Make or Break at the Lighthouse B & B

‘I’ll go book a taxi,’ Patrick says. ‘Get you home to your bed.’

‘Can I come to yours?’ I ask him.

‘Wouldn’t you be happier in your own home?’ he replies.

‘Perhaps, if I didn’t have a stupid bloody step up into my bathroom.’

I curse myself. When I was flat hunting, I thought the cute little step up to my bathroom was, well, cute. It made it look like a mini spa. I never imagined I’d be wheelchair bound. Now I’m kicking myself … or I would be, if I physically could.

‘Oh, right.’ Patrick scratches his head. ‘Yes, OK then.’

As he wanders off to book us a taxi, a wave of cramp grips my broken leg, just like it kept doing on the walk over – I suppose from holding it in one careful but awkward position for so long.

‘Shit, shit, shit,’ I can’t help but blurt out.

Right on cue, a toddler waddles out from behind one of the pillars.

Every single one of my excruciating agony-fuelled outbursts so far has had an accidental audience of someone who shouldn’t be watching anything more than a PG, at best.

There’s nothing I can do but watch, as the giddy little boy’s legs turn to jelly underneath him and he flops to the floor with a clap, in that way toddlers always seem to go down. As he bursts into tears, his dad finally appears and picks him up. Poor kid, I know just how he feels (let’s casually gloss over the fact that I have thirty-two years’ experience with my feet, compared to his maximum of two).

His dad dusts him down and his crying stops all at once, as though someone has flicked a switch. The little boy is absolutely fine. In fact, it’s only a matter of seconds before he’s waddling around again.

Somehow, I don’t think it’s going to be quite so easy for me.

Chapter 3

Bloody men and their bloody sex drives!

I have it on pretty good authority – from my Auntie Val, of all people – that these are the days of our (sex) lives.

She had a few too many drinks at my twenty-first birthday party and took it upon herself to sit me down and tell me about the facts of life. Not the usual facts of life though, her facts of life, the supposedly real ones.

Auntie Val told me that, once men hit middle age, they’re not worth bothering with. She said my Uncle Robert was ‘fantastic in the sack’ when he was younger, but that his ‘tackle’ could no longer rise to the occasion, and that they slept in separate rooms. Auntie Val might’ve had a fair bit to drink, but she and Uncle Robert did eventually break up, and she has only been known to date wildly age-inappropriate younger men ever since.

With that to potentially look forward to in my future, you’d think I’d take whatever I could get now … except right now, my leg is literally broken in half.

‘Boy, are you out of your mind?’ I ask Patrick. He’s lying in my bed next to me, caressing the thigh of my good leg. I know he isn’t comforting me though, he’s caressing with intent.

‘What?’ he replies innocently.

‘Are you seriously putting the moves on me right now?’

‘I thought you’d welcome the distraction,’ he says.

I slowly eject every drop of air from my lungs.

‘I’ve been awake almost all night, in so much pain, unable to get comfortable, and you think thrashing away at me is going to make me feel better?’ I reply in disbelief.

‘Usually you like my thrashing,’ he replies. ‘Plus, I’m going to Amsterdam for work for a few days, so …’

‘You are?’

‘I told you I was.’

‘You absolutely didn’t,’ I reply.

‘Hmm.’ He ponders whether he did or didn’t tell me for a moment. ‘Yeah, it’s for work. For a few days.’

‘Oh,’ I reply.

‘Did you think I was going to be able to look after you?’

‘I did …’

‘Sorry,’ he says. ‘Maybe ask your friends?’

‘Erm, yeah, OK.’

I don’t really know what else to say. If he has to work, then he has to work.

‘I should call work, actually, explain what has happened,’ I say.

Patrick plants a peck on my forehead.

‘I’d better get ready for work,’ he says, hopping out of bed. I can’t help but envy the ease with which he is able to switch from lying to standing. For me, it feels like a distant memory – and it’s only been ten hours! ‘I’ll leave you to your call.’

Patrick has always slept naked. I think he’d prefer to be naked all day long, if he weren’t so into fashion. I like that though, that he cares about what he wears and how he looks. He works hard to keep in shape, and he has a beauty regime to rival my own, but he looks incredible for it, with his rippling muscles, his £60 pompadour haircut, his neat, short beard and his threaded eyebrows.

