Make or Break at the Lighthouse B & B Read online

  It might not be immediately obvious to women that if you go in all guns blazing, spilling with sexual innuendo and blatantly flirtatious touches of their arm, you might be giving men the wrong end of the stick. We’re brought up to be under the impression that men need things spelling out for them, that they’re visual and overly sexual, and that giving up the goods is the only real way to show them that you’re interested but that’s just not true. I explained to my auntie that if a man approached her in the street and told her she had ‘nice tits’ she’d probably slap him, or at least assume he just wanted to sleep with her, and that’s a fair assessment. Sure, you could do it, but you wouldn’t hop into bed thinking something long term was going to come out of it, would you? This works the same both ways. If you come on too sexually strong with a man, sure, he’ll probably be into it, but he might not necessarily assume you want anything more than sex from him – and he probably won’t mind that, but he also won’t call, and he won’t even think that you expect him to call.

  Men don’t need a blatant sexual advance to know you’re interested; they need a hint, a suggestion, something that starts the chase in a way that makes them not even all that sure if you’re interested at all. Give a man a come on and he will have sex with you for a day, but give a man the mere suggestion of something he has to work for and he will pull out all the stops to try and spend his life with you.

  Armed with this knowledge, my auntie went home and started the groundwork with her roofer. I wasn’t expecting her to text me back by tonight, saying he had asked her out on a date (or ‘a proper date-date with dinner and drinks and dancing’ as she relayed it to me) but he has, much to her delight and much to my mum’s too. I’m not sure she’s ever really understood my job. I always wondered if she thought I was just some kind of overpaid madam, but today she saw me in action and she seems weirdly proud.

  In other news, Patrick called. We had a long chat and everything was fine. He was home and knackered after his business trip, so it must have been pretty full-on. I feel guilty, for feeling the way I did, thinking he should have been checking up on me every few minutes. The poor man had work and he knew I was in safe hands here.

  He sounded exhausted, yawning every other sentence, so I told him to get to bed and that we’d talk tomorrow. The last thing he said to me, before we said goodnight, was that we would go on a proper holiday when I was back on my feet, as a treat for me, and a break from work for him. This really lifted my mood but it’s also given me something to do for the past hour, hunting for somewhere for us to go, checking the calendar for important dates.

  I’ve found a gorgeous little island, just off the coast of Italy, which looks like the most gloriously romantic, luxurious destination – perfect for what we want, but as I check the calendar for work commitments, birthdays and friends’ weddings, I realise the most important thing I am forgetting to check.

  I fire up my period tracking app. I hate that I have to do this, it seems so unfair, but I also know that I don’t want to go somewhere hot for two weeks and spend most of the time in big knickers, sobbing over a hot water bottle. A quick scan over the forthcoming months shows me when I’m free to go, but something doesn’t seem right. I scroll back to the current date and realise something I had no idea about …

  I’m late. I should’ve had my period days ago. I mean, it’s not that I want it, it’s the last thing I need on my plate right now, but even so … if it’s late, it must be for a reason, right? And there’s only one reason I can think of …

  Chapter 9

  If you think physical pain is the worst thing to contend with when you’re trying to sleep, you’ve obviously never tried mental torment.

  When I started worrying that I might be pregnant last night, the first thing I did was panic. This was in no way planned and it is absolutely not the right time. I know I’m in my early thirties, but I am sure I still have plenty of time for this stuff, right? It’s not like it’s now or never … right?

  As my rational thoughts kicked in, I decided that it might help to call Patrick and talk to him about it. Not just because he’s involved, but because he’s my boyfriend. I just knew that talking things through with him would make me feel better.

  But he didn’t answer.

  I felt guilty, calling him when I knew how tired he was, and that he’d probably been asleep for a couple of hours, but when he didn’t answer his mobile I felt my stress levels creeping up again so I called his landline without a second thought.

  No answer though, not from him or a random woman.

  So I tried my best to sleep but I had a terrible night, and by the time it turned morning it was just a matter of counting down the minutes, holding off for as long as possible to call him without waking him up too early.

