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Chapter 6
I wake up confused as to where I am. The bed is too big, the room is too dark, and I’m surprised to find myself sleeping naked, until I remember why: I have no pyjamas. There was a vivid dream about drowning – sailing in a suitcase boat, trying to get to an island where my parents were waving to me, but I didn’t have a sail and the boat was sinking, because, well, it was a suitcase. My mother’s face was still so clear and full of life in my dream. My father’s was static – since I only remember his face from photos, I’ve always found it hard to imagine what he looked like in motion.
My phone is alive with messages and emails. It’s only 7 a.m. and I last checked my phone at ten. Dee has sent a link to an article from Statistics Weekly entitled, ‘Where People Meet Their Partners – The Facts’, and there are three emails from Suki. I click on the first one.
From: [emailprotected]
To: [emailprotected]
Laura,
Had a few list ideas, additional content you could pull together while you’re away.
Most romantic skinny-dipping locations – Get your body skinny for dipping. We have a weight loss bar looking to sponsor an advertorial.
Top Ten attractive men from the Channel Islands – Isn’t Henry Cavill, the Superman actor, from there? Can you research? Ideally, get photos of Superman skinny-dipping. (People engage 20% more with articles that have a celeb angle.)
‘Small Islands to suit your mood’ – feel silly in the Scilly Isles, flirty in Fetlar, merry in Mull … A hotel in the Outer Hebrides is keen to sponsor.
Her next email says,
We need your coin story for Tuesday. We’re short on uplifting content, so it needs to deliver; heart-warming, life-affirming etc. Try to find some long-lost relatives. Everyone likes stories about long-lost relatives.
Then finally,
And please plan to do an Insta live at twelve today. Somewhere beachy and beautiful to trail the ‘mini breaks’ piece.
Suki
I groan. It’s Friday today, and I’m leaving on Sunday night. I’m not sure how Suki thinks I’m going to stumble upon nudes of Henry Cavill just because he’s from Jersey. But it’s hard to push back on unreasonable requests with the pendulum of redundancy swinging over your head.
Dee often asks why I stay at Love Life, with the long hours and Suki’s aggressive management style. But the truth is I enjoy my job, well, the part where I get to research and write stories – yes, it has its frustrations, but no job can be perfect. Work has been one of the few constants in my life when so much has been changing. I like being a part of the Love Life family because, besides Gran, it’s the only family I have left. The thought of losing it makes my skin itch. So over breakfast I get out my laptop and set about manically writing up notes for all Suki’s latest ideas.
Before meeting up with the cab driver, I head out to find somewhere to buy a change of clothes and a few other essentials a luggage-less girl might need. The hotel was able to furnish me with a spare phone charger, toothpaste and a toothbrush, but I can’t bear to spend today in yesterday’s plane clothes. Around the corner from my hotel, I find a department store that opens early, and in it, a pale blue summer dress and some flip-flops in the sale, both perfect for a warm September day. I prudently pick up a few bits of make-up too – when J. Le Maistre calls, I don’t want to be caught looking anything less than my best.
The cab driver, Ted, I remind myself, is waiting for me in the lay-by where he left me last night. The suitcase trundles along the cobbles behind me; I brought it so I can go to meet Hot Suitcase Guy straight away if he calls this morning.
‘Morning!’ I say to Ted as I climb into the back seat. He gives me a single nod in reply. He’s wearing the same ugly plaid flat cap he was wearing yesterday, and his beard looks more Tom Hanksy than ever. ‘So, I’m ready for the grand tour. Where shall we begin?’
‘You want to go to all the places in your album?’ he asks, clearing his throat.
‘Yes, please.’
He holds out a hand. ‘Let me take a look at the photos again. I’ll plan the best route. Oh, and we should agree a flat rate for the day – it will cost you a fortune on the meter.’
‘Whatever you think is fair,’ I say gratefully.
Once he starts driving, I don’t ask where we’re headed, but jump straight on my phone and start leaving messages for Le Maistres. The hotel receptionist kindly made me a copy of the Le Maistre page in the phone book. As keen as I am to track down my mystery man, I’m also now increasingly anxious to get my own bag back. It makes me wince to think about some of the things I’ve confessed to my journal, words not meant to see the light of day. There is simply too much in my bag I cannot contemplate losing: my research notes; my favourite jeans; my vintage silk blouse – one of the last presents Mum gave me; the L-shaped earrings she and I made together; all things I would not have checked into the hold if I’d had more than thirty seconds to think about it.
Gazing out of the window as I dial another number, I watch the suburban sprawl of houses, schools, and shops morph into more rural scenery. I notice how considerate all the drivers are to one another. Ted waits to let cars out from junctions, as though we have all the time in the world. It is a far cry from the aggressive London driving I am used to. The Le Maistre number I’ve called rings and rings, so I hang up.
The roads narrow into single-track, tree-lined lanes, and we pass dog walkers ambling along next to freshly ploughed fields. Then, as the houses disappear entirely and we’re surrounded by green, I see the distinctive face of a Jersey cow, peering over a fence.
‘Oh, a Jersey cow! Can we stop?’ I ask. ‘Oh, will you look at them? They’re so beautiful!’
‘You want to stop to look at the cows?’ Ted asks, as though I’ve just asked him to stop so that I can inspect the exciting tarmac on the road.
‘If there’s somewhere to pull in, do you mind? I’d love to get a photo.’
