One Night on the Island(7)

I’m married, if it helps. I roll my eyes as I remember his words. I mean, what did he think was going through my head to make him say that? Are all murderers unmarried? I don’t think so. For that matter, how does he know I won’t murder him? I triple check I’ve locked the door and tip a little of the luxurious bath oil into the running water, my shredded nerves soothed by the scent of exclusive spas and far-flung, sun-soaked shores.

‘I’m taking a bath,’ I yell, dragging my jumper over my head. Every layer that comes off feels like a weight leaving me. I’m not a winter person; I don’t understand anyone who says they prefer snow to the dog days of summer. I’m a woman made for flip-flops and places where you never need a jacket. The opposite of here, basically. When I light the candle and slide into the bone-deep heat of the water, it’s so nourishing I could cry. I won’t though – I’ve already chalked up my out-of-nowhere crying incident for the day. God, that was bizarre. I didn’t feel driven to tears by the horror-hike up the mountain. If anything, I was elated to have reached the summit, and then side-swiped out of the blue by this almighty gulp of emotion.

I hold my breath and duck my head beneath the bathwater, immersed. This place is definitely getting the better of me. Or more likely it’s just been the longest of days, the journey to get here full of peril, and my much-anticipated time alone has been punctured by an unwelcome intrusion. I try, on the whole, to be an adaptable person, someone who makes the best of a situation, but I can’t shake the feeling that I’ve fallen at the first hurdle.

‘There’s coffee on the stove.’

I nod, unable to squeeze words of gratitude out of my lips, even though I feel marginally more human now I’m bundled in my PJs with my hair in a towel.

‘And bread for toast. I’ve had some – you should probably do the same.’

‘I don’t need reminding to eat.’

‘Whatever,’ he mutters, heading for the bathroom. ‘I’m going to take a bath.’

Is it wrong of me to hope there isn’t quite enough hot water left in the tank for him to have a really good wallow?

I glance at the rain lashing the windows and sigh because it’s time for me to act like a grown-up. ‘You can stay inside tonight.’

‘Thanks.’ He turns to me in the bathroom doorway. ‘You can too.’

‘Are you always this annoying?’

‘Apparently so,’ he says, after a slight pause. He looks at me and for a moment he reminds me of someone, but I can’t think who. ‘Take the bed, I’ll use the sofa.’

Once he’s gone, I help myself to coffee and sit at the small, square dining table, warming my hands around the mug. I feel as if I’m trapped in the opening scene of a clichéd old movie, him a young Robert Redford, me the dewy-eyed Jane Fonda waiting to fall head-over-heels in love with him after our classic meet-cute. Except I’m not. I might make a living writing about love, but I’m no wet-behind-the-ears romantic, and there’s nothing cute about this encounter. The American is abrasive. Beardy. And then it comes to me who he reminds me of, and I close my eyes and sigh. My brother is a massive Star Wars geek, he watched those movies on a near loop when we were younger. I can’t say I shared his enthusiasm, but there’s no denying that a young Harrison Ford looked like he ate pure charisma for breakfast and could save the world before lunch. I’m holed up at the end of the world with Han Solo. I can only hope that Darth Vader comes over the mountain hill and takes his head off with a lightsaber.

I haven’t been to bed at seven o’clock since I was old enough to choose my own bedtime. I’ve always been more night owl than early bird, and there have been a few too many mad Saturday nights with Rubes when I haven’t been to bed at all, or else I’ve woken up in places I don’t remember falling asleep. But after the day I’ve had, my eyes keep drifting shut of their own accord.

I’ve just poured myself a second cup of coffee in an attempt to stay awake, and I’m perched on the edge of the bed. The American is still in the bath; I’ve heard the water running every now and then so I know he hasn’t nodded off and drowned.

Oh my God, the bed is divine. Suede-backed furs and heavy knitted throws all contribute to the hygge vibe. I relax back against the pillows in the low lamplight and close my eyes, and it’s easily the most blissful moment of my day. I’m not sleeping here though, regretfully. I’ll take the sofa, thank you very much, and the higher ground that goes with it. I’ll claim the bed tomorrow once he’s hightailed it out of here.

The high ground doesn’t stop me from stealing a couple of pillows and a thick blanket to make myself up a nest on the sofa; it’s kind of cosy. I settle in and finish my coffee in peace, basking in the warmth from the fire he must have lit while I was in the bath. Heaviness slides through my bones as I put my empty cup down and close my eyes, then I jolt straight back up again because the bathroom door flies open and I’m no longer alone.

‘I’m taking the sofa,’ I say primly, pulling the blankets up to my chin.

He glances from the sofa to the bed, and for a moment it feels as if he’s going to argue the toss, but he just shrugs. ‘Up to you.’

I shrug too, like kids caught in an ‘I’m less bothered than you’ competition as he roots around in his massive bag.