Page 16 of The Next Chapter

It’s seven pages long.

Plus, I’ve left all of Elton’s prescription food out, divided into days. Because last time I’d asked Mr Cains to cat sit, he’d given him some Sumptuous Salmon cat food and the jelly the sumptuous salmon was floating in gave Elton a kidney stone.

But Mr Cains genuinely likes Elton and always offers to have him. And Elton is much friendlier to Mr Cains than me, though that bar is admittedly very low.

POP.

‘Elton!’

‘You know that’s why Elton hates you, right?’ Seb nods over to the piles of weighed out dry cat food.

‘What? He should love me. I want him to live a long and happy life. He’s obese.’

‘He’s already lived a long and happy life. He wasn’t even that young when your dad adopted him. Let him spend his golden years gorging himself on meaty jelly.’

I clutch the edge of the countertop at the thought of Elton dying. Which is a totally healthy response.

Still, I remind myself, it would be hard for anyone to kill a cat in three days. The hotel had a three-night minimum booking policy so we’ve taken today off work to drive up. I’ll be back on Monday at the absolute latest. If we’re successful with the memoirs pitch, we’ll do the meetings online.

‘I’ll go and get my stuff,’ I tell Seb, my voice higher than normal.

‘You’re not meeting your birth mum with that thing around your neck!’ he calls after me.

‘She won’t know she’s my birth mum, so it doesn’t matter. And anyway, it’s a fan, and I bought you one too,’ I call back.

I jog up the stairs, slowing down when I realize that I’m breaking a sweat at the sudden movements.

Earlier in the week, I’d taken myself on a frenzied trip to Decathlon for some new, wilderness appropriate clothes. I’ve been reading all about Skye. There’s an author, Noah Adair, and he’s written a ton of books and articles about the island. It sounds wild. Not in the way that Lola’s band days sounded wild, more lakes and mountains and just general outdoorsy stuff galore.

Apparently, it is one of Scotland’s hottest destinations. Not in the temperature sense, more in that it’s super Instagrammable. So, maybe it’s not complete anathema, Lola living there. She’s bound to be somewhere hip.

All packed. I’d had a moment of blind panic when I’d had a quick glance (spent hours draped over) the faulty website for Lola’s hotel and realized there was a chance I’ll have to take part in some water sports if we’re going to be convincing in our, ‘we’re just here on holiday, oh, you’re looking for a ghostwriter, what a coincidence’ ruse.

It’s one of the reasons that this is an absolutely terrible idea. I have a fear of open water. Not like a paralysing one or anything. Okay, it’s a bit of a paralysing one. I’d just rather not swim in water where I can’t see what’s underneath me. If I’m going to swim, I like the body of water to be filled with so much chlorine that my eyes feel like they’re going to burn right out of my skull.

So, the giant lake next to Lola’s hotel is score one against this shit idea.

Secondly, I just don’t know how I’m going to cope seeing Lola. I can’t picture how it’s going to play out in my head. Whenever I try to imagine meeting her, or worse, having to listen to her talking about why she left me, why she quit the band, maybe even letting on who my real dad is… the edges of my eyes start to go dark and I have a very Victorian urge to reach for some smelling salts.

It’s just that I’m used to managing my sense of abandonment in small doses. Like exposure therapy. Every once in a while, I’ll take out my little folder, have a sift through all my Lola stuff and then I lock it away again and move on with my life. But I can’t pinpoint exactly how I’ll fare coming face to face with the woman who abandoned me as a baby… who only called once in thirty years… who never visited…

I think I’m hyperventilating.

‘Earth to Lily.’ Seb’s voice makes its way into my brain. He’s followed me upstairs. ‘I’d say you look constipated, but I know how obsessed you are with getting your five a day.’

That’s me. A person who is obsessed with broccoli. And even if it is packed full of nutrients, fibre and natural anti-inflammatories, no one wants to be known as the number one fan of cruciferous vegetables.

Lola seemed to spend most of her band years living off vodka and adrenaline. And not the sort of adrenaline you get when you have a tricky email to reply to. The sort you get when you’re performing for ten thousand people. In short, she’s going to hate me.

‘Lily?’

I think Seb’s frowning. On principle, I’ve made a lifetime habit of never giving people occasion to frown.

‘Sorry.’ I force a smile. ‘I was just having a minute.’

‘You know we don’t have to go?’ he asks, eyeing me warily.

‘We do,’ I say.