One Night on the Island(47)

‘You’re really not.’ I take the steps up to the front door, two at a time, and set her down inside the lodge before shrugging out of my coat. I don’t like the look of her, she’s ghostly pale. ‘Sit by the fire while I start you a bath, you need to get warmed up.’

She nods, shivering. ‘Okay.’

In the bathroom, I throw bubble bath under the fast flow of the water, filling the tub as I pull a couple of fresh towels down from the rack. When I head back to the living room, she’s still standing close to the fire, wincing as she tries to flex her red, stiff fingers.

‘I feel like such an idiot,’ she says.

‘I only wish I’d raised my camera in time,’ I say, trying to make her smile.

‘My fingers really hurt.’

‘They’ll warm up in the bath,’ I say. ‘Go on, it’s ready.’

She’s been in the bathroom a couple of minutes when a thought occurs to me. ‘Cleo?’ I say, tapping the closed door. ‘Can you manage your clothes?’

She doesn’t answer straight away.

She’s managed to drag her wet sweater off and fling it in a heap outside the door.

After a second, she replies. ‘I can’t get the buttons on my jeans,’ she mumbles. ‘Stupid fingers.’

‘Do you need me to help?’ I say, trying to sound normal.

The door clicks open. I swallow hard as she stands in front of me, and I try my best not to look down because she’s naked from the waist up except for a black mesh bra. Has this bathroom always been this small? It feels as if the walls are closing in. My fingers find the top button of her jeans and undo it, then the next and the next, then the last. I know it’s completely inappropriate to be turned on in the circumstances, but there’s something undeniably intimate about unbuttoning a girl’s jeans for her. I feel like a teenager who can’t quite get a grip of himself.

‘I’ll just help you with them quickly?’ I say, my breath uneven.

She nods, her eyes fastened on mine.

I hold either side of her waistband and tug her jeans down as efficiently as I can manage, bending my knees to peel them down her thighs, trying to be quick without being rough. I have to close my eyes because my face is almost level with her underwear.

‘Mack, I think I can take it from here,’ she says, backing up to sit on the toilet seat and wrestling her jeans down her calves.

So much pale skin, so many curves. ‘Good idea,’ I say, reversing out the door. ‘Shout if you need anything.’

I rush outside for a blast of cold air.

‘Better?’

Cleo emerged damp-haired from the bathroom a few minutes ago and curled herself into the other end of the sofa, pouring herself a glass of red from the open bottle on the coffee table.

‘I feel humiliated,’ she says, rubbing her hair. ‘I can’t believe I bloody did that.’

‘It was a pretty spectacular fall,’ I say, trying not to laugh. ‘You’re no mermaid, that’s for sure.’

‘Agreed,’ she says.

‘I got some good shots out there tonight before you went rogue,’ I say. I glanced through them while Cleo was in the bathroom, there are some really strong contenders in there for the exhibition. The sheltered bay takes on an even more ‘last post on earth’ aura at night, I wasn’t sure I’d be able to capture the unique feel. Tonight’s moon was a real gift, better natural lighting than any camera flash could hope to achieve. Mellow, vintage, timeless. I have a feeling they’re going to be some of the photos I’m most proud of from my time here. They’re the first real pictures I’ve taken of Cleo. She has an understated charisma she’s absolutely unaware of, a bright-eyed way of looking at the lens that feels almost like a dare.

‘Can I see sometime?’ she says, tucking her legs underneath her.

‘Maybe,’ I say. I don’t usually share my work with people until it’s ready.

‘It’s okay if you’d rather not,’ she says, perceptive. ‘I’m like that with my stuff too.’

I lean over and throw another log on the fire.

‘What’s with the dress?’

She stares at the white dress hanging from the bookshelf, her wine glass in her hands. ‘It’s my turning-thirty dress. I’ve owned it for ages but never worn it,’ she says, still looking at it. ‘Never seemed like the right time. And then when I found out I was coming here to be significantly alone –’ she breaks off and looks at me pointedly – ‘it felt like the entirely appropriate thing to marry myself in.’

‘Marry yourself?’

‘It’s how my boss refers to it,’ she says. ‘Obviously not actual marriage. More symbolic, an acceptance of myself as whole rather than someone waiting for my other half to show up.’ She takes a mouthful of wine. ‘I know it sounds hippie.’

‘Do you have a ring?’

‘No. Balls. I wish I’d thought of that. I could have bought myself a ring on expenses.’ She smiles, rueful, but I can tell this means a lot to her on complicated levels.

‘You know what, Cleo, you don’t need a ring or any other outward symbol of commitment. Marriage is in here.’ I touch my chest.

‘Now who’s the hippie?’ she says.