  When I did call, his mobile went straight to answerphone which was odd. Then he didn’t answer his landline, which worried me. By the time I’d called his office and his secretary had told me that he wasn’t in work yet – but he’s always in work at this time – I was really concerned.

  Thanks to my overactive imagination I am already panicking about being a single mum, which is definitely jumping to a few more conclusions than I ought to. I’m sure he’s fine; I’ll just feel better when I hear from him.

  I don’t want to be that girl, the one who seems like she’s keeping tabs on her man, but I’m legitimately worried about him. What if something has happened to him? What if he needs help?

  Patrick has two best friends: Brandon and Evan. The three of them – or the three amigos as they call themselves – all work together, all wear the same suits and the same watches. I doubt they will be impressed with me calling them, checking up on Patrick, but if it makes me feel less worried then it will be worth a few seconds of a judgey man thinking I’m a possessive woman.

  I try Brandon first but he doesn’t pick up, which only fuels my (it turns out, quite pessimistic) imagination. Then I try Evan and every ring feels like it takes a minute. Eventually he answers.

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘Oh, Evan, hi, it’s Lola,’ I babble. ‘I was just a bit worried about Patrick because I tried to call him last night, then this morning, and he’s not answering any of his phones and he’s not at work.’

  I try not to sound overly concerned, which potentially makes me seem more like a crazy girlfriend than just an overly anxious human concerned about another human they care about.

  ‘Oh, that might be my fault, sorry,’ he explains. ‘I called him up last night, asked him to come over and have a drink with me and then he crashed here. He left not too long ago, to go to work. I’m sure you’ll hear from him soon.’

  I exhale a tornado of relief. ‘Oh, well, that’s OK then,’ I say. ‘Are you doing OK?’

  It only feels right, to ask him how he is. It feels polite.

  ‘Yeah, I’m good,’ he says. ‘But I need to get ready for work.’

  ‘OK, well, thanks for putting my mind at rest,’ I reply.

  He doesn’t waste any time asking me how my leg is – no one from home does. It’s strange, isn’t it, how I refer to both London and Marram Bay as home? Whichever one I am in, I suppose the other one just feels more like home.

  So I suppose now all I need to do is wait for Patrick to get to work, so that he can return my call and I can tell him that I’m late and a bit worried about it.

  My phone rings almost immediately, which makes me smile – it’s a smile of relief as well as a little laugh at myself for being so ridiculous. Of course he’s fine.

  It isn’t Patrick though, it’s Brandon. I suppose he’s just returning my call. I suppose I have to answer it and tell him why I called, which is probably only going to make me seem weirder.

  ‘Hello, Brandon,’ I answer.

  ‘Hey, Lola, everything OK?’ he asks.

  ‘Yes, sorry for calling,’ I start. ‘I’d tried to call Patrick a couple of times last night and at work this morning, but couldn’t get in touch with him …’

  ‘
Oh, yeah, sorry about that,’ he starts.

  I’m about to say it’s no big deal that he didn’t answer my call, and tell him that Evan told me he stayed there last night, but Brandon keeps talking.

  ‘We went out for a few late-night beers and it turned into a bit of a school-night session,’ he explains. ‘He slept at mine, headed straight to work from here.’

  I quickly thank him and hang up.

  Men have an interesting relationship with loyalty, don’t they? They have a ton of it, or none of it, depending on the circumstances. When it comes to their friends, men are fiercely loyal. I mean, look at Evan and Brandon, both so quick to offer up an alibi for their friend without a second thought. But Patrick, who spent our call yawning and insisting he was going to bed, is obviously not where he said he was going to be. He’s clearly lied to me. Zero loyalty to me, but he’d probably die for Evan or Brandon.

  Am I really that unimportant to Patrick that the second I am out of the picture he just pretends I don’t exist and gets on with his life? I know that he’s selfish and a little funny about commitment but I figured we all have our flaws, and if Patrick needed some time to work things out then I was happy to give him that.

