One Night on the Island(45)

Erin laughs sharply and looks down at her plate, and then glances up again, trying to keep a straight face.

‘What’s tickled you?’ Delta asks.

Erin tries hard not to laugh, her shoulders shaking silently with the effort. In the end, the words burst from her. ‘Big Mack!’ She shakes her head. ‘Burgers.’ She gulps and looks at me. ‘Sorry.’

It’s so out of character for calm, gentle Erin that everyone else laughs too, the mood lightened.

‘But the man has a wife, you say.’ Dolores’s words are a cold bucket of water.

‘An ex-wife,’ Ailsa corrects, ever Mack’s ally.

‘She’s still his wife,’ I say. ‘They’re separated, but I don’t think he wants to be.’

Carmen lays her handbag slowly on the floor. I notice the way she massages her ringless wedding finger when she studies me.

‘Watch yourself, wain. Unless you want your heart broken, my advice is to steer well clear of a man who loves another woman.’

No one knows what to say after that. I don’t blame them. I pick up my needles and hope the rhythm of knitting will calm my troubled mind.

The boulder on top of Wailing Hill is possibly my favourite place on the island. For reception, obviously, but most of all for the view. It reminds me of a scene from one of my childhood snow globes.

A few hours of female company was much-needed balm for my tattered nerves this afternoon. Salvation women are made of strong stuff. They’re as different as night and day, but solidarity and kinship is instilled into their bones. I envy their shorthand connection that has nothing to do with texts or gifs. On cue, my phone buzzes with a message.

I open the picture message from Ruby and see my blue top with all the buttons now missing down the back, and aubergine emojis beside the picture telling me Damien was an absolute animal in the bedroom and ripped it off her body caveman-style.

You may as well stick it in the bin



I text back because, honestly, I don’t know what else to say. Was I supposed to laugh? Ruby replies almost straight away; the girl is never knowingly seen without her phone in her hand.

Who pickled your onions? Don’t take it out on me because my sex life is better than yours. Or is it? Have you shagged that American yet? Yes, I’ve read your updates. Me and the rest of the UK!



I read the message, then reread it. No ‘sorry I wrecked your favourite top’ or ‘how’s everything going, I miss you’. Maybe it’s because I’ve so recently left the warmth of the Salvation women, but the lack of compassion in Ruby’s words cuts me.

I didn’t come here for sex, Rubes. You know that perfectly well.



I see that she’s read it, and it takes a few minutes for her reply to come back.

Yeah, right! Declare you’re going to self-couple and all the other grand eat-pray-love shit, then shack up with a married man soon as you get there. Hilare!



She’s chucked a hearty-eyes emoji and a laughing face at the end, her way of adding that she loves me really and is kidding around. Hilare? It’s a bloody long way from hilare, actually, Rubes. It’s hurtful.

I know she’ll be waiting for my reply, but I don’t respond. After a couple of minutes, she messages me again.

You know what I’m saying though, right, Clee? I just mean you ran away from your problems but found the exact same shit waiting for you at the other end. Same shit, different day! Classic you!



She’s added a poop and a sunshine emoji this time.

It’s becoming horribly clear to me that however much I think of Ruby as my close friend, time apart is exposing huge holes in our friendship. In a few short texts she’s managed to reduce my achievements to nothing and it feels unkind. It’s an uncomfortable thought to wonder if we’re friends out of convenience rather than genuine feelings. Same address, same age, same city. When I don’t reply, she tries again.

At least it’s rich pickings for work, a spectacular failed flamingo story!



And then, as I squint at the screen, trying to work out what the emoji is, she adds

Sorry! Hit the wrong bird looking for flamingo! But this one works too!



Crying with laughter emoji.

On close inspection, it’s a chicken. Oh, sod off, Ruby, I think. I’m not chicken. I’ve come here alone to do something that feels personally important, it isn’t my fault Mack’s here too. I know her well enough to realize she won’t have intended to cause offence, but I’m not sure she’d be that fussed to know she’d caused it, either.

I came here to learn lessons, and perhaps this is one of them. That realizing when to let go of a relationship is just as important as knowing when to hang on to one.

I don’t reply to Ruby. For as long as I’m here, I’m one of the island’s women, someone who communicates with an arm around your shoulders, not stupid emojis and exclamation marks.

I’m relieved to find Otter Lodge deserted when I make it down the hill. There’s something I want to do, and I’d really like the place to myself for it. Inside, I stick the kettle on and then break the rules, crossing into Mack’s half of the room for just long enough to recover my almost-empty suitcase from its storage place under the bed.

Flinging it open on the rug by the fireplace, I lift out the only thing left inside. A dress I’ve owned for quite a few years yet never found occasion to wear. Vintage snow-white cotton, tiny capped sleeves with frills, a froth of lace around the knees – an impulse buy that has always felt a bit too BBC costume drama to actually leave the house in. I don’t know why it seems appropriate for my thirtieth birthday ceremony, but it does. Emma Watson could so pull it off. I hope I can. It’s less than a week until the big day now. In some ways it will be the culmination of my experience here but in another way it’s lost some of its significance because every moment here feels transformative. I’ve been thinking about my dad almost every day, about the indelible mark he left on the world in his short life. What legacy would I leave behind if something happened to me tomorrow? Magazine articles are chip paper, online columns soon swamped by millions of other clicks and soundbites. Being part of the knitting circle has reminded me of the value of creating something tangible, a physical reminder I was here. I don’t know who, if anyone, will wear the scarf but I’m making it in the hope of it bringing someone else comfort. It’s reminded me how much joy writing has always brought me too. Not the flamingo column so much these days, but my laptop is littered with half-finished novels, beginnings and middles with no ends. A couple of friends have made the leap from journalism to fiction, and I’ve attended their launch parties with a secret pang of green-eyed envy. Here in Salvation, I finally have the time and the space, and a persistent voice whispering, ‘If not now, when?’