One Night on the Island(12)

‘What time is the next boat?’

Brianne closes the planner slowly, bracing both palms flat on the cover. ‘Eleven o’clock.’

Cleo looks at the clock behind Brianne and sighs theatrically. It’s almost midday. ‘Great.’

‘On Friday,’ Brianne adds. I couldn’t say for sure, but I think she held that back for dramatic effect.

‘Friday?’ Cleo says, too loud in the small store. ‘As in not today, or tomorrow, or even the next day because today is only Saturday?’

Brianne takes a small step back. ‘We only have the boat once a week, unless there’s an emergency. Medical. Umm, a death or something.’

Kudos, Brianne, I think. She absolutely mentioned death to prevent Cleo from declaring our situation emergency-worthy.

‘And there’s really nowhere else on the island to stay?’ Cleo sounds like she wants to cry.

‘No, I’m really sorry. I’d offer you my sofa but the cats sleep on it and one of them is arthritic, so, you know …’

Cleo eyes me. ‘You look as if you could swim to the next island,’ she says, desperate as she turns back to Brianne. ‘Is it far?’

Brianne’s eyebrows shoot up. ‘He’d die for sure.’

‘Okay,’ I say, flipping into practical mode. Make a plan, Mack, think ahead. ‘We’re going to need some stuff to get us through to Friday.’

Same as yesterday, Cleo folds her arms and refuses to accept the truth that’s biting her on the ass.

‘We need food, and I don’t know about you but I’m gonna need more beer,’ I say.

‘I can have your shopping dropped at the lodge later, if you like,’ Brianne offers. ‘My husband delivers around the island after we close up for the afternoon.’

‘That’s helpful, thank you, Brianne,’ I say, on autopilot manners, shooting Cleo a ‘be more grateful’ glare. She just glares right back.

‘Why don’t you go grab some chocolate, see if it sweetens your mood?’ I mutter, sick of her pig-headedness, as I grab cheese, milk, other basics. ‘Are you vegetarian?’ I ask as I stand in front of the produce.

‘You literally watched me eat bacon this morning,’ she says, picking up chicken and tomatoes. We fill the basket in uncompanionable silence: paté, eggs, lamb chops and potatoes. Brianne rings us up and I search for my wallet. This damn coat has too many pockets, I know it’s here somewhere.

‘I’ve got this,’ Cleo says, adding wine to the haul and whipping a bunch of bills out of her coat pocket.

‘No way.’ I shoot Brianne a ‘do not take her money’ look as I’m patting myself down. ‘I’m buying. Or we can split it if you want.’

Cleo glances at the total on the cash register and pushes her money into Brianne’s hand, leaving her little choice but to accept. I know it’s not fair to expect a total stranger to step in as referee, but all the same … I thought we had a rapport going but apparently not. I can’t help feeling as if Cleo has somehow scored a point over me.

‘Where’s the nearest place on the island that has a reliable cell signal?’ I ask. ‘It’s non-existent at the lodge.’

‘Only in the village, really,’ she says. ‘There’s Wi-Fi at the pub and the café, you can usually get the password at the till. Delta has a computer set up in there if you need one, you can book it by the hour.’

I’d probably find such antiquated systems charming if I was here on vacation, but right now it’s another thing to add to my growing list of irritations.

I pick up Cleo’s red hat and hand it to her. ‘Here, put this on, see if it cheers you up. I’m going for a walk.’





Cleo





3 October


Salvation Island


I DON’T LIKE RICE PUDDING


There’s someone sitting on the boulder at the top of the hill.

I’ve puffed my way up here to check my emails, my ankle is killing me, and now someone has beaten me to the spot. The good news is, it isn’t the American and his ridiculous coat.

I loiter a little way from the boulder, out of earshot of the woman sitting there with her denim jacket-clad back turned to me. I can’t tell if she’s on the phone from here or if she’s just taking the air. Taking the air – get me using ladylike phrases! That’s what happens when you binge-watch period dramas when you should be working. I tell myself it’s research, even though my life has very little in the way of corsets or side-saddle horse rides. Although, at a push, it could be said that we’re all just looking for our flamingo, aren’t we?

God, is this woman going to be much longer? I feel a bit ridiculous queuing for the boulder as if it’s a bloody telephone box.

I can’t hear her talking, and she’s very still. Then she suddenly cups her hands to her face and shouts. Or screams, to be accurate, a proper blood-curdler. I wince and take a few steps further back, intending to edge quietly away, but my phone beeps loudly in my pocket, finally picking up the elusive signal.

I pat my coat down in search of it, panicked, as the woman on the rock swings round. A few things strike me all at once: she’s younger than I thought, my age or thereabouts, her eyes are as green as Salvation grass and she’s really quite pregnant. A lot to take in, along with the massive rainbow-striped knitted scarf around her neck and the many silver earrings poking beneath the rim of her bobble hat.