One Night on the Island(23)

He laughs, despite himself. ‘You’re definitely not a worm.’

‘That’s probably the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me,’ I say, and then I laugh too because we’re definitely drunk and it feels good not to be angry with him for a while.

We lapse into silence, and I wonder if it’s a bad idea to drink any more whiskey.

‘I think what I’m really scared of is that I’ve fallen out of love with love,’ I say, and then I huff all the air out of my lungs like a deflated balloon because that’s the thing that’s been gnawing away at the back of my head. ‘I tell everyone I’m a big old romantic, that I cry at movies and at weddings and at love stories, and all of those things have been true – but I’m not sure they are any more. So now I’m here, attempting to focus on me, to love my thirty-year-old self instead of some nebulous other, and I’m worried that either I’m not going to be enough, or else that I will be enough and I’ll be alone for ever.’

‘Jeez, Cleo, that was a lot of words to say to someone who’s drunk as much whiskey as I have,’ he says, frowning. ‘If I could remember them all I’d try to say something helpful.’

I nod. ‘It’s all right. I can’t remember what I just said either, which is a bummer, actually, because I think it might have been important.’

He looks at his phone. ‘How can it only be six o’clock?’ he says. ‘It feels like midnight.’

‘It’s the bloody weather,’ I say.

‘Should I cook something?’ he asks.

I cooked last night, so I guess it’s technically his turn. ‘We should have a rota,’ I say, ‘to save arguments.’

‘A rota?’ he frowns.

‘You know,’ I say. ‘A plan? You do the dinner on Monday, I clean the kitchen on Tuesday. That kind of thing.’

His expression clears. ‘Ah, a schedule.’

I blink. ‘I say rota, you say schedule.’

‘Let’s call the whole thing off?’

I make ironic jazz hands and he leans his elbows on the table. ‘You do your rota,’ he says, drink-decisive. ‘You do that, Cleo.’

‘It might help if we think of ourselves less as room-mates and more as neighbours,’ I suggest. ‘As in, you live over there,’ I wave towards the bed, ‘and I live over there.’ I flop my arm out in the direction of the sofa. ‘And this,’ I knock my knuckles on the tabletop, ‘this right here is the town square.’

Mack throws his hands out. ‘Works for me,’ he says. ‘You’re a little messy, to be honest.’

‘Messy? I’m bloody not,’ I say.

We both gaze around the room, and it’s fair to say my things are unevenly distributed.

‘Fine,’ I say, getting up. ‘I can sort that in a … thingy. A jiffy.’

Gosh, whiskey. Right.

He gets up too and after a second he stands with his back braced against the door and his outstretched hands in front of him, palms together, pointing like a compass. I don’t tell him that he’s never looked more Han Solo. ‘There,’ he says. ‘There’s your line.’

I follow it with my eyes.

‘Your suitcase is in my half,’ he says.

I wheel it across the flagstones towards the sofa. ‘And your boots are in mine,’ I say, kicking them over the imaginary line.

‘I don’t think so,’ he says, looking down the line of his arm as if he’s sighting a gun.

‘Well, I know so,’ I say.

‘Border dispute,’ he says.

‘Already?’ I say. ‘Are you going to be one of those pedantic neighbours who measures the length of the grass?’

‘Are you going to be one of those inconsiderate neighbours who lets their cat pee on my perfect lawn?’

I shake my head. ‘I’m disappointed in you,’ I say. ‘I thought you were a little more … easy-going.’

‘Hey, I’m easy-going,’ he says. ‘I just like order.’

‘Order,’ I mutter, trying to visualize where the line is. ‘All right, hang on,’ I say, laughing under my breath as I cross the room.

‘Hey, you just walked through my house,’ he says. ‘And you didn’t knock.’

‘I have an idea,’ I say, rooting through the cupboard beneath the TV. ‘Here we go.’

I cross to stand beside him by the door, showing him what’s in my hand.

‘Chalk?’ he says, accepting the small blue box.

‘Draw the border,’ I say. ‘But be warned, I’m watching you like a hawk.’ I point two fingers towards my eyes and then towards his, pausing for a second because I’m struck by those different colours again. I don’t think it’s something I’d ever not notice.

He shakes a stick of chalk out of the box.

‘You can trust me, I’m a scrupulously fair man,’ he says, bending to mark the floor.

I watch as a stark white line appears down the centre of the lodge, and I don’t make any land grab attempts because, true to his word, he makes a fair job of it.

‘There.’ He straightens, leaning a hand on the dining table to steady himself. ‘Your place and my place.’