Page 49 of The Next Chapter

The Labrador is here, sprawled asleep on the floor. Doesn’t try to move as we tiptoe around him.

‘He sleeps through anything,’ Lola tells me and she’s right, he doesn’t even stir. I didn’t expect to be carrying out the interview over a huge furry dog, but there we go.

‘It’s, er, organized chaos,’ Lola says, moving papers off the chair by her desk. ‘Heavy on the chaos.’

There’s a guitar propped in the corner by the desk and the window, half buried under overhanging papers. My eyes keep darting to it. Over and over. I’m no guitar expert, but it looks old.

Outwardly, however, I am committed to professional indifference and so I stomp down the fact that the universe is presenting me with yet another difference between Lola and me. She is obviously someone who thrives in chaos, and I am just not. Instead, I say, ‘It’s nice and cosy,’ as Lola finally frees the chair from its paper prison. Then she unfolds a small stool from the corner and sits on it.

‘You take the chair, please.’

‘I don’t mind the stool,’ I say, blatantly checking out the office. I think there’s a long cork board along the wall opposite the door. Like the desk, however, it’s been swallowed by a mountain of paperwork. This woman needs a to-do list like humans need oxygen.

‘Don’t even think about it.’ Lola plonks herself down on the stool and I tentatively take the chair. It looks old, with a faded green seat cushion that has a rip across the middle.

‘Okay.’ I sit down, feeling strange about the height difference between me and Lola. It’s almost like I’m a primary school teacher reading to children sat cross-legged on the carpet. Except in this instance the child is actually my mother, and she’s wearing dungarees and Crocs. It’s a pretty fucked up scenario.

I clear my throat, stalling for time.

I notice that she has a Greenpeace banner across one wall. ‘I really care about the environment too,’ I blurt out. ‘I get these washing tablets delivered. They have, like, fifty per cent less packaging, and I stopped using that facewash with the little beads ages before it was properly banned. You know, the ones that killed the fish. And I was the secretary of the anti-fracking committee for a while.’ I babble on, thinking that I really need to stop talking right about now.

‘That’s good, Lily,’ Lola says. She’s quiet Lola today. Not cheerful like she was up the mountain. She’s pensive and calm. The woman has more layers than an onion.

‘So how this normally works,’ I say, bringing us back to the task at hand, because I can’t think of how to stall anymore; I make a show of placing my phone gently on top of a pile of papers, ‘is that I’d ask you to start at the beginning, or wherever you want your story to start. I’ll try not to interrupt, unless I need you to clarify something. Mostly, I’ll record it all on here.’ I gesture to the phone. ‘Once we’ve done all of the interviews, I’ll type up my notes and we can start working on forming a draft. I’ve, er, signed the non-disclosure agreement you emailed over. Seb too. We sent it back to you this morning.’

‘I appreciate that, Lily.’

I feel a smidgen of pride at the fact that the plan worked because Lola trusts us.

‘I got the contract you signed too.’ It had arrived in my inbox at gone midnight last night. When Lola Vain officially became a client of Your Life. The contract states that she pays us a flat fee, plus a cut of whatever book deal she might get. It’s a standard contract, but I think Seb’s right, this could be the answer to all our problems. So long as nothing goes wrong, that is.

The dog’s tail flaps up then down as Lola squirms on her stool. ‘I trust y’all to follow the rules.’

‘Absolutely. It’s all in appendix three of the contract.’ I smile, nodding, feeling calmer. Because is there anything better than good appendices? I’d been the only person at Your Life excited about the new privacy legislation. Seb had made me GDPR lead. A promotion that came with zero pay rise, obviously.

And then before I can chicken out, I say, ‘Shall we get started, then?’

Lola shuffles again but nods. Quiet Lola makes me a bit nervous.

To distract myself, I press record.

‘Try not to worry about it recording,’ I tell her. ‘Just say whatever feels natural to you. It’ll help me get a sense of your style. And don’t worry about being too specific, we can go over dates and stuff at the end.’

Lola nods again and then takes a deep breath. Visibly swallows. But then, she begins.

* * *

My ma said that I was born on the coldest day of the year. Which is saying something. Because down in Greenwell Springs, Louisiana we never got cold weather. But that year, 1974, there was a freak storm. Ma said the walls were rattling with the wind and rain was coming through the windows and she really hoped that I’d stay put a little while longer. ’Cept I didn’t. Da was singing, playing his guitar to distract the others when Ma felt the first twinge. Apparently, she knew then that I’d be trouble.

’Cause of the storm, the midwife couldn’t get to them. Greenwell Springs was a half-hour drive from Baton Rouge, though if anyone ever asked, that’s where we always said we were from. No one ever heard of Greenwell Springs, after all.

Not that it mattered so much, about the midwife being stuck in the city. Ma had four babies by then, all under six. So, I guess her body just knew what to do. Not even two hours after that first contraction, I was here. Pa said that I screamed so loud that I drowned out the howling wind. Ruined the bedroom rug too. It was Ma’s favourite and I’m not sure she ever forgave me for it. For being born in a storm or the rug either. All’s I know is that right from the off, I was in the way. Inconvenient.

Like I said, I was baby number five. Two more came after. Real quick. All born on bright sunny days like we were used to. There was so many of us, we all got labelled with one thing or another, you know?

Stevie was the clever one.

Molly was the one who looked after us when Ma and Pa were busy. Everyone said she was the kind one. That’s what she got for being the eldest, I suppose.