One Night on the Island(34)

‘So is it yours now, this place?’ There’s an ambience to the café that speaks of Delta’s influence: Ibiza chill-out background music, whitewashed walls, a panel of stained-glass art hung in a high window splashing slices of coloured light across the pale floorboards.

‘Kind of,’ she says. ‘It belongs to my uncle Raff officially, but he doesn’t like being tied to running it.’ There’s something in the way she says it that suggests indulgence, that Uncle Raff is someone she adores. ‘He owns the pub too,’ she says. ‘Not that he works there much, either. You’ll run into him soon enough, for sure. Come to the pub one of the evenings, he’s always on the wrong side of the bar.’

I find myself wondering how it feels to belong to a community like this, to be part of its story. ‘I’ll do that,’ I say. ‘God, this cake is good.’

‘I know, right?’

‘Brianne mentioned that there’s reliable internet connection in here?’ I say.

Delta nods. ‘The Wi-Fi password this week is vodka,’ she says, glancing at her bump. ‘It was Pinot last week. Wishful thinking.’

I laugh as I pull my phone out. ‘Cake is almost as good.’

Delta doesn’t look convinced as she nods towards the back corner of the café. ‘There’s a computer set up behind the partition if you fancy a proper keyboard,’ she says. ‘It’s not booked until four if you want to use it. You can have it for free, just don’t tell Mr Four O’clock.’

Her easy friendship warms me. ‘Fab. I will, thanks,’ I say, ridiculously thrilled by the idea of an hour of decent connection rather than sitting on top of Wailing Hill at the mercy of the weather and the temperamental reception gods. I managed to send my first piece in to Ali on a wing and a prayer; this feels like a luxury in comparison.

‘I’ll bring you some fresh coffee over,’ Delta says.

I hold my breath as I wait to see if Ali’s available to chat, and let it out when her face pops up on the screen, squinting until she slides her glasses on.

‘It is you,’ she half shouts, grinning. ‘How’s life out there on that godforsaken rock?’

I glance over my shoulder, hoping no one else heard her. There are a couple of elderly ladies eating cake at a table by the doors and a guy lounging against the counter talking to Delta. I think I’m safe.

‘You don’t need to shout,’ I say, leaning in. ‘Things are getting more and more complicated here. I’ve just emailed you this week’s piece.’

She claps like an excited five-year-old. ‘The first one went down like a bomb,’ she says. ‘People have totally bought into the idea of your self-coupling experiment, and the addition of the American is unexpected gold dust.’

‘He is?’

‘Yes with a capital Y, my friend,’ she says, high-fiving the air. ‘The fucking irony of marooning yourself on a deserted island and still having to bunk up with some random guy, it’s hilarious!’

‘But not really in the spirit of the journey,’ I whisper-shout, scanning for the volume button to turn her down because she’s really booming. ‘It’s a damn sight harder to self-couple when I’m not alone. I’m worried, Ali, it feels as if the whole reason for me coming here is compromised.’

‘I’ll bet,’ she says, not the least bit sympathetic. ‘Chalk, though? Chalk? I couldn’t make this stuff up and I have a good imagination. You’re the talk of the office. Practically of the whole UK. You’re a sensation, darling.’

I’m used to Ali’s ‘big-sky thinking’, as she calls it. Others might call it wild exaggeration. The truth usually lies somewhere in between. ‘It’s just … the boat comes in a couple of days, weather permitting, and I don’t know whether to get on it.’

‘Won’t he?’

‘Not a chance.’

‘And do you want to?’

I don’t say anything because I don’t know the honest answer. I could ask her to try to find me a different place, another remote lodge on another remote island. But I’m here now and it was such a huge effort to make the leap, and, Mack aside, there’s an undefinable magic to this place I don’t feel able to give up yet. I feel a fragile but definite connection to Salvation, unexpected but unshakable.

‘Let me help you out,’ Ali says, forthright as always. ‘Stay where you are, at least until after your birthday ceremony. If you come home before then, I hate to say it, but it’s all been a big old waste of time. We’ve told our readers you’re going to fucking marry yourself, Cleo. Marry yourself. You can’t jilt yourself at the metaphorical altar – what kind of message would that send out to everyone in a similar position looking to you for validation about their own life choices?’

‘Jeez, Ali, that’s putting it a bit strong,’ I mutter, feeling railroaded. ‘I’m not the Dalai Lama.’

She laughs, delighted. ‘You are, though! Right now, you’re the patron saint of single ladies. You’re Beyoncé.’

‘If you do the dance, I’m logging off,’ I say.

She glances at her watch. ‘I need to dash anyway. Team meeting at two. I’ll tell them you’ve checked in and to hold off on booking your neck tattoo because you’re going to stick it out like a trooper.’ She blows me a kiss and then disappears.