One Night on the Island(96)

I swallow. ‘I didn’t include them to hurt you.’

‘We’ve hurt each other.’ She turns to me, forlorn. ‘I pushed you away, but I didn’t expect you to go so far that I’d lose you for ever.’

‘I’m here now,’ I say, wishing we could have this conversation somewhere else. Anywhere but here, where Raff’s eyes meet mine from beneath the brim of his fedora and the villagers raise their glasses to me in the Salvation Arms. I can’t bear to look at Susie with Cleo dancing around on the beach behind the rigid set of her shoulders. These two worlds cannot overlap.

‘But is here where you want to be?’

Sometimes it is, sometimes it isn’t. ‘You know I’ll always be here for the kids. And for you.’

‘That wasn’t what I asked,’ she says, looking again at Cleo. ‘You met someone exceptional, Mack. Your word. The connection jumps from these photos like live electricity.’ Tears brim her lashes. ‘It’s undeniable, and painful, and heartbreakingly beautiful.’

I can’t find any words that won’t make the situation worse.

‘I love you,’ she says, choked up. ‘Too much to hold on to you.’

‘I love you too.’ I reach for her hand, emotion thick in my throat. ‘You are exceptional, Susie.’

She studies me, then reaches out and brushes her fingers lightly over something on my cheek.

‘Chalk dust,’ she says.





Cleo





19 March


Salvation Island


OFFICIALLY AN ISLAND WOMAN


‘Are you sitting down?’

‘On a boulder on top of a windy hill,’ I say, jiggling my boot-clad foot with nervous anticipation. I called Abbie, my literary agent as of several weeks back, as soon as her ‘call me’ message beeped in. It’s a thrill to say ‘my agent’. I’m dropping it into conversations like a freshly engaged fiancée flashing around a diamond.

‘Okay, so as you know, the manuscript went out on submission on Wednesday.’

I bite my lip, waiting. I’ve done a fair amount of shoreline pacing over the last forty-eight hours, imagining London editors reading my book. I’ve barely held back from sending ‘please love it’ messages in bottles bobbing from the shores of Salvation over to the whale-grey swathe of the Thames.

‘There’s been a brisk amount of interest, Cleo,’ she says. ‘I’ve had several offers already, and I know of at least two other interested houses. It’s become an auction situation, best and final offers by close of business on Monday.’

‘Whoa,’ I laugh, giddy. ‘Slow down. You’re saying impossible things and I’m struggling to keep up.’

‘Okay, deep breaths. It’s happening, Cleo. You’re going to be a published author.’ Her voice skitters towards excitement at the end. I love that she sounds as thrilled by this turn of events as I am. I feel as if I have someone well and truly in my corner.

‘Do you want to know the offers that have come in already, or wait until the bidding is over?’

That’s the kind of question my dreams are made of. ‘I think I’ll wait.’

‘Good choice,’ she says, and then blurts, ‘But just so you know the ballpark, it’s a substantial six figures.’

I go still. I manage to hold it together long enough for us to have a collective gasp and make plans to speak again on Monday afternoon, and then I end the call and stare out across the bay, my heart racing like a runaway train. My book is selling at auction and there’s a bidding war. Have I even understood this turn of events correctly? I have, I know I have. I slide down off the rock and plant my feet shoulder-width apart, hands on my hips. If ever there was a time for the superhero pose, this is it. I feel bloody magnificent.

Later, I stand on the porch with my usual last-call whiskey, a midnight toast to the stars and my own good fortune. I can barely believe I’ve been here for almost six months now.

I’m officially an island woman, someone who knows the tide times and takes pleasure in watching the seasons unfurl. Do I miss my London life? Every now and then, for about five minutes. The internet here is shit and my Mac eyeliner has run out, but those things aside, Salvation wins hands down. Abbie, my agent, thinks my moving here is the craziest, coolest thing she’s ever heard, especially since I’ve written a book about a girl who runs away to a remote island to self-couple and never goes home again. I heard her sharp intake of breath when I told her what inspired it; I could practically hear her pitch letter writing itself.

It’s been a fairly clear day, but there’s snow in the overnight forecast, so I’ve stocked up in preparation of hunkering down for a few days. I’m childishly hoping to wake to my first island snowfall.

‘Goodnight, Salvation,’ I raise my glass. ‘See you in the morning.’ I drain the last of my whiskey and head inside.

Something wakes me just before dawn – a noise. Driftwood blowing around on the beach, I think. Feeling for my phone in the semi-darkness, I see it’s just turned six, and I’m caught in that delicious space between falling back to sleep and getting up to peep out of the window to see if it’s started to snow yet. I can’t fight the urge to let my eyelids drift down; I’m warm and blissfully comfortable, and then I open my eyes abruptly again and lie perfectly still because someone is knocking at the door. It isn’t an emergency kind of knock. More of a light, ‘are you awake?’ sort of tap. I sit up and push my feet inside my fur boots, wrapping the patchwork blanket around my shoulders as I cross to the door and pull the bolt back.