One Night on the Island(13)

‘Were you sneaking up on me?’

She scowls, suspicious, and then just as I start to mutter an apology – ‘No, I …’ – she cracks up laughing.

‘You’re staying at Otter,’ she says. It’s not such a great leap given that, as I now well know, Otter is the only accommodation on the island, and I’m clearly not a resident.

‘I am,’ I say. ‘Are you, er, okay?’

She looks wrongfooted, and then her face clears. ‘Oh, you mean the primal screaming thing? Just letting out a bit of frustration at my mother, she does my head in. Good for the baby, a bit of wailing, or so I’m told.’ She rests her hands on her bump and grins. ‘I’m Delta, by the way, wayward daughter of Slánú, back with a bun in the oven to bring shame on the family.’

‘Cleo,’ I say. She’s the first local I’ve heard pronounce the island’s Irish name. ‘Slánú?’ I say, hesitant as I attempt to pronounce it. ‘Did I say it right?’

She shrugs. ‘Not bad. Stick to Salvation though, only the old guard use Slánú.’

‘And you,’ I say.

‘Only when I’m being pissy about my delicate situation.’ She grins.

I feel a zing of female connection when we smile at each other. I guess it could just be that we’re a similar age, but something about her registers in my psyche. It might be that she reminds me a little of Ruby – she’s colourful and sparks with a similar energy – but I get the sense that she’s someone who knows herself well, and I feel a pang of unexpected envy. I often feel like a child playing at being a grown-up and hoping no one will notice, whereas she gives off the impression she knows where she’s headed in life. She looks as if she’s about to say something when my phone pings again, a volley of queued voicemail messages clamouring for attention.

‘Work,’ I say, glancing at Ali’s name on the screen. Ruby too.

She nods slowly. ‘Are you a writer?’

‘Yes,’ I say, wondering what led her to the assumption.

‘Thought so,’ she says. ‘I can see it in your aura. You’ve the look about you of someone who writes sweeping romances.’

It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell her I’m not a romance writer, but then … am I not? Not in the conventional sense, perhaps, but I write about love, so maybe I kind of am. Or perhaps it’s more than that. Maybe it’s destiny that I meet this green-eyed woman here today, maybe she’s my cosmic nudge to grasp the mantle and finally finish the novel I’ve been writing forever. To be honest, I’m a bit embarrassed about it – a journalist wanting to be a novelist, so clichéd – but secretly I have been wondering whether this trip might be a way to explore that long-held dream.

‘Something like that,’ I mumble, at odds with myself.

Delta looks away, out towards the sea. ‘It’s always been one of my favourite spots on the island,’ she says, standing up to stretch her back out. ‘I better get down the hill, leave you to your work.’

‘Don’t feel you have to leave on my account,’ I say.

‘Oh, I’m all yelled out for today,’ she says. ‘You should give it a go, no one will hear you up here.’

Except for Mack, I think, watching her as she walks away. She isn’t the kind of person I expected to find here. No Fair Isle sweater and ruddy complexion for starters, which I realize is my own terrible stereotyping.

I sit on the boulder as I press play on my first message. Ali’s voice bubbles into the air demanding the full warts-and-all lowdown, of course. I’ll call her on Monday. I could try now, the woman doesn’t know the meaning of ‘weekend’, but I don’t really want to because I feel as if I’m still decompressing, a London-weary accordion un-squeezing.

Ali and I made a Salvation bucket list before I came here, mostly my own ideas with a few of Ali’s additions, stuff she thinks our readers would love to read about. I open my Notes app now and scan it, wondering which of the items I’ll be able to tick off first.

Swim in the sea. That one was mine.

I love to swim in places other than chlorinated swimming pools but rarely get the chance, so I’m hoping the sea will be calm enough at some point to swim in without dying.

Spend twenty-four hours naked. I was reluctant to add this. Not because I’m especially prudish or have any major body hang-ups, it just felt a bit shoe-horned in for entertainment value. But Ali argued it on to the list as a way to connect with nature in the most elemental way, which I guess I can get behind. Not something to contemplate while Mack’s still around, though. I slide my fingertip down the screen.

Build a fire on the beach.

Eat a meal you’ve foraged yourself.

Make a life-changing decision.

Sleep outdoors.

I strike that one off the list. I hadn’t taken the inclement weather into account.

Write a poem, or maybe a song.

Make something with your hands.

The self-coupling ceremony.

I pause, tapping my finger lightly against the words. It’s still a work in progress, a brain-sketch more than a solid plan. The ceremony will be on my birthday because I want to do something to mark the day I turn thirty, a symbolic celebration of me. Ali is insistent on billing it as ‘marrying myself’ because it’s headline grabbing, hence the ironic honeymoon booking. I prefer to think of it as a self-commitment ceremony, a pause to acknowledge that I’m secure in who I am as a single woman. A champagne send-off for my twenties; a welcome in to my thirties. I bought a balsa wood bowl off eBay with unformed ideas of putting things in it and floating it out to sea. Or setting fire to it on the beach. I don’t really know yet, I’m still thinking about it. My eyes scan back up the list and pause on ‘Make a life-changing decision’. Ali didn’t see that one; I added it after I’d left London. It’s something I’m mulling over in my quiet moments. What do I want the shape of the next few years of my life to look like? Who am I without a flamingo? I blow out a long, slow breath. Come on, Salvation Island, live up to your name. Save me. Or help me save myself, at least.