One Night on the Island(8)

‘I’m gonna have a beer.’

‘Suit yourself.’

‘That’s what I’m here for.’

‘I’m sorry?’

He digs out a four-pack of Budweiser, cracking one open before stashing the rest in the fridge. ‘That’s what I came here for. To suit myself.’

I nearly engage, then take a deep breath. I don’t need to know. ‘You can stay in here tonight, but come tomorrow you need to suit yourself somewhere else.’

He stares out of the dark kitchen window and takes a long drink, huffing under his breath. ‘It’s been a hell of a day.’

I don’t appreciate that he’s swerved the conversation, but I’m too weary to have this battle now. It’ll keep until morning. I flick the table lamp out and plunge the lodge into sudden darkness, and I don’t know if it makes me a terrible person but I get a small flush of satisfaction when he bangs into the table as he navigates the unfamiliar space for the bed. I wait as he swears and jostles around; the sound of clothes coming off, blankets being pulled up, pillows being punched.

‘Do you need the lamp back on for a sec?’ I say once he’s gone quiet. He doesn’t dignify it with a response.





Cleo





3 October


Salvation Island


I NEED TO EVICT THE ALIEN


You know those mornings when you wake up slowly, as if you’re drifting up through layers of mist towards the surface, fragments of your dreams floating around you, trying to lure you back in? This isn’t one of those mornings. I wake up and jerk bolt upright because I can smell fire.

‘You’re awake.’

Everything slots back into place as my heart rate slowly returns to normal. The burning smell is just newly laid logs in the fireplace.

‘And you’re still here.’ I flop back on my pillows, unrested and freshly disgruntled. This isn’t really the kind of sofa you want to do more than nap on.

‘Did you think it was all a bad dream?’

His tone is too chipper, as if the situation is slightly amusing rather than massively bloody inconvenient. He’s already dressed and ready for the day, probably just to get one up on me.

‘There’s bacon in the fridge if you’re interested?’ he adds. ‘And, weirdly, champagne. Bacon, milk and champagne.’

I look at the ceiling. Actually, I really do want bacon now he’s said it. I weigh up my options; it’s quarter to eight in the morning, barely even light outside. My plan, such as it is, is that we should head to the shop as soon as it opens and find a human being who actually knows the island. There must be other accommodation options for the American. I’ll stock up on provisions while I’m over there, and then I’m going to come back here and properly claim the space. Bounce on the bed as if I’m the heroine in a road-trip movie, wipe yesterday from my mental slate and start again. There’s no need for me to be unnecessarily grouchy in the meantime.

‘You know, I think I will make bacon,’ I say, getting up, glad of my plain black jersey pyjamas. ‘Want some?’

He glances my way, as if I’ve asked a trick question. ‘Sure.’

‘At least the weather seems to have calmed down,’ I say to make conversation, gazing out of the kitchen window as I flick the kettle on. Christ, that view is something else. The window looks out over the curve of the tiny bay. It’s set back from the shore, far enough for safety but near enough for the damp, dark-gold beach to be your front garden. This is the kind of place worn-down artists might visit to reconnect with their creative soul.

‘It was pretty damn amazing out there this morning,’ he says. ‘I went out to watch the sunrise from the beach.’

Of course he did.

My London flat doesn’t even have a garden; the difference between here and there is the difference between Jupiter and Mars. Perhaps that’s the way I need to look at things – as if I’m an alien on a reconnaissance visit to consider if this new planet is preferable to my old one. So far it’s not, but I’ve yet to give it a fair crack of the whip. I need to evict the other alien who’s landed here first because it doesn’t look as if Darth Vader’s going to turn up and lop his head off. I sigh under my breath at the whole stupid analogy – my writer’s brain is always doing that – as I dig through the cupboards for a pan and breakfast crockery. The cupboards aren’t heaving, just nicely stocked with plain, decent things. My cup collection at home is what you might kindly term ‘eclectic’, mostly made up of mismatched mugs gifted to me over the years. ‘Best Aunt’ from one of my sister’s children. A ‘PugHugMug’ from the office Secret Santa, even though I’m not particularly a pug fan. A National Trust squirrel cup and saucer from my mother and a hand-splodged fingerprint tankard I made a few summers ago with my brother’s kids at one of those artsy make-and-take café places.

‘I was thinking we should head to the store this morning, sort this mix-up out,’ I say, sitting opposite the American at the dining table a few minutes later. I’m doing my best to be polite.

‘Sounds reasonable,’ he says, raising his bacon sandwich at me. ‘Thanks for this, it’s good.’

‘No, thank you for not making a fuss about leaving,’ I say, watching him over my coffee cup, testing how difficult he’s going to make things.