Page 62 of The Next Chapter

Obviously, an affinity with animals is not a genetic trait in the same way that, say, eye colour is (not that Lola and I are matched there either, mind). Here Lola has a whole harem of animals who adore her.

Elton sort of tolerates my presence, as opposed to actively adoring it.

I’ve now not spoken for too long, too busy mulling over our many differences. But then time with Lola always unsettles me, which I guess is normal. I probably shouldn’t be willingly submitting to more of it. It’s just that I really do need to eat…

‘Okay, if you don’t mind.’

‘Y’all are fine. Hang on a sec.’

She really is just… nice. Or that’s how she seems at any rate.

Lola disappears back into the hotel while I stand awkwardly in the parking lot. There’s a motorbike there. Death-trap.

I’m not at all surprised when Lola reappears and heads towards the battered looking blue truck in the corner. I follow her in, sitting across a bench seat that could do with a good hoover. I try not to think of my white dress. Or the fact that the van appears to have heralded from a pre-seat-belt era.

None of these things surprise me, because I realize that at some point over the weekend, what I think I know about Lola has shifted. It’s just not a shock that this heap of metal is her car, or that she has to give it a couple of goes, ‘because the ignition is shot,’ before it shudders to life.

Scout jumps into the back of the truck and we’re off. Winding down the bumpy track away from the hotel.

It’s a short journey and Lola turns the radio on, twisting the knobs until some country song starts to play. It’s not a song I’ve heard and it’s not the type of music her band were famous for. Lola seems to like it, though. She hums along tunefully and even though it means we don’t have to talk, it’s still uncomfortable. Like the guitar in Lola’s office, it’s an unwelcome reminder that this Lola is the same one who left me all those years ago.

It’s been years since I tortured myself over it. Wondering what it must have been like for me as a baby, lost and confused and not in the arms of the person I’d expected to be with. It’s a dark path to go down, and not helpful. And since Mum and Dad died, there have been plenty of dark paths without adding to them.

But now as I listen to her hum, I can’t help but venture back there. How I felt, how she felt. Was it a straightforward decision for her? Did she agonize about it? Or was it as easy as swapping a handbag you changed your mind about?

By the time we pull up in front of the small shop, I’ve worked myself up into a panic. I’ve barely even taken in the scenes out of the car window. The houses, dotted along the thin stretch between mountain and the pebbly shores of the sea. The fact that on Skye, every direction seems to be picture postcard worthy, it’s overwhelming.

‘I’ll wait outside,’ Lola says, cutting the ignition as we park up in front of a small Co-op.

It’s an old building, but the blue Co-op sign is like a beacon of civilization.

I practically dive out of the van, needing space and almost crashing into a group of cyclists. They all call a hello to Lola as they pass. I hurry onward in my quest for vegetables.

Inside, the shelves are stacked high with food. It’s cramped and disorderly. Pasta sits next to loo roll. I’d have expected better from Co-op. How do people here live with such chaos?

There’s a middle-aged woman behind the till. The self-check-out has a handwritten ‘out of order’ sign stuck to it.

‘Afternoon!’ I call over, the edges of my voice frayed, just like the rest of me.

‘Hmm,’ she says in answer.

So, she’s not the friendliest of sorts. I’m having a hard time meal planning as it is without the woman tracking my every move. In the shop window, there are several posters, all of which read things like ‘Tourist GO Home’ and ‘Save Our Shores’.

Ah. I did read that there’s a lot more tourism on Skye these days. Something about it appealing to the Instagram generation.

I grab a basket and make my way up the first mini aisle.

I get pasta, even though there’s no wholemeal. And pesto. I decide to make a risotto for Noah, mainly because I can make enough to do me some lunches too. I basically clear the place of any and all fruit and veg. Seb was right, I am way too excited by the prospect of broccoli. I dither in front of a small fridge full of ready meals, unhappy about the salt content. But then starvation also holds little appeal. I pick up a couple. By the time I drag my basket towards the tills it’s overflowing. I don’t exactly know everything I’ve got in there, but hopefully it’s enough to keep me going for a week at least.

And even though chicken and mushroom risotto isn’t exactly what I’d have liked to make Noah, the Co-op manager already hates me for being a tourist, so it’ll have to do.

I adopt my politest, most pleasant demeanour while I pay. It doesn’t seem to go down particularly well and isn’t helped by the fact that the card machine takes three goes to get signal. I curse my ill preparedness in not having cash.

I carry the bags back outside to find Lola still in the van, chatting to the same man I saw with her on the shores of the loch earlier. Now I remember him, he was in that article about the summer fair. He’s the vet. A silver fox vet, I might add.

Lola has the driver’s side window down and she’s resting her elbow on it, chatting away.

‘Lily, this is James, he’s the local vet here in Broadford.’