Page 62 of One Night on the Island

She blinks, looking at it, and then at the flower circlet on my head. ‘And flowers too.’

I smile. ‘Quite like a bride in my pyjamas and blanket? Don’t worry, I do at least have a proper dress.’

She looks at me in a way that conjures thoughts of my mum again, a mix of exasperation and something edging towards fondness. Perhaps she feels an element of in loco parentis while I’m here on her island. ‘Take care, Cleo,’ she says softly.

I look at the ring on my finger again, welling up. ‘I will.’

I watch her make her way along the track from the lodge, straight-backed with a clear plastic headscarf to protect her Jackie O bouffe from the wind. This island delivers surprise after surprise, the people most of all.

I find the last dregs of my coffee have gone cold and tip it over the railings, then head back inside, laying the flowers and ring down carefully on the table beside the cake. All of the accoutrements of a traditional wedding, minus a partner. I won’t let any melancholy thoughts push their way in, though, this is a day of celebration. There’s a hot bath with my name on it and then a wedding for one to prepare for.

‘Birthday breakfast?’

I heard Mack come back in while I was in the bath, and I’ve just emerged from the bathroom to see he’s laid the table with flowers, fresh coffee and croissants, a jug of orange juice and toast. There’s salmon too. Mack pulls out a seat for me, bowing slightly.

I look up at him and smile, and he holds my gaze, smiling too. ‘Happy Birthday, Cleo,’ he says. He smells of sea breeze and warm spices when he bends to kiss me, and I breathe him in deep.

‘This is a treat, thank you,’ I say, watching him head back to the small stove.

‘It’s a special day,’ he says, glancing at me over his shoulder. He’s wearing a white long-sleeved T-shirt, the thermal kind you might pull on as a second skin, something that could belong in the 1930s as easily as today. For a second, I imagine we are islanders from yesteryear, a young couple sitting at a simple table with a simple jar of flowers between them.

‘Did you pick these?’ I say, touching the pale-pink petals of a flower I recognize from the edges of the beach.

‘This morning,’ he says, sliding an egg on to my plate. ‘I caught the fish too,’ he adds, miming reeling it in as he sits.

I look down at the smoked salmon. ‘Fresh from Brianne’s shop?’

He raises his camera for shots of the table before he grins and picks up his cutlery. ‘Something like that.’

We talk loosely about my plans for the day as we eat, passing the salt, sharing the last slice of toast, refilling coffee cups, the radio on low in the background. Every now and then, I wish I could press pause on life and stay longer in a moment. This is one of those moments.

Mack has taken himself out on the porch with his tripod and camera. He said he wants to get himself organized, but I expect he’s really giving me some space to get ready. I appreciate the privacy. I’m bathed and have dried my hair into loose curls. I’ve applied a little make-up too because this girl isn’t getting wed without mascara, not even to herself.

I’m nervous, which I know sounds crazy, but this, today … this is why I’m here. When Ali and I talked about how this day might go, in every scenario I was always alone. There was no American making me breakfast, no islanders bringing me surprise gifts, just me here alone to shape the day however I saw fit. It isn’t that I don’t appreciate the kindness of others today, because I truly do, but there’s an unexpected element of performance anxiety now that other people here are aware of what I’m doing. I don’t want to feel foolish or gimmicky because the more I’ve thought about this, the more emotionally invested I’ve become. It’s important to me. Yesterday at the cave was a perfect way to send my twenties off. I want today to be just as perfect, to welcome my thirties with open arms. I’ve mulled over where to hold my ceremony, and again, Mack being here alters things. I might have chosen the porch but it doesn’t feel quite right, more ours than mine after the countless hours we’ve spent out there together drinking coffee and talking about nothing and everything. The same applies to our beach. The boulder at the top of Wailing Hill feels exhibitionist. I was undecided even up to our visit to the hidden cave yesterday, when the perfect spot revealed itself to me. Beyond the cave entrance, there’s a tiny corner of the beach sheltered by a guard of weathered boulders. Not quite a stone circle but pleasingly symbolