One Night on the Island(46)

I thread the dress on to the padded hanger I brought with me in anticipation of hanging it in the lodge to look at in the days running up to my birthday. Obviously, with Mack around, I haven’t felt able to do that. I trace the tiny shell buttons down the bodice with my fingertip. It’s intricate enough to have been part of a bridal trousseau. Who else has worn it, I wonder? I imagine it lying, brand-new and starched, amongst other such pretty garments in a drawer, another girl fastening these buttons, the thoughts that must have raced through her head. The fanciful notion appeals to my romantic heart.

And then I sigh because my aforementioned romantic heart is giving me quite a lot of unexpected grief. I lay awake for a long time last night and, if I’m honest, much of it was spent resisting the urge to crawl into bed with Mack. Before our kiss, I was able to rationalize our odd couple situation. I’d even started to enjoy the whole ‘staying on our respective sides of the chalk line’ thing. I’ve come to know Mack Sullivan better in a few weeks than I would have in a few years back in the real world. I’ve shared more with him about myself than I have with any other person, I think, ever. Our ‘three things’ conversations in the dark had become a form of therapy for both of us, sometimes big things, sometimes small things, the things that have made us the people we are. But then we kissed and it’s as if someone picked up a snow globe with Otter Lodge inside it and gave it the most almighty shake. He’s royally screwed up my self-coupling project. No, I have; I’ve screwed it up. I can’t even begin to think how I’m going to write my flamingo column for the next few weeks. I know one thing for sure: we have no future together. He will go home to Boston and I will go back to London. Those are indisputable facts.

I hang my dress from the bookshelf and, although it’s only five thirty in the evening, I abandon coffee in favour of a glass of wine.





Mack





19 October


Salvation Island


SHE’S NO MERMAID, THAT’S FOR SURE


‘I’m going down to the beach in a while, try to catch some decent shots of the bay,’ I say, glancing out of the window as I dry the dishes after dinner.

The clouds are racing fast across the sky, playing celestial hide and seek with the low full moon. There’s no rain and the wind has dropped to something the forecast referred to as fresh rather than gale force. Still bracingly cold, of course, but in Salvation terms at least, relatively calm.

‘Mind if I come with you?’

Cleo hands me a saucepan as she speaks. She seemed subdued at dinner, pushing her food around as if she has stuff on her mind. Makes two of us.

‘Sure?’ I say, surprised she wants to venture out. It’s pitch dark beyond the windows.

She nods. ‘Walk dinner off a bit.’

‘You didn’t seem all that hungry.’

She holds my gaze for a second, as if she’s about to say something, then changes her mind and just shrugs.

‘I’ll grab my jumper.’

‘It’s freezing!’

Cleo’s hopping around barefoot on the shoreline with her jeans rolled up above her ankles. She’s been collecting shells for the last half-hour, gathering them in the raised hem of her oversized sweater. She looks about sixteen, her hair flying around her face as she screams and runs towards me from the freezing foam.

‘Come on in,’ she laughs, beckoning with her hand. Moonlight catches her face, silvering her cheekbones, dancing through her eyes. I turn my camera, unable to stop myself. I know instinctively it’s going to be one of the most stunning photographs I’ve taken on Salvation.

‘Can’t risk getting this wet,’ I say, raising my camera on its neck-strap as an excuse.

‘Leave it on the sand then,’ she says, waving an arm towards the drier sand by the lodge. ‘There’s no one but us here, it’ll be safe.’

I know she’s right. I wasn’t really worried for my camera. ‘You’ll get hypothermia if you stay out there much longer,’ I call.

‘Not me,’ she says, dancing carefree from foot to foot. She doesn’t notice the extra lively wave behind her until it crashes into the back of her calves, catching her unaware because she’s looking at me instead of the water. She shouts out with surprise, eyes wide as she loses her footing and stumbles backwards. I can’t get to her fast enough and she goes back on her ass in the freezing water, screaming like she’s been shot when a second wave washes clean over her head.

She’s scrambling, swearing, coughing out seawater, and I toss my camera aside, grabbing her hands and hauling her sharply up.

‘You’re soaked,’ I say. It’s an understatement; her clothes are plastered to her body and her hair hangs in ropes around her wax-pale face.

‘It’s so cold, Mack,’ she says, teeth chattering, clinging tight to my hands.

‘We need to get you inside.’ I scoop her up as instinctively as I would one of the boys. She resists for the briefest moment, but it’s half-hearted because she’s gone from having fun to being on the verge of painful tears.

‘I lost my shells,’ she says, her voice small.

‘Yeah, you kind of did,’ I say, struggling up the sand towards Otter Lodge, grabbing my camera and resting it awkwardly on top of her.

‘You’re warm,’ she says, curling into me like an animal in need of shelter.