I can’t help but admire him as he walks across the bedroom. I don’t think that I’m out of his league, or anything like that, but I do know how lucky I am. Women just seem to fall at his feet.

I carefully reach for my mobile, to call my boss. My plan is to – hopefully – take a couple of days off, just until I get the hang of the wheelchair, and the pain settles down, but then it will be business as usual, as far as actual business is concerned, at least.

‘Hello,’ Andrea pants down the phone.

‘Oh, erm, hello … It’s Lola James … Sorry, did I wake you?’

‘No, no, I’m in the gym,’ she replies.

That’s a huge relief. It would be so like my randy boss to answer her phone while she was at it.

We both work for the Beautiful People Agency, which manages a range of clients who are either rich, famous, or an obvious combination of both, giving perfect people their perfect lives. We handle finding them work, advertising deals, we manage their appearance (both how they look and how they come across) – we even have an in-house estate agency, to make sure that they live in the perfect place for them. And then there’s the department I work for, handling their relationships. I play cupid to the rich and famous, not only finding them their perfect matches, but also advising them on all areas of their love lives. It’s a strange job sometimes, but I absolutely love it. How many people can put on their CV that they gave rock star Dylan King advice on a particular aspect of his lovemaking game? It’s got to be fewer than five.

‘Oh, on Friday, did you find someone for Kelly Parker in the end?’ she asks me.

‘I did, yes.’

‘Someone from the Bin?’

‘Yep. Fabrizio Napoletano – he was on Love Island last year …’

The Bin is a particular category of client we talk about in the office, referring to someone who we signed (usually off the back of a reality TV show), who we are thinking of dropping. Before we do so, we’ll keep them in the Bin for a while, until we can match them with someone of a higher calibre (dictated by our guidelines). It sounds awful, but I do take pride in my work, and I will absolutely not pair up anyone who I don’t truly believe belong together. My job is to find perfect relationships for people who find it hard to meet people. It’s not easy, being rich or famous – there are thousands of people willing to date you (or even marry you) simply for your money and status. But I can spot a fake from a mile off, and I have a one hundred per cent success record. I’m so good that my company offers a money-back guarantee.

‘Great,’ she replies.

I hear a few beeps coming from whatever machine she’s using. It sounds like she’s getting faster.

‘So, what couldn’t wait until you got to the office tomorrow?’ she asks.

‘Oh, God, it’s Sunday, isn’t it? Sorry, I get so confused with Patrick working seven days a week. I thought I was in work today.’

‘Not today,’ Andrea says with a snort. ‘Don’t worry, I was up for my workout anyway. Can it wait until tomorrow?’

‘Well, I’m not going to be able to come in tomorrow either,’ I start.

‘Oh. It’s not like you to take sick days,’ she says.

‘I know,’ I reply. ‘But, well, I’ve broken my leg.’

‘Oh, no, that’s terrible,’ she replies.

‘Yes, it’s not ideal. I’m in a wheelchair, actually. I’m not allowed to put weight on it – they didn’t even give me any crutches for these first couple of weeks.’

‘Oh gosh …’

‘And my silly apartment has steps in it, so I’m going to have to find a friend to stay with.’

‘Lola, listen, it sounds like you’ve got a lot on your plate right now.’

‘I am figuring it all out, don’t worry.’

‘It’s not just that,’ she starts. ‘You know, having you in a wheelchair in the office, it’s just not practical. You’re not going to be able to get around to clients, you’re going to need ramps and whatnot – it’s going to be a logistical nightmare.’

‘So …’

‘So, I’m going to hand over all your work to Angel, until you’re back on your feet, and I won’t hear another word on the subject, OK?’

Pssh. Angel. She isn’t like any angel I’ve ever heard of, she’s more like a devil. She’s my office frenemy, the thorn in my side, the one always vying for Andrea’s attention and trying to pinch my high-profile clients, because hers are all from the Bin. I always knew she was after my job, I guess now she’s going to get it. At least it’s only temporary.

‘OK then,’ I reply, but it’s absolutely not OK.

‘You rest up and take care now,’ she insists, before hanging up the phone.

For a moment I just stare into space.

