One Night on the Island(32)

‘Why the big sigh?’

I didn’t realize my thoughts were seeping from my body. ‘Just stuff,’ I say. ‘Leo sounded upset tonight.’

‘Must be tough to comfort him being so far away.’

‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘He’ll be okay though. He’s got Susie.’ And I haven’t, I think.

‘Want to talk about things?’ Cleo asks. ‘I’ll listen if you need to.’

‘This back-to-back thing is starting to feel more like confession,’ I say, stalling while I decide whether talking about Susie would be a good or a bad thing. ‘There isn’t much to say, to be honest.’ That’s a bottomless lie, but I just don’t know where to start and where to end. Does Susie miss me, miss us? She blows hot and cold towards me these days, arctic mostly, and then every now and then she texts, usually late at night when she’s had a couple of glasses of wine. These occasional mixed messages are just enough to keep me in the waiting room of her life, or maybe it’s the waiting room of mine. I know one thing. The seats are hard and too damn cold – I can’t stay there indefinitely.

‘We’re on a break?’ I trot out the tired Friends line rather than face all the things I’m not ready to articulate.

‘Okay,’ Cleo says, quiet.

We fall silent for a few beats. I slow my breathing to match hers – easy in, easy out. It’s comforting.

‘We’re the talk of the island, you know,’ she says, jokey, probably switching subjects for my benefit.

‘I doubt that takes much, to be fair.’

‘No,’ she says. ‘Although it took me by surprise today. I met a pretty cool group of women. I had fun.’

Fun. There’s something my life’s been short on in recent years. Any fun I’ve had has been geared around the boys. Jeez, I’m throwing myself a big old pity party back here and Cleo doesn’t even realize.

‘How’s your ankle?’

She leans forward, away from me, and I feel better, and worse.

‘Do you think they’ll call the boat if it’s broken?’

‘Only if it needs to be amputated.’

‘I think it might.’

I twist around and find she’s just kidding, leaning her weight on one hand, her wine glass in the other.

‘It’s not hurting much any more,’ she says. ‘The wine solved it.’

‘And there was me thinking it was my good company.’

She pulls a face. ‘You’re not bad, for a wall.’

‘Well, you make a terrible wall,’ I say. ‘Too fidgety, and your hair was in my face.’

‘Sorry,’ she says. ‘I’ll make sure it doesn’t stray over the boundary in future.’

‘You could always shave your head,’ I say. ‘You said you wanted to do something to mark turning thirty.’

She screws her nose up. ‘It’d be a statement.’

‘Worked out okay for Sigourney Weaver.’

‘Someone paid her millions to do it, though,’ she says. ‘Besides, I like my hair.’

From my observations, Cleo’s hair is a useful barometer for her mood. When she’s lost in her work, with her laptop on her knees and a notebook propped open beside her, she twists her hair on top of her head with a pencil shoved through the knot. Sometimes when she’s at the top of the hill, sitting on the boulder-of-reception, it streams out around her head Medusa-like, antennae searching for a signal. It’s a curtain she steps behind whenever she feels like opting out and a theatre of crazy waves on the rare occasions I’ve seen her truly let her guard down.

‘My bum’s gone numb,’ Cleo says.

I get to my feet and offer her a hand up. ‘Thanks,’ she says, dusting chalk off her jeans.

‘No, thank you,’ I say. ‘For the ridiculous distraction. I really needed it.’

‘Any time,’ she says. ‘Maybe that should be my new dating profile – I’m your woman if you ever find yourself in need of ridiculous distraction.’

As a man, I see flaws in that immediately. ‘Can I suggest caution? Other people’s idea of ridiculous distraction and yours might be wildly different. Especially on a dating website.’

She looks mock-offended. ‘You mean standing on one leg until you fall over isn’t everyone’s idea of fun?’

‘Not with your clothes on, no.’ I regret it as soon as it’s out of my mouth.

Cleo smiles into her glass. I’m not sure, but I think she might be blushing.

‘Don’t let the image inside your head, it doesn’t go away easily.’ She drains her wine. ‘Time for bed, I think, before I do myself any more injuries.’

‘Look, why don’t you take the bed tonight? I’ll have a stint on the sofa.’

She frowns, laying her hand on the back of the sofa. ‘No, I’m fine. I’m used to this beast now, I know how to bend myself around its lumps.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘I’m sure.’

‘Okay then.’

‘Okay.’

We’re stuck in an awkward loop. ‘You hang up.’

She laughs, rounding the sofa to make her bed up. ‘I will because I’m knackered.’