One Night on the Island(24)

I take my seat back at the dining table, now designated common ground.

‘I like it,’ I say and, bizarrely enough, I really do. I now have space that is mine and I feel I know Mack just well enough to believe he won’t violate it. I’ll return the favour and maybe, just maybe, this coming week won’t be as mentally draining as the last one.

He clears his throat and my eyes open in the darkness, my head still slightly spinning from the whiskey.

‘I’m a cat guy, not a dog guy,’ he says. ‘I drink tequila if I need to get drunk fast and I’ll always argue the case for The Wire over The Sopranos.’

I don’t tell him that I’ve never watched either because I kind of love that he’s picked up the ‘three random things in the dark’ baton. It tells me a lot in a shorthand way.

‘My family clubbed together to buy me a second-hand lime-green iBook for my fourteenth birthday, remember the clamshell kind? It was the stuff my teenage dreams were made of. I’ve started so many novels since then. I want to finish one,’ I say. I don’t tell him about the longing to feel my book in my hands, or about my secret dreams of red-carpet screenings when my book becomes a smash-hit movie. ‘I always pick the killer beans out of chilli and Helvetica is the only sane font choice.’

‘Killer beans?’

‘Kidney beans can poison you if they’re not cooked properly. How can you not know that and still be alive? I never touch them, just in case.’

I hear him laugh as I close my eyes, and for the first time since I arrived, I don’t wish he was somewhere else.





Mack





9 October


Salvation Island


THE BOAT COMES TODAY!

SEVEN DAYS UNTIL THE BOAT COMES


‘They were right about that storm,’ I say. It’s almost eight in the morning and neither Cleo nor I have felt the inclination to leave our respective beds yet; it’s barely light thanks to the stormy skies and the wind rattling the windows of the lodge. Cleo looks up and sighs, her face illuminated by the light from her laptop screen. I don’t know how she can focus to work; last night’s whiskey has given me a pounding headache right behind my eyes.

‘My eldest sister is terrified of thunder,’ Cleo says. ‘She used to hide under the kitchen table when we were kids.’

‘I never understand that fear,’ I say. I’m a fan of big weather. Scorch my eyeballs out or snow me in, just don’t bore me with endless grey days. My life has felt like a series of endless grey days since I moved into that damn condo. ‘How’s your head?’

She tips it from side to side, testing it before she answers. ‘Clear as a bell. I don’t get hangovers.’

‘Wow. You’re already my most annoying neighbour.’

Her eyes flicker along the bold white chalk line that seemed like such a good idea last night.

‘I know you might think it’s stupid now we’re both sober, but I want to keep it.’

I won’t lie; in the cold light of day I think it’s impractical and untenable, but the subtle rise of her chin suggests determination and it’s not a battle worth fighting as long as she leaves next week.

‘Fine,’ I say.

‘And I’d like to suggest a few other house rules too,’ she says, watching me through narrowed eyes. It feels as if she’s pushing against the edges of my patience to see if she can get a rise.

‘Go for it.’

Her shoulders slide down and she clears her throat, like someone stepping on stage to give a TED Talk.

‘Okay,’ she says. ‘So, as you know, I’ve come here to be on my own, and you being here makes that almost impossible.’ She pauses and I don’t interrupt. ‘But I have to at least try to make it feel authentic for work, if nothing else, and to that end I’d appreciate it if we could imagine the chalk line is more of a … well, more of a brick wall.’

‘A brick wall?’

She nods. ‘Rock solid.’

I think about it, trying to decide if she’s serious, if it matters enough for me to care.

‘So,’ she says, ‘if I’m on my side, no chatting, no “Can you pass me this?” or “Fancy a coffee?”, that kind of thing.’

And there she goes again, pushing at my patience, the look on her face somewhere between apologetic and confrontational. I wonder if it’s the case that while she doesn’t get hangovers, she does get super fucking cranky.

‘And the bathroom?’ I deadpan. ‘Would you prefer some kind of booking system?’

‘Are you poking fun at me?’

And now she sounds hurt and I feel like a dick. ‘Cleo, this is hard work with a headache,’ I sigh. ‘Just write your rules on a sheet of paper and stick it up on the fridge. I’ll give it my best shot,’ I say. ‘I’ll be out of the lodge working most of the time anyway, so you’ll get it pretty much to yourself.’

She narrows her eyes again, looking for the catch. At some point I might tell her that she wears her emotions too close to the surface, that she’d make a terrible poker player. I’m not used to it; Susie is adept at keeping me in the dark, especially lately. She’d probably say something similar about me, to be fair. We’re not exactly at the ‘talk to my lawyer’ stage yet, but we’re not enough steps away from it either. It breaks my heart just thinking about it. I mentally write the next few hours off and drag the quilt up over my shoulders, turning my back as I work out what time it is in Boston. Early hours. The kids will be sleeping; Leo spread-eagle in the full-size bed we upgraded him to a year back after a monumental growth spurt, Nate curled into a tight ball around Stripes, his beloved and bedraggled tiger from a birthday trip to Franklin Park zoo years ago. I can still see his chubby little hand reaching out from his stroller to snag it from the store display, refusing to give it up even for candy. Jeez, I’m in even worse shape than I realized if I’m having sentimental thoughts about a stuffed animal. I shove my head under my pillow to block out the storm and close my eyes, hoping for both a clearer head and clearer skies by the time I wake up.