One Night on the Island(52)

‘Coffee?’

Mack slides a mug on the table beside my laptop, his hand warm on my shoulder as he stands behind me. I close my eyes and lean into him, sighing when he moves my hair aside to trace his lips slowly over the back of my neck. It’s shockingly sensual; intimate, a prelude. His fingers curl around my upper arms and I dip my head forward, blown away by how easily he can steal my breath. He laughs low against my ear, holding me still in my seat, knowing full well what he’s doing to me when my shirt slips down my shoulder and he follows the material with the graze of his teeth. He brushes my breast when he slides his hand up to hold my jaw, turning my face to his. We kiss, open-mouthed and breathless, and then he pulls away and smiles down at me.

‘Get on with your work,’ he says.

‘You distracted me,’ I say.

‘I only brought you coffee.’ He shrugs.

‘They don’t do it like that in Starbucks.’

‘They better not,’ he says.

I roll my shoulders. ‘Have you ever been foraging?’

If my sudden change of subject surprises him, he doesn’t say. ‘Nothing beyond picking blackberries with the kids. What are you thinking of?’

‘I have this list,’ I say. ‘Of things to achieve while I’m here. Foraging is on it.’

‘What else is on there?’

I click the list up on my screen. ‘Build a fire on the beach. Write a poem.’

‘Spend twenty-four hours naked,’ he reads over my shoulder, raising his eyebrows.

‘That was when I thought I was going to be alone,’ I say quickly.

He grins. ‘I’m totally into that idea.’

‘Do you think there’s anything to forage on the island?’

He frowns. ‘You’d rather forage than get naked?’

‘I don’t think they go together very well,’ I say. ‘Because, you know, thorns.’

He pulls a face. ‘You just totally killed that for me.’

I reach for my coffee as he scans my list.

‘I think you can check swim in the sea off after your dip the other night.’

I shudder at the memory.

‘I don’t think I’ve seen too much edible stuff around, it’s too wet here for most things,’ he says. ‘Seaweed?’

I think of the thick, oily strands that snaked around me when I fell in the sea and shake my head. ‘Maybe I was being optimistic.’

‘Never stop,’ he says, gentle. ‘It’s a skill I lost a while ago.’

Sometimes, he lets me see the gaping hole in his happiness; it’s as if someone fired a cannonball through his chest. I want to curl myself into that space and make him feel whole again. It isn’t a selfless act, I’m taking as much as I’m giving. When he rubbed that chalk line out, maybe a little of my resilience seeped into him, a little of his bravery into me. Mutually beneficial osmosis. I hope, anyway.

I made a fire. A tick for my list. Well, strictly speaking I made a fire with Mack instructing me how, but either way there’s actual flames and light from kindling I’ve gathered and I feel bountiful and at one with nature.

Mack is sitting on the sand alongside me, our bums saved from the damp by an old checked picnic rug, warm blankets around our shoulders. It’s a clear, see-your-breath kind of night, a sky full of stars and a low half-moon over the gently undulating ocean. It looks alive, and I feel more alive for being here. I hope I never forget how beautiful it is tonight. Mack’s camera is slung around his neck as always, as much a part of him as his limbs.

‘How’s the ceremony plan going?’ he asks, turning his serious eyes to me. I like that he doesn’t make light of my self-coupling project. I hope I never fall out with myself because consciously uncoupling à la Gwyneth and Chris is not going to be an option.

I nod. ‘Getting there, I think. I’ve made notes, but I’ll probably just wing it. It’s not as if anyone is going to be there listening.’

‘You mean I’m not invited?’ he says, half smiling. ‘I was gonna put my best shirt on for you.’

I roll my eyes. ‘You’re absolutely not invited,’ I say.

‘I could officiate?’

‘Could you pull off a decent Elvis impersonation?’

He clears his throat and delivers an alarmingly gravel-sexy couple of lines from ‘Are You Lonesome Tonight?’ and then cracks into a grin. ‘Stop, I’m swooning,’ I laugh and lean against him. ‘You’re still not coming.’

‘Okay,’ he says. ‘But I can come to the reception, right?’

‘I’m having a reception?’

‘Of course.’ He rolls his eyes, pure teenager. ‘Sketchy DJ, cake, speeches. You name it, it’s happening.’

‘Idiot,’ I say, wrapping my arms around my knees.

‘At least let me be your official photographer?’

I think about it. ‘If I say yes, can we ditch the reception?’

‘If you insist.’

‘Okay. Deal.’

‘I’ll use a long lens, stay out of the way. You won’t even see me.’

‘Paparazzi,’ I say, aware that Ali will be thrilled to have professional shots.

He mirrors my position beside me on the rug, his chin resting on his forearms.