Andrea is right: I don’t ever take sick days. I work myself into the ground for that company. Suddenly, because I’m in plaster and being pushed around in a wheelchair, I’m, what, not cool enough to be seen around the office? Andrea always tells us that we’re selling a sexy lifestyle, so it’s important that we look sexy. While I’m not entirely sure how legal this might be, female employees have to adhere to an office-wide ban on ponytails, trousers, and natural-look make-up. I don’t mind too much. I like to have my long blonde hair flowing, wear nice clothes, and spend time applying my make-up each day. I do it for myself, not because Andrea tells me to. I feel like I really fit in there, which is why I’m so gutted to be put on the bench.

My next order of business is to find someone I can stay with. Patrick might not be able to look after me but, lucky for me, I have a lot of friends.

I call Gia, my best friend. I’m sure she’ll be dying to know if I’m OK, but with last night being her wedding night, I didn’t want to put a downer on things.

‘Heeey,’ she sings down the phone.

‘Hey, how was last night?’

‘Oh, amazing,’ she replies brightly. ‘Just … magical. Where did you end up?’

‘I fell.’

‘Yeah, I saw,’ she replies. ‘After that?’

‘The hospital, Gia …’

‘Oh, wow, how you feeling now?’

‘Not great,’ I confess. ‘I’ve broken my leg.’

‘No way!’

‘Way,’ I reply. ‘I’m in a wheelchair.’

‘Ah, Lola, that’s awful. I’m so sorry.’

‘Thanks,’ I reply.

I’m so lucky, to have a best friend like Gia.

‘The worst thing is, Patrick is going away for work, so he can’t look after me. And I’ve got that silly step in my apartment.’

‘Oh, gosh, yeah,’ she replies. ‘I forgot about that.’

I hear Gia giggling.

‘Stop it,’ she whispers.

‘Do you want me to let you go?’ I ask.

‘No, it’s just Kent, being a randy newlywed. Get off, Kent, I’m talking to Lola. She’s broken her leg.’

‘Get well soon, Lola,’ he calls down the phone.

‘Tell him thank you,’ I say. ‘Anyway, Patrick can’t look after me, so I’m just trying to work out what to do.’

‘Oh, well, Lola, you know I’m going on honeymoon,’ she reminds me.

‘Yeah, in three weeks, right?’ I reply.

I wasn’t necessarily angling to stay with her – I get that she’s a newlywed – but I’m surprised she hasn’t offered. She’s my best friend, and she and Kent live in a massive house. Everything I could possibly need is downstairs in her house. I thought she might have suggested I look after the place while she’s in Bali for three weeks or something. Just offered, even if she knows I’ll say no. All the more reason to ask, right?

‘Well, yeah, but … I mean, we’re just married. It’s not really a good time for guests, you know?’

I swallow hard. I’m not a guest, I’m her best friend. I’m the person who basically organised her entire wedding, right down to that stupid ring-carrying angry swan she insisted she needed me to arrange. When Gia asked me to help plan her wedding, she said she needed my organisational skills … I can’t help but feel a bit used.

‘Oh, no, I totally get that. I wasn’t expecting you to look after me,’ I insist. Well, I wasn’t, I’m just shocked by how not her problem this is sounding.

‘You’re a star,’ she replies. ‘You’ll land on your feet – oops, poor choice of words.’

‘Drinks tomorrow,’ I start, remembering our plans.

‘Yeah, no, let’s just … put a pin in that until after my honeymoon? I’m sure you need the rest.’

‘Erm, yeah.’

‘Maybe try your parents?’

‘Yeah, thanks,’ I reply.

And now she doesn’t even want to hang out with me?! What, just because I’m in plaster, is that not cool? Is she really that superficial?

‘You all sorted?’ Patrick asks, walking out of the bathroom with a towel wrapped around his waist.

As he runs a hand through his hair, I notice his bicep wiggle. Something I suspect he does on purpose, either for my benefit or the mirror’s.

‘Erm, not really,’ I reply. ‘Work have told me not to go in until I can walk, and Gia doesn’t want to know.’

‘Shit, that’s awful,’ he replies. ‘You’d better get calling someone else, or you’re in big trouble.’

Wow, even Patrick doesn’t have much time for injured me. It’s like everyone is happy to have you around when you’re all dressed up and socialising, but when the shit hits the fan and you need help, no one wants to take time away from their awesome, easy life to help out.

‘Yeah,’ I reply. ‘Thanks.’

I frown.

