One Night on the Island(15)

It’s an unexpected move, leaving me no choice but to listen to whatever he’s about to say. I mean, I could uncurl my legs from under my bum and walk away but that kind of open hostility just isn’t in me. So I swirl what’s left of the wine in the bottom of my glass and wait, studiously focusing on it.

‘I’m sorry if I’ve been short with you,’ he says eventually. ‘This isn’t your fault.’

Oh. That was unexpected. I meet his eyes, caught off guard, and for a few frank moments we’re just two normal people caught up in a genuinely difficult situation.

‘Why don’t we start over? I’m Mack Sullivan, thirty-five, photographer from Boston. Two boys, Nate and Leo. I like cold beer, the Red Sox, camping out.’ He pauses to think. ‘I’d take summer over winter, and lobster rolls and cheesecake would be my death-row dinner.’ I notice the flush on his neck when he takes a long drag of his beer.

It’s such a turnaround that I’m left floundering. I found it difficult just hearing his name earlier, I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with all these new details. He isn’t just the American any more, he’s a photographer and a father and a cheesecake lover.

‘Well, it’s good to meet you, Mack.’ I half smile, telling myself this is what I wanted – to make nice. Only slightly annoyed he’s done it first.

He touches his bottle to my glass. ‘Good to meet you too, Cleo Wilder.’

I don’t think I’ve heard my name spoken in an American accent before – it sounds a whole lot different, as if I’m someone far more cool and daring. What I’m feeling right this minute, though, is peer pressure. He’s shared and now it’s my turn. He made it sound so easy, but then he has that innate assured articulation Americans seem to be born with. I, on the other hand, am a buttoned-up Brit.

‘So as you know, I’m Cleo, twenty-nine, and I’m, er, a writer from London.’

His eyebrow does a thing and I pause. ‘What?’

He shrugs. ‘Nothing, continue.’

‘You thought I was older?’ I guess. ‘Younger?’

Mack shakes his head.

‘You’re surprised I’m a writer, then?’

He drinks beer and rests his elbows on his knees. ‘No. Go on, tell me more things.’

God, this is hard. I wish there was still wine in my glass. ‘I’m not sure what to tell you, really. I don’t have any hobbies besides writing. No animals, no kids. Horses scare me and … I don’t like rice pudding.’

I don’t like rice pudding?

‘That sounds like a whole lot of negatives,’ he says. ‘Why do horses scare you, Cleo?’

His mismatched eyes hold mine for a few heavy seconds and I feel bizarrely selfconscious about answering. I think he realizes because he gets up and grabs himself a fresh beer. I breathe slowly into the space he’s vacated.

‘More wine?’

‘A little,’ I say stiffly, as he brings it over and pours for me. I feel slightly foolish and out of my depth. I can’t even slink off to my room because this is my room. And it’s his room. Gah.

‘Good walk?’ I ask, glad when he drops into the corner of the sofa this time, instead of back on the table.

He nods. ‘This island is so much more than I expected, and I expected a lot.’

I’m almost ashamed to admit that I didn’t research Salvation in any great detail before I set off. Coming here was more about me than about here, which sounds pretty shallow now I think about it.

‘Salvation is the childhood home my grandmother talked about, the place where my mother set bedtime stories,’ he says. ‘I was always going to come here someday.’

Fine, I get it. He wants me to understand his connection to the island, to realize how much he needs to be here. But I can’t, I won’t, tell him my own stories. It’s too private, and I’m still figuring out myself why being here means more with every passing hour.

‘I can’t leave on Friday,’ he says. ‘I know you want me to and I get that you’ve paid and you have a piece of paper to prove it, but I need to stay.’

And that’s where all this sharing has been heading.

‘I see,’ I sigh. ‘And now, because I know you’re a Red Sox fan, you love cheesecake and your mother told you stories about this place, I’m supposed to feel as if I know you and put your worthy circumstances ahead of my own?’

He looks down and sighs. ‘So what are your worthy circumstances? How would I know? I know you’re scared of horses and you don’t like rice pudding. That’s all I’ve got. Go home and meet people, Cleo. It’s too lonely here for someone like you.’

His words hit a nerve.

‘Someone like me? You don’t have the first clue about who I am, or what I need in my life.’

‘So tell me,’ he says, raising his hands, beer and all. ‘Convince me you need the lodge more than I do.’

‘No,’ I say, pissed off.

‘Look, Mack.’ I try a subtle change of tack, scooting forward to perch on the edge of my seat, wine in hand. ‘You’ve come a long way to be here, I see that. You have family connections you want to explore, I see that too. But you know what? You can do that just as easily from the next island across. Go and meet people. Eat steak, drink Guinness and talk about your ancestors. They’ll have Wi-Fi too.’