One Night on the Island(65)

‘I didn’t get dessert,’ I say. ‘I saw Brianne had it covered.’

‘Can you believe that?’ she says, shaking her head. ‘I haven’t had a birthday cake made for me since I was a kid.’

‘You’ve certainly thrown yourself a birthday to remember,’ I say.

A laurel leaf falls from her hair wreath when she shakes her head. ‘Team effort,’ she says.

‘Team Cleo,’ I say. ‘You’ll have it trending when you post your next column.’

She huffs. ‘My boss would so love that.’

I refill her glass. ‘Would you?’

‘Would I love it?’ She pauses, thinking. ‘I’m proud of how I felt today, and if it helps other people to read about it and maybe feel the same way, then I’d love that, yes. But the whole social media trending thing? Being here, so unplugged from that world … I like it. I much prefer it.’ She sighs. ‘I’m not going back.’

‘To London?’ I say, surprised.

‘I mean, I’ll go back, but only to wind things down so I can leave again.’ She looks out towards the beach. ‘It’s time for me to do something else. I’m just not exactly sure what that something else is yet.’

She tells me about imagining Julia’s galleon from the cave painting out on the horizon, herself at the wheel. I follow the track of her eyes now and see it too, white sails, anchor dropped, waiting for her to take the helm.

‘I envy you,’ I say. ‘Nothing tying you down.’

‘And I envy your ties,’ she says simply.

‘I guess everyone always thinks the grass is greener,’ I say. ‘It rarely is, in my experience.’

‘Better to water your own grass than roll on someone else’s,’ she says, then laughs, wry. ‘I’m a walking, talking Pinterest quote queen.’

‘You don’t need other people’s words,’ I say. ‘You have your own way with them.’

‘Thank you.’ She drains her glass, absorbing the compliment. ‘Your photographs are incredible.’

‘It’s all I know how to do,’ I say. I sometimes wonder what I’d be doing if I hadn’t found photography. It’s been the one unchangeable thing in my life over the last year or two, my sure-footing thanks to years of effort and practice, my camera a familiar comfort in my hands. I can only hope my kids discover a passion to lead their lives in interesting directions too.

‘I’ve got so used to you raising your camera, I don’t even flinch now,’ she says, drinking quickly from her glass to stop the fizz foaming over when she refills it. I raise my camera and capture it, including the eye-roll she gives me after. I watch her for a few moments, enjoying the unguarded way she laughs, the light in her eyes that seems to come from somewhere deep inside her bones.

‘You make a pretty photogenic bride,’ I say. ‘I think you’ll love the pictures.’

She smiles down into her glass. ‘Thank you. They’ll be a fitting way to bow out of the column.’

‘What will your boss say?’

‘About the idea of me leaving?’ She sighs. ‘I think she’ll want me to stay, but I also think she’ll know if it’s genuinely time for me to go. We’ve become pretty good friends over the years.’

‘Any ideas what you’ll do?’

Her mouth twists to the side as she considers my question. ‘I’m not sure yet. I’ve got enough saved up to not work for a few months, so –’

‘So you’ll finally write a novel.’ I finish her sentence for her. ‘And it’ll be a huge success.’

She looks at me and slowly treats me to that full-beam smile – the one that makes my fingers itch for my camera and my mouth ache to kiss her.

‘If you say it, it might come true.’

‘I should get your autograph now while I don’t have to stand in line,’ I say.

‘You’ll never be at the back of my queue.’ She holds my gaze, clear and bold, and I realize how much I’m going to miss her when she isn’t in my life any more.

‘You’ve been so good for me,’ I say. I hold her hand now and tears dot her lashes as she looks at me. ‘Don’t cry, it’s your birthday.’

‘All brides cry,’ she half laughs. ‘It’s an emotional day.’

‘Okay,’ I sigh. ‘Drastic measures.’ I get to my feet and hold my hand out to her. ‘Dance with me?’

She blinks up at me, surprised, and then slips her hand in mine. ‘I guess I should have a first dance.’

I pull the picnic rug to the side of the porch, clearing some space. ‘The floor’s ours.’

‘Okay, but hang on, let me find the right track.’

I don’t know what she’ll choose, and I feel something suspiciously like prom-night nerves as I wait for her to come join me in the middle of the porch. She glances over her shoulder at me, barefoot with flowers in her hair, and my God, she’s glorious. Then a familiar harmonica strain drifts on the air and she turns, laughing as she walks towards me.

‘Springsteen, huh?’ I say, failing to keep the smoke of emotion from my voice.

‘You mentioned it sometime,’ she says. ‘I added it to my list the last time I was up at the café. Feels like a little piece of you I can hold on to.’