Page 113 of The Next Chapter

‘I’m sorry too, Lily.’

He slips out of the doors, and I think at some point, I’m really going to feel this. But now, I’m acting on autopilot.

I’m in the bedroom throwing things into my case with absolute gay abandon. Nothing gets folded. I empty the bag for life I’ve been using for dirty clothes on top of the clean stuff. I have the suitcase version of complete mayhem. I have to put my full weight on the top of the case, just to get it to shut.

I leave the bound business plans on the bed, thinking how ridiculous this whole thing was.

I make a sad little mountain of my belongings in the main room of the cottage and then sit on the couch staring into the darkness playing the whole evening over and over in my head.

Wondering how it can be the same night as the karaoke party.

Thinking back over everything Lola had said about Jimmy, about me. Essentially, I’ve given my brain enough over-analysing fodder to keep it occupied for a couple of millennia.

Plus, should old age ever deign to strip me of some of the more heartbreaking of tonight’s memories, I have an actual recorded copy of my birth mum talking about giving me up in the form of a song. A song, incidentally, that was my real mum’s favourite. That’s what you call winning at life.

Finally, I get a notification that my taxi is here, so I gather up my stuff (carrying my phone charger in my teeth, I might add) and trudge down the side of the hotel.

If Noah hears me going, he doesn’t come out, and maybe this is better than some sad, sorry goodbye. A clean break.

I don’t look back at the cottage.

It’s only when all of my things are in the car and I’m closing the boot that I realize the light is on in Lola’s office at the front of the hotel.

This time I do turn around.

Lola’s there, watching as I leave.

I buckle myself in.

‘Please,’ I tell a very startled looking driver. ‘Please get me off this island.’

Chapter Twenty-One

To Do:

Get life back on track

Consider finding therapist

Bond with Elton

Pay off taxi

Get on top of WhatsApp messages

Get on top of emails

Seb picks me up in Fort William early Sunday morning. The drive home passes in a blur, mostly because I’m trying to sob quietly the entire time. At least the fucking roof is up.

I’m also back to puking.

‘Do you want to talk about it?’ Seb asks.

I shake my head against the window. ‘Not yet.’

In a rare concession to my feelings, Seb doesn’t push it. We’re both exhausted so we’re forced to stop and spend Sunday night in a Premier Inn. It’s neat and ordered but it feels bare and clinical compared to Lola’s hotel.

Finally, at some point on Monday, we pull up outside my house.