  Wherever he was last night, he absolutely wasn’t at home like he said he was, and I don’t care if he was out with one of his mates (and the other lied to cover for him just in case) or if this alleged cleaning lady was the one he was out with. The bottom line is that he’s keeping things from me, he doesn’t seem to care about the fact I have a broken leg, he had no interest in looking after me – he wheeled me into a doorframe, for crying out loud. I don’t need a man like that in my life so balls to him. I’d rather be a single mum than raise a child with a crap dad.

  I grab my phone and punch out an angry message to Patrick. I tell him that I know what he’s up to, that things are over, and that I never want to hear from him again. A text is all he deserves – well, it sounds like he’s moved on without even texting me. Who knows if he hadn’t done so before I broke my leg? Maybe he isn’t always working, maybe he just says he is. Forget him, I’m better off without him. I feel bizarrely strong and smug, but then I remember my late period and start worrying again.

  I need to take a test, obviously. I can’t just do nothing, I’ll drive myself crazy, wondering, catastrophising, allowing my brain to run every possible scenario before assuming that the worst possible one is the most likely.

  I’m not sure how, exactly, I’ll manage to take a test. I can’t even put my own underwear on at the moment, so I have no idea how I’m going to get to a shop and actually buy one …

  I rack my brains, searching for a little something left over from my teenage years. Well, when you grow up on an island as small as Hope Island, in a tightknit community like Marram Bay, where everyone knows everything about everyone, it’s hard to get away with things. As a teenager I had to be creative, although admittedly most of my tactics were focused around bending the truth. I’m just glad the Marram Bay Facebook group didn’t exist when I was a teen, because now it’s even easier for everyone to be in everyone else’s business, and information spreads even faster than it did by mouth, like in the good old days.

  Every time my mum would call me, she would have some gossip for me, courtesy of the Marram Bay Facebook group – so-and-so being shamed for not keeping their lawn at the right length, rumours about Hollywood actors walking around like ‘Freddie someone’ or ‘thingy Hardy’ (which was how my mum told it at the time), or even full-blown conspiracies to keep certain businesses out of town if the locals didn’t think they were a good fit.

  I guess that’s what I’ll do today, I’ll tell a little white lie, to get my mum to take me to a shop so that I can buy one myself. I’ll just need to think of a good reason and then find a way to shake my mum off for a couple of minutes …

  ‘Morning, love,’ my mum says.

  ‘Morning, Mum,’ I reply as I gear up to tell my fib. ‘I was wondering if we might be able to pop to the shops today. I wanted to get a few things.’

  ‘Oh, love, I can get you anything you need. Don’t be dragging yourself out when you’re in such agony. Just make me a list, I’ll get right to it. I need to pop out anyway.’

  Curse my helpful, considerate and loving mother. Just this once, I could do without the comprehensive mum treatment. I suppose there are worse things to have than an amazing mother, but that doesn’t help me get a pregnancy test. I am absolutely not asking her to pick one up for me because that comprehensive mum treatment will also include helping me with the test and waiting for the results with me while we discuss honouring grandma Lillian by naming the entirely hypothetical baby after her.

  Come on, Lola, get creative. Slip back into your devious teenage mind-set, the one that made sure you never missed any cool parties you had been told you absolutely were not allowed to attend. In hindsight, that makes me sound like a nightmare, but I went to the parties my mum had forbidden me from attending, and I behaved appropriately. I never wound up injured or accidentally pregnant – nope, I’ve reserved such mistakes for my thirties, obviously.

  ‘Actually, Mum,’ I start, pausing for just a split second, hanging in that brief moment where it occurs to me that this plan might not work, that it might somehow backfire. ‘I didn’t want to worry you, but my leg feels like it’s burning up again – worse than the other day. The doctor said I had to go back, if it got any worse, so … if you could just drop me off maybe?’

  I internally congratulate myself on a flawless plan. I can have my mum drop me at the doctor’s but then, while she goes off to do her shopping, I can nip into the pharmacy, buy a pregnancy test – if that doesn’t take long, I could maybe see about nipping into the loos, taking the test there so that I don’t have to worry about trying to dispose of the packaging at home. Now my plan really is foolproof.

