One Night on the Island(18)

‘You should come to the pub. It’s open most evenings, weather permitting,’ she says, looking out at the clouds on the horizon. ‘A good place to get to know some of the locals.’

‘I’ll definitely do that,’ I say. I’d been loosely planning to anyway – much easier to get people talking over a whiskey than a gravestone.

‘And the girl? What’s she doing on an island like this?’

‘Cleo?’ I say. ‘God knows. Sleeping in my lodge, wallowing in my bath and …’

‘Eating all your porridge?’ Ailsa suggests, smiling.

I smile back, aware how ridiculous it sounds. ‘I honestly don’t have any idea what she’s doing here. I just hope she’ll get on that boat on Friday.’

Ailsa’s eyebrows slide up into her blue bangs. ‘Way I heard it, she’s fair set on staying for the duration too.’

Wow, they really do keep each other up to date in this place.

I’m ready to stop talking about Cleo because the uncertainty around her is driving me a little crazy. ‘I better hit the trail,’ I say, glancing at the flowers in Ailsa’s hand. ‘Leave you in peace.’

‘That’s one thing that’s never in short supply around these parts,’ she says, her smile easy.

I nod a goodbye as I head back.





Cleo





5 October


Salvation Island


WHAT IF HE DOESN’T GET ON THE BOAT?


‘Cleo, is that you?’

I know it sounds dramatic, but I could cry at the familiarity of Ali’s voice.

‘Yes,’ I say loudly over the wind. ‘Listen, this will probably cut out because I’m sitting on the top of a hill and the reception is shite, but I’ve got a real problem here.’

I managed to text her last night to give her a sketchy outline of the issue and probably the impression that it would be resolved within a day or so, but now I give her the full lowdown; she needs to know that my whole project here is potentially compromised. She’s commissioned me to come to Salvation to document my self-coupling experience, which is pretty damn difficult to do when you’re not actually on your own.

‘And now he won’t leave,’ I half shout. ‘He just won’t, so I think I’m going to have to.’

‘No! Cleo, you absolutely can’t. How’s that going to look to our readers? You know ninety-five per cent of reader loyalty is based on trust, once you lose it you can’t get it back. Just stay there and play chicken. He’ll walk first.’

I knew she was likely to say all of those things. ‘Mack Sullivan is as stubborn as an ox.’

‘So be as stubborn as a whole goddamn herd if you need to! Come on, Clee, where’s my most tenacious writer? Where’s the girl I know I can rely on to get the job done no matter what?’

‘Stop flattering me to get what you want, it’s unseemly.’

Her laughter is balm. I miss it. ‘Just sit tight and get the story in.’

That’s the power of Ali – she can laugh while simultaneously delivering an ultimatum.

‘What if he doesn’t get on the boat?’

‘Then he has bigger balls than we thought,’ she says. ‘Stay cool. He’ll get on that boat.’

I hang up, wishing I could move through life with even half of Ali’s certainty that things will always go her way.





Cleo





8 October


Salvation Island


YIKES! ONE DAY UNTIL THE BOAT COMES


‘Can we talk?’

I look up from my laptop when Mack breaks the silence in the lodge. It’s three in the afternoon, and we’re both inside because the wind is blowing something fierce, sheeting rain hard against the windows. In a different context, with other people, the inclement weather and the log fire would be cosy. But not here, though we have fallen into a pattern of strained civility. Would you like coffee, I’m putting the kettle on? Do you want to use the bathroom first or shall I go on in? The kind of things that don’t really qualify as talking. It’s been more a case of ignoring the elephant in the room in the hope that the other one will admit defeat. It’s Thursday now. Just one more day. ‘Sure,’ I say. ‘Let me just finish this up first.’

He closes the book he was reading. ‘What is it you’re doing?’

I flounder. I don’t want to tell him that I’m working on my next flamingo post. ‘Keeping a diary of things, I guess you could call it.’

‘Am I in it?’

I’ve decided that the only thing I can do is be honest with our readers about the hiccup. Or is he more of a burp? An American burp. I laugh inwardly as I type a note to refer to him as such in my next entry, then close my laptop.

I level eyes with him across the room. ‘You’re the annoying American who makes a fleeting appearance.’

‘Chiselled jaw?’

I pretend to check my screen and then shake my head slowly. ‘No mention of it.’

‘Remiss of you,’ he says.

‘Is that what you want to talk about?’

He has his elbows balanced on the arms of his chair, and he leans his head into his hands, pushing his fingers into his hair. It’s a gesture that makes me think he’s anxious about whatever it is he’s about to say. ‘I’ve been wondering what really brought you here.’