He’s right, I guess. I’d better start working my way through my contacts. There’s absolutely no way I can cope on my own, at least to start with. But if you can’t rely on your boyfriend or your best friend, who else can you ask?

Chapter 4

Life, it turns out, is a pretty fragile thing.

I don’t mean in terms of life and death, although I’m sure that’s a realisation we all come to eventually. I feel very grateful to have not lived through circumstances to cause me that epiphany yet.

What I actually mean is that, having a life is a fragile thing. Having a rich, full, happy life, with everything you’ve ever hoped for, everything you’ve dreamed of … just one little accident, and it falls apart like a fibula on a dance floor (hmm, perhaps that metaphor is a little me-specific to use here, but you know what I mean).

Yesterday I had it all; today none of it is anywhere to be seen. I’m stuck in this wheelchair, I can’t go to my own home, my boyfriend is too busy to look after me, my best friend is too wrapped up in her own stuff, all my other friends are too busy with their own lives too. I rang round every single one of them, but none of them wanted to know. We’re all BFFs when there are fancy nights out and showbiz parties to go to (parties that my job gets us entry to), but now I need a favour from them … nothing. And I call it a favour, like it’s help moving house or a lift to the train station, but I’m here, in this chair, with nowhere to go, and no one to look after me. I don’t need a favour, I need a lifeline. How can they all just leave me to it?

Ordinarily, I would throw myself into work, because I love my job so much, nothing makes me happier than helping other people find happiness … and I can’t even do that. Even work doesn’t want me.

I wiggle carefully in my seat. I’m not all that comfortable at the best of times, but sitting in the back of a car with my broken leg stretched across the seat feels especially awkward. Not just because it makes my break feel especially painful (although it does, everything does, even breathing makes my leg hurt) but because it is an ambitious stretch at the best of times. All this does is rub in my face the fact that I probably do just go to yoga because I think it’s trendy, and because all my friends go. It turns out I’m not actually gaining that much flexibility from it. I suppose I knew, deep down, that I didn’t take it all that seriously. I was in it for the chat with my friends, the funky, colourful yoga pants, and the drinks we would go for after. Now I kind of wish I had taken it more seriously – it might make this drive more bearable.

‘I have to say, your mum and I are over the moon,’ my dad chirps as he drives.

I can see his face in the rear-view mirror and he certainly looks overjoyed.

‘That’s great,’ I reply, but I can’t muster up much conviction. Not in these circumstances.

‘I mean, your mum and I are sad you broke your leg – obviously.’

‘Obviously,’ I echo.

‘But over the moon,’ he insists again.

‘OK, Dad, calm down,’ I say.

It’s not that I’m not grateful. It’s unbelievably kind of him to drive all the way to London to pick me up, only to hit the road again straight away. It must be at least a ten-hour round trip he’s making. But he could at least sound like he isn’t delighted I broke my leg.

‘Sorry, love,’ he replies.

My dad, Paul James, gives me a reassuring smile in the mirror. One that I imagine is supposed to put me at my ease, but I still suspect he might drive into a tree if it means I have to stay with them for longer. He’s your typical broad Yorkshireman, with an angry brow and an even less friendly resting face. He’s a big softy, of course, but I did find it an advantage, growing up with an intimidating-looking dad. I certainly won every single ‘my dad is bigger than your dad’ standoff, that’s for sure.

That’s what I’m doing, by the way. I’m moving back in with my parents.

It’s only temporary, may I add, until I’m back on my feet, and with this being very literal in my case, I know how long it will be – six weeks. That’s what they told me when I went to have my temporary cast swapped for a regular one, before we hit the road today. They didn’t even say I’d be better in six weeks, they said I could hopefully swap my cast for a brace then, so at least I’d be able to put some weight on it.

So, that’s my countdown. Six weeks. I don’t think I’ve spent six days at my parents’ house since I moved out, with me only popping back for Christmas or encouraging them to visit me. It’s hard for them though, running a B & B, because at the times of year when people have time off and usually want to get together, that’s when they are busiest.

Anyone can survive six weeks back home, right? It might be kind of nice, taking in the sea air, eating my mum’s cooking, watching TV with my dad. It’s been ages since I had some time off, not without a holiday to jet off on. Yes, it will be great, just the chilled-out break I’ve probably been in need of.

I look out of the car windows, admiring the greenery on one side and the sea on the other. We must be nearly there now.

