One Night on the Island(60)

‘Dolores, I don’t know what to say … are you sure? Is it an heirloom? It’s so generous of you.’

‘Bernadette had more jewellery than the queen of England, always bringing things back from her fancy travels. Ants in her pants that one, always looking for the next adventure,’ she says, brusque. ‘Now come on with you, left hand for romance, right hand for friendship.’

I fight the urge to wrap my arms around her because she’s absolutely not a hugger. I quite like the sound of Bernadette – I make a mental note to ask Delta more about her when I have the chance.

‘Right hand it is then,’ I say, and we both hold our breath as I try the ring on. It’s too big for my ring finger, but sits just right on the middle.

‘There,’ I say, holding out my hand with my fingers splayed. ‘I have a ring after all.’

She blinks, looking at it, and then at the flower circlet on my head. ‘And flowers too.’

I smile. ‘Quite like a bride in my pyjamas and blanket? Don’t worry, I do at least have a proper dress.’

She looks at me in a way that conjures thoughts of my mum again, a mix of exasperation and something edging towards fondness. Perhaps she feels an element of in loco parentis while I’m here on her island. ‘Take care, Cleo,’ she says softly.

I look at the ring on my finger again, welling up. ‘I will.’

I watch her make her way along the track from the lodge, straight-backed with a clear plastic headscarf to protect her Jackie O bouffe from the wind. This island delivers surprise after surprise, the people most of all.

I find the last dregs of my coffee have gone cold and tip it over the railings, then head back inside, laying the flowers and ring down carefully on the table beside the cake. All of the accoutrements of a traditional wedding, minus a partner. I won’t let any melancholy thoughts push their way in, though, this is a day of celebration. There’s a hot bath with my name on it and then a wedding for one to prepare for.

‘Birthday breakfast?’

I heard Mack come back in while I was in the bath, and I’ve just emerged from the bathroom to see he’s laid the table with flowers, fresh coffee and croissants, a jug of orange juice and toast. There’s salmon too. Mack pulls out a seat for me, bowing slightly.

I look up at him and smile, and he holds my gaze, smiling too. ‘Happy Birthday, Cleo,’ he says. He smells of sea breeze and warm spices when he bends to kiss me, and I breathe him in deep.

‘This is a treat, thank you,’ I say, watching him head back to the small stove.

‘It’s a special day,’ he says, glancing at me over his shoulder. He’s wearing a white long-sleeved T-shirt, the thermal kind you might pull on as a second skin, something that could belong in the 1930s as easily as today. For a second, I imagine we are islanders from yesteryear, a young couple sitting at a simple table with a simple jar of flowers between them.

‘Did you pick these?’ I say, touching the pale-pink petals of a flower I recognize from the edges of the beach.

‘This morning,’ he says, sliding an egg on to my plate. ‘I caught the fish too,’ he adds, miming reeling it in as he sits.

I look down at the smoked salmon. ‘Fresh from Brianne’s shop?’

He raises his camera for shots of the table before he grins and picks up his cutlery. ‘Something like that.’

We talk loosely about my plans for the day as we eat, passing the salt, sharing the last slice of toast, refilling coffee cups, the radio on low in the background. Every now and then, I wish I could press pause on life and stay longer in a moment. This is one of those moments.

Mack has taken himself out on the porch with his tripod and camera. He said he wants to get himself organized, but I expect he’s really giving me some space to get ready. I appreciate the privacy. I’m bathed and have dried my hair into loose curls. I’ve applied a little make-up too because this girl isn’t getting wed without mascara, not even to herself.

I’m nervous, which I know sounds crazy, but this, today … this is why I’m here. When Ali and I talked about how this day might go, in every scenario I was always alone. There was no American making me breakfast, no islanders bringing me surprise gifts, just me here alone to shape the day however I saw fit. It isn’t that I don’t appreciate the kindness of others today, because I truly do, but there’s an unexpected element of performance anxiety now that other people here are aware of what I’m doing. I don’t want to feel foolish or gimmicky because the more I’ve thought about this, the more emotionally invested I’ve become. It’s important to me. Yesterday at the cave was a perfect way to send my twenties off. I want today to be just as perfect, to welcome my thirties with open arms. I’ve mulled over where to hold my ceremony, and again, Mack being here alters things. I might have chosen the porch but it doesn’t feel quite right, more ours than mine after the countless hours we’ve spent out there together drinking coffee and talking about nothing and everything. The same applies to our beach. The boulder at the top of Wailing Hill feels exhibitionist. I was undecided even up to our visit to the hidden cave yesterday, when the perfect spot revealed itself to me. Beyond the cave entrance, there’s a tiny corner of the beach sheltered by a guard of weathered boulders. Not quite a stone circle but pleasingly symbolic nonetheless. I saw Mack’s photographer’s brain going into overdrive too.