Page 36 of One Night on the Island

‘Point taken,’ she says.

‘I’m just not going there,’ I say. It’s not a lie. It’s too complicated and my heart isn’t up for a kicking from a married man.

‘You know what I think is a real shame?’ She pauses, serious-faced, as if she’s about to pass on some sage life advice. ‘That you don’t wear your hair in Princess Leia buns. Honestly, you two could pure clean up on the look-alike circuit.’

I really like Delta, but she’s a massive wind-up. She laughs, pushing my money back across the counter, her green eyes brimming with trouble as I leave.

Roast chicken is the most comforting smell in the world; I’m prepared to die on that hill. I’ve just pulled a crispy-skinned golden bird from the oven and its scent is powerful enough to send me hurtling back twenty years to my mum doing the same thing and gathering us all around the table to eat.

‘Smells good.’ Mack appears damp-haired and barefoot, fresh out of the bath. We’ve planned to eat together tonight, a tactical move on my part because I need to talk to him.

‘Doesn’t it just,’ I say, placing bowls of roast potatoes and green beans in the middle of the table.

He opens a bottle of wine and grabs glasses, setting them down alongside the knives and forks.

‘Looks like Cleo’s Bistro is open for business,’ he says. ‘Want me to carve?’

We busy ourselves; the clink of plates as we load them up, the satisfying glug of wine into glasses, the scrape of our chairs when we sit.

‘Yorkshire pudding?’ I say, adding one to my plate. My mum makes the best Yorkshire pudding in the world, a skill she’s ensured all of her children have mastered to a satisfactory degree too. Mack looks sceptical.

‘You’ve never tried it?’ I say. ‘Oh, Mack Sullivan, where have you been?’

He places one at the very edge of his plate as if he’s hoping it might fall on the floor.

‘Tastes kind of like a pancake?’ he offers, after his first bite.

‘What do you think?’

He drinks a little wine, nodding slowly. ‘I think it’s … good,’ he says, going in again to double-check.

‘Good.’ I flush with quiet pride. ‘I’m not sure I could spend time under the same roof as someone who said no to my mum’s Yorkshire pudding.’

He pauses, then adds another one to his plate.

‘Actually, I need to talk to you about that,’ I say, following my own clumsy lead-in. ‘About you and me spending time under the same roof, I mean.’

Neither of us have mentioned the fact that the boat comes in a couple of days because I honestly don’t think either of us knows what to say. ‘I spoke to my editor today and she made it pretty clear that I have to stay here until my birthday, at the very least. It’d be unprofessional to bail on our readers.’

He doesn’t meet my eye as he eats. ‘Remind me when that is?’

‘October twenty-fourth,’ I say. ‘Ten days away.’

‘Okay.’

I pick up my wine. ‘Okay?’

He lays his cutlery down. ‘You know I’m not going anywhere. This chalk-line thing –’ he nods towards it – ‘it’s working well. I can handle it if you can.’

It’s not just that Ali has told me I should stay. My own intuition is telling me that Salvation is the right place for me just now, and isn’t part of my mission to try to trust myself more, to believe in my gut feelings and go with them?

‘Okay, then,’ I say, a little disconcerted to have the obstacle between us so easily taken away. I swallow a mouthful of wine, trying to work out how I feel. Relieved, I think? In spite of Mack or because of him? A question that sidles into the very back of my head and hides itself away.

‘Thirty’s only a big thing if you make it one,’ Mack tells me.

It’s a clear, crisp night, so we’ve taken what’s left of the wine outside to finish on the front steps, blankets slung around our shoulders. Nights like this are an absolute gift here. The stars are all up there doing their thing; I’ve spent countless hours trying to capture them in my memory bank for when I’m back in starless London. It isn’t always starless in London, of course, but here, it’s different. It’s effortless, an astral theatre of light against endless dark. It reminds me of a concert when everyone holds up their mobiles, millions of pinprick torches. The low, full moon throws a mellow silver glow across the rippled water out near the horizon; I can hear the waves rushing over the pebbles down on the shore.

I think about what Mack just said and I get that he’s trying to be helpful.

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