivious.

My mum is the exact opposite. My dad always jokes that my mum doesn’t have an off button, which is why she’s always talking. She loves nothing more than a good chat, and if she can sort someone’s life out while doing so then she will be even happier.

When I lived here I felt like I acted as a sort of buffer between them. Someone to play the middle ground, bring my dad out of himself a bit, rein my mum in as much as possible. Since I moved out, I’m not sure how the balance is maintained but my parents have been married for nearly forty years. They are living proof that opposites do actually attract and I’ve always taken comfort in that. It’s always filled me with hope that, if I ever do meet someone who isn’t exactly like me, it’s not like we’re doomed. Thankfully I’d say Patrick and I are quite similar – well, except for the fact that since I had my accident he’s been far too busy with work to care about me.

‘This is lovely, Mum, thanks,’ I tell her. I don’t suppose I’ll be able to force too much down, but I’ll do my best.

‘Good girl,’ she replies. ‘Let Mummy take care of you; you’ll be back on your feet in no time.’

‘You want to be careful,’ my dad chimes in. ‘Make sure she isn’t whacking your leg with a hammer while you sleep, just so she can keep you here longer.’

I know that he’s joking, but this triggers my mum.

‘I already have a helpless lump to look after,’ my mum points out. ‘I’m certainly not in need of another.’

‘Ow, ow,’ I say, dropping my fork to grab my leg. It hasn’t actually got worse, but acting like it has seems like a great way to defuse this situation.

My mum jumps up from her seat at the table and rushes round to me. She strokes my hair as she asks me if I’m OK. My dad puts down his newspaper, which is his equivalent.

‘It’s OK, darling. It’s OK,’ she reassured me. ‘You’ll be back to normal in no time at all.’

‘I’m worried it’s going to be a long recovery,’ I admit. ‘I’m scared I’m going to go out of my mind with boredom, without my job or my friends or any aspect of my day-to-day life at all.’

‘We’ll keep you busy,’ my mum insists. ‘Everything we talked about, for the B & B, is in place now, and it’s all been great.’

‘Really?’ I reply.

‘Oh, yes,’ she insists. ‘We’ve had a makeover. We’ve expanded the dining room so we can have more diners – we’re more like a small hotel now. We’ve hired an extra chef – Robbie, such a lovely young man. Vince is training him up.’

‘Oh, that will be nice for him,’ I say sarcastically.

Over the years we have had a few chefs here at the Lighthouse B & B. Vince is the most recent, and he’s very highly strung, very snobby and far too easily angered. He is a great chef though, so I think everyone has adopted a general rule of thumb to just leave him alone and let him do his job.

‘Yes,’ my mum starts. ‘He’s not happy to be sharing the kitchen with an up-and-comer, but everyone needs to start somewhere. And Robbie is so lovely. If you were single …’

‘Ah, but I’m not,’ I remind her. ‘So don’t go trying to play matchmaker while I’m unable to run away.’

‘Would I?’ my mum asks with a faux innocence. ‘Anyway, if you let us meet this Patrick, then maybe I’d see how settled you were.’

I’m not really sure Patrick is a meet the parents kind of guy, not too early at least. I’m sure we’ll do it when the time is right for both of us. My mum will just have to be patient.

‘And then there’s the fact that he isn’t looking after you, in your time of need,’ my mum adds.

‘The man has to work,’ my dad insists from the safety of behind his paper.

‘Too busy for your little girl when she needs help?’ my mum asks him.

‘Ow,’ I cry. ‘Shit, my leg is really hurting.’

This time I’m not pretending.

‘It feels really tight and warm,’ I explain. ‘Is that right? They told me to watch out for things like that.’

‘It could be a DVT,’ my mum says, going from nought to a medical emergency in a matter of seconds. ‘That’s it, we’re getting you dressed and taking you to see the doctor.’

My mum wheels me away from my breakfast and back towards the living room (which is currently serving as my bedroom). She begins sorting through my clothes, looking for something for me to wear, before dressing me in them.

I have never felt more like a child.

I grab my phone to call Patrick. He told me he’d call me this morning, so I should probably let him know that I’m going to the doctor’s, just in case he tries to call.

After a couple of rings someone answers. It isn’t Patrick though, it’s a female voice.

‘Erm …’ I look at my phone and realise that I’ve actually called Patrick’s home phone by mistake. Still, there shouldn’t be someone else answering – especially not a woman. ‘Is Patrick there?’

I feel like an idiot for asking this random woman if my boyfriend is home.

‘Not at the moment,’ she replies. ‘Can I take a message?’

‘Erm … no … I’ll call back later,’ I say before hanging up quickly.