  My mum feels my forehead with the back of her hand in the way that mums do.

  ‘Hmm,’ she says. ‘That is concerning. You’d do right to get it checked out.’

  Relief washes over me, as I realise it’s going to work.

  ‘But we can’t mess around,’ she insists. ‘I’m going to call Dr Will, ask him to see you as soon as possible. None of this dropping in and waiting to be seen.’

  Shit.

  ‘No, Mum, honestly, don’t take appointments from anyone else. I’m happy to just drop in, show it to Kim, see what she thinks …’

  ‘Nonsense,’ my mum replies. ‘This is important, Lola, we can’t take chances with your health.’

  ‘Mum, really, it’s—’

  ‘I’ll go call now,’ she cuts me off. ‘And I’m making sure you get sorted this time.’

  Double shit.

  Chapter 10

  If my mum were to repeat her industry standard back of the hand on the forehead temperature check now, she would diagnose me with something, because I am burning up, roasting hot, sweating buckets. It’s not because there is anything wrong with me though, nothing other than a bad case of ‘how the hell am I going to get myself out of this one?’

  My lovely mum has actually brought me into the doctor’s waiting room and sat down with me. She is waiting with me. Last time she dropped me off but then popped into the shop next door, but today, concerned parent that she is, she is sitting with me, waiting, reassuring me. The fact that she is so wonderful only makes me feel even worse about lying to her. I guess I was much better at this stuff when I was a teenager.

  I rack my brains for a solution. I could make it brief, ask a couple of questions about my leg, or ask for the help he offered me, to make life easier while I’m in plaster … just a quick in and out. That way I won’t waste any of his time. And, who knows, if Kim is around, maybe I can confide in her, ask her to grab me a test … I’d rather not tell anyone, especially not Kim, if I’m being honest. She’s my oldest friend, but we aren’t all that close anymore, and it was only yesterday I was telling her how amazing my life was, and the tables have very much turned today.<
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  ‘Lola James,’ the receptionist calls out. ‘The doctor will see you now.’

  She’s no sooner said it than Dr Will comes rushing out into the waiting room.

  ‘I momentarily forgot you were in a wheelchair,’ he says. ‘I thought I’d better come out and help.’

  A concerned old lady looks up from her copy of Yorkshire magazine.

  ‘Don’t worry, Mrs Vickers, I usually have a fantastic memory,’ he reassures her.

  She seems placated by his words, or perhaps it’s his charming demeanour. He seems to boast a far more attractive bedside manner than any doctor I’ve ever seen before.

  ‘Do you want me to come in with you?’ my mum asks.

  ‘No, it’s OK,’ I reply a little too quickly. ‘Thanks, though.’

  Dr Will wheels me into his office, parking me up in front of his chair before taking a seat in front of me. He sits forward in his seat, ready to get down to business.

  ‘So, your mum said you were having some DVT symptoms again,’ he says, getting straight to the point.

  Of course she told him the lie I told her. I swear, if I didn’t know better, I’d think she had seen straight through my lie and was trying to teach me a lesson. I suppose this is what you get, when you lie. Consider the lesson learned, whether it was intended or not.

  ‘Erm …’ I start, but I can’t get anything else out. I have no idea what to say.

  ‘Let’s take a look,’ he says, jumping back to his feet.

  As he begins to examine my leg, he looks puzzled. Obviously because there are no signs of anything at all, other than, you know, the bone still being broken.

  ‘Hmm …’ he says thoughtfully. ‘Do you want to tell me about your symptoms?’

  ‘It’s actually feeling much better now,’ I insist. ‘I’m really sorry if I’ve wasted your time. I’m sure it’s fine.’

  Will sits back down.

  ‘There’s no rush,’ he insists. ‘There is only one person in the waiting room and she’s thirty minutes early. I think she likes to come and read the magazines, chat with the receptionist. She’s probably talking your mum’s ear off and having a whale of a time.’