‘It’s a shame Mum couldn’t come for the drive,’ I say.

‘Yes, but you know what she’s like,’ my dad replies. ‘She’s washing the windows and doing the stairs down.’

Almost all of my significant memories involve my mum on her hands and knees, with a cloth and a bucket of warm soapy water, starting at the top of the stairs and working her way down, scrubbing each step along the way.

‘I can’t even go up the stairs,’ I laugh.

‘Oh, she knows, but you know what she’s like. She’s just excited, her baby is coming home.’

I want to remind him that it’s only for six weeks, but he knows. No sense in reminding him and bursting his bubble.

‘How’s the work coming along?’ I ask.

When I was home for Christmas I made a few suggestions about the B & B. Just little things here and there that needed a fresh lick of paint, or new ideas for how to drum up more business.

Driving through Marram Bay, where I grew up, always feels like looking through an old photo album. You know how sometimes you remember how things were when you were a kid, and even though they look different now because of time or advances in technology, they remind you of the good old days? Well passing through Marram Bay is nothing like that. I always come back to find this place exactly as I left it.

I would hazard a guess there are a few reasons nothing changes in Marram Bay. First of all, it’s a tourist hotspot. People travel from all over the world to visit expecting a Yorkshire seaside town, cute and picturesque, with quirks aplenty.

There are lots of weird and wonderful events that people flock here for. In December, Marram Bay plays host to the Winter Wonderland Festival down by the beach. We have rides, stalls, and performances, but the pièce de résistance is without a doubt the Christmas tree maze. I would always look forward to getting lost in the maze when I was a kid. It’s funny, because I would try so hard to learn the layout so that one year I could walk it – I don’t know how many years it took me to figure out that the layout is different each time.

In summer we have the 1940s weekend, which we take seriously – and I mean very seriously. It’s exactly as it sounds too. The entire place hops into a time machine and goes back to the World War II era. Locals cover their windows in white tape, hide their cars and dress up in their 1940s’ best, and if you even think about breaking character, they probably force you into moving house.

Other annual events include a hot air balloon festival and a Valentine’s Day Festival, dedicated to all things love. It’s no wonder we get so many tourists.

People in little towns like this are always so set in their ways. They don’t want things to change. They hate change. New builds, Tesco Expresses, Nando’s – no one can get a look in.

As we drive through Marram Bay I spot the Little Acorn Primary school – the first school I attended – before passing the small park where I had my first kiss. I can pretty much map my pre-London-move life events across this small but beautiful stretch, although I’m not sure how much interest there would be in a tourist pamphlet like that.

‘Oh, just in time,’ my dad says as we approach the causeway to Hope Island. ‘It closes in ten minutes.’

When I was growing up on Hope Island, I didn’t give the causeway much thought. I was just so used to it that it became little more than an annoyance that stopped me getting to see my friends or returning home after. Now that I’m older and it isn’t something I get to see very often, it absolutely captivates me.

Twice a day, when the tide comes in, the mile-long road that connects Hope Island to Marram Bay will be completely covered by the North Sea, isolating Hope Island from the rest of the country. Then, when the tide goes back out, and the road beneath becomes visible, the tidal island is connected again.

So, what used to just be a road closure that annoyed teenage me is now a real marvel of the natural world that I can’t get enough of. That said, if it had been closed just now, I would have been annoyed at being stuck on the mainland for even longer – hours probably – because I really need the loo (which is an absolute ordeal that I’d rather not go through with my dad in a public lav) and I’m so uncomfortable in this car.

‘Thank goodness,’ I reply as we drive along the causeway. I look out of the window only to see the water edging closer at both sides of the road. It’s fascinating, how it just looks like a centimetre or two of water creeping in slowly, but come high tide this road can often be under six foot of water. The locals know the causeway and the tide like the backs of their hands. They know how long they have to drive the mile-long road and they know what will happen if they drive when it isn’t safe.

Tourists, however, who aren’t familiar with our tidal island, will often think they can take a chance and cross, either expecting the road to keep clear for them, or that it will only be like driving through a big puddle. Of course it’s nothing like that; it’s so dangerous, which is why people get halfway across and realise the tide has them surrounded, leaving them marooned in their car, but not for long. Soon the sea takes their car too, and that’s when they wind up in big trouble.