Who on earth was that? Why is she answering Patrick’s phone while he’s away?

I suppose I could text him, tell him that my mum is taking me to see the doctor and that I’ll call him after. I don’t want to seem like I’m keeping tabs on him, and I really don’t want to seem like I’m trying to worry him, as some sort of kneejerk reaction, just because I heard a woman’s voice on the other end of the phone.

Now I’m more worried than anyone, and not just about my leg – although it is frustrating to be going back to see another doctor. Like it’s not bad enough I thought I was going to be stuck on my arse for six weeks, now I have to go and be poked and prodded again.

But I’m not just worried about that. Now I’m worried about Patrick too, because unless something bad has happened, things are starting to seem a little fishy.

Chapter 6

‘I can’t believe how much your accent has changed,’ Kim, the local nurse, says.

Kim isn’t just the local nurse though, she’s my childhood best friend. In fact, I’ve known her since the day after I was born (if, you know, a new-born baby can actually know another one) because our mums were in hospital together, with Kim being born only a few hours after me. I was a night owl, she was an early riser, traits that followed us way into our teens.

So our mums became best friends, which meant that we became best friends, and we did pretty much everything together until after our A Levels, when our different studies took us to different ends of the country. The main difference though is that Kim moved back to Marram Bay, whereas I decided I liked life more in London. Up until the moment our lives went in different directions we were inseparable. We always looked alike too – at least we used to. People would often mistake us for sisters, or cousins at least. Perhaps that has more to do with the fact we were always together.

We definitely don’t look alike anymore though and it is down to just one thing. We’re both still the same height (a just above average five-five), both a not-thin-but-not-fat build (although my mum keeps harping on about something called a middle-aged spread that she reckons I’ll fall victim to in under a decade) and we both have blue eyes. The only difference now is our hair colour – I am still blonde (with a few helpful highlights to make it more vibrant) with long hair almost to my elbows, but Kim has gone for a chocolaty brown long bob. It really suits her and I can’t imagine how much courage it must have taken to get the chop. I’m too scared to do anything wild with my hair because there’s no taking a style like that back in a hurry.

‘I didn’t realise my accent had changed that much,’ I reply. ‘I don’t suppose I notice my own voice.’

‘It definitely has,’ she insists. ‘You don’t sound like a cockney geezer though, don’t worry about that. You’ve just lost your Yorkshire charm.’

Kim gives me a sympathetic smile, as though she feels sorry for me for losing part of my identity. My regional accent made it hard for people in London to understand me, so it had felt right to gravitate towards something that sounded a little more universal.

‘I can’t believe you’re sitting here in front of me,’ Kim says, hugging me again. ‘I see bits on Facebook and always tell myself we need to find a way to meet up, but you seem so busy. How have you been?’

I look down at my leg.

‘I’ve been better,’ I joke. ‘Other than the leg, things are good. I have a nice place in the city, I love my job, I have a boyfriend. What about you?’

‘Well, I’m a nurse, you’ll be relieved to hear,’ she jokes. ‘No boyfriend though, and I’m just living with my mum but, well, my dad has dementia, so it felt right to move back in and help out. My mum doesn’t really want him going into a home.’

‘Oh my gosh, Kim, that’s awful. I’m so sorry,’ I reply. ‘I had no idea.’

‘Yeah, I didn’t think it would make the best status update,’ she replies. ‘Are you in the Marram Bay Facebook group?’

‘I’m not,’ I reply. ‘Should I be?’ I know Mum is part of the group but I’ve never seen the point in joining it myself.

‘One of our neighbours shared a Just Giving page on there, raised nearly £5,000 so we could make the house more safe for him,’ she replies.

‘That’s incredible. I’ll have to join.’

‘Otherwise it’s just missing cats, found cats, people complaining about the length of other people’s grass, blah, blah, blah – probably not worth joining.’

I laugh, but then all at once my thoughts jump back to my leg, as a pain shoots from the break right up into my thigh.

‘So,’ I say, nodding towards my leg.

‘Oh, right, yes,’ she babbles. ‘The real reason you’re here. Well, I think perhaps you need to see the doctor, so I’m going to go and get him.’

‘Oh gosh, is it bad?’ I reply. ‘Is it a DVT?’

‘No, it’s nothing bad,’ Kim quickly insists. ‘I just … I really think you should see the doctor.’

Kim gives me a wink, which I find confusing.

‘Do you remember Will Coleman from school?’ she asks.

‘I do,’ I reply.

Will Coleman was a quiet, nerdy kid. He was quite chubby (which is apparently the worst thing you can be in the eyes of your fellow fifteen-year-olds) and massively into Dungeons and Dragons (which also does not make you all that popular amongst your peers). I liked him though, because he was funny and he always seemed to be genuinely interested in what girls had to say, rather than just trying to grab their boobs while they shared a cigarette behind the IT building.

Kim wiggles her eyebrows and leaves me in the examination room on my own. It’s nice to see that she hasn’t changed much; she’s still the same fun-loving, kind of kooky girl I grew up with – except now she’s a grown-up and doing a job that changes the world. Thinking about what her life is like makes me feel like a big woman-child. Well, I’m not exactly a grown-up, living in my flat, relying on cleaners and restaurants to keep me alive, and my job isn’t exactly changing the world. All I do is make sure that footballers get dates with girls who aren’t going to try and extort money out of them over an ill-advised (usually poorly executed) photo of their genitals.

I examine the posters on the walls, all dishing the gory details of a variety of diseases and medical conditions. As I read the symptoms for various lists, I check a few of them off. Tired – yes (but I’ve always slept less than most). Losing weight – yes (but I have been on a diet to try and look better in my bridesmaid dress, because Gia looks like a Victoria’s Secret model). Aches and pains – yes (then again, I did fall flat on my face a matter of days ago).

The posters amuse me, in a weird way. It’s a bit like, while you are here and unwell, have you considered these illnesses? It reminds me a lot of the ‘customers also bought’ bit on Amazon.

I’m going to stop reading them. I’ve already got a broken leg, I don’t need to find out I’ve got psoriasis too. Not today.

‘OK, the doctor will see you now,’ Kim sings and she enters the room. ‘Lola, this is Dr Will.’

It takes me the longest thirty seconds of my life to realise that the man standing in front of me is chubby, dorky Will Coleman from school. Except he isn’t chubby or dorky anymore. He’s kind of dishy now. He’s tall and lean with neat, dirty blond hair. He’s wearing black trousers and a tight, white shirt with the sleeves partially rolled up. Of course he’s got a stethoscope hanging around his neck, making him look like a fake sexy doctor from the cover of a Mills & Boon novel.

‘Lola James,’ he blurts out.

From the look on his face, it doesn’t seem like Kim told him I was the patient. He looks like he’s seen a ghost. I feel sort of like I’ve seen a ghost … just a surprisingly sexy one.

‘Hi,’ I say.

‘It’s been years,’ he says. ‘How are you?’

I nod down at my leg again.

‘Oh, God, right, yes,’ he babbles. ‘The broken leg.’

‘Here’s a letter they gave her at the fracture clinic in London,’ Kim tells him. ‘I’ve actually got to go do something else but, Lola, you’re in very safe hands now.’

I watch Kim leave through the door behind Dr Will’s back. Out of his line of sight, she gives me another wink. Now I understand exactly what she meant before. I don’t need to see a doctor about my leg, I just need to see this doctor – literally just cast my eyes over him and see what kind of man he’s grown into.

‘OK, let’s take a look,’ he says.

I feel a strange little tingle as he lightly touches my toes.

‘Well, I’m sure Kim was just being vigilant, but everything looks as expected to me – I’d be hesitant to say it looks fine, because, you know, it’s broken in half, but yes, it looks as I’d expect.’

‘That’s a relief,’ I reply. ‘Good to know it’s all as it should be, even if it sucks.’

‘How are you coping?’ he asks.

‘Well, I’ve had to move back in with my mum and dad, and that’s as fun as it sounds, and I’m stuck on my butt with nothing to do …’ I soften a little. ‘But my parents are being a huge help, and I don’t think I’d be coping without them.’

‘You’re never too old to be looked after by your mum,’ he tells me.

‘That’s true,’ I reply. ‘I definitely think there’s an age limit on being washed though.’

Will laughs.

‘Perhaps,’ he says. ‘OK, well …’

Will pulls a prescription pad from his pocket and writes on it. ‘Your prescription,’ he says, handing me the piece of paper. I notice it has a mobile number written on it. ‘That’s my mobile number. There are lots of things I could drop by with, to help you cope a little better, so if you’re struggling just give me a ring.’

‘Ah, damn, I thought it was more codeine,’ I say with chuckle, to make sure he knows that I’m just kidding.

‘I’m sure they’ve given you plenty,’ he replies. ‘Unless you’re selling it on.’

‘Well, you remember my mum,’ I joke.

I’m sure he probably does remember my mum though. I think she probably scarred him for life. Will came over to help me with my biology homework once (not a euphemism) and he was curious about the lighthouse so I took him upstairs to look out. My mum caught us and thought we were up to no good, and politely asked Will to leave and not to come back – I say politely, but it had the low-key anger that bubbles inside an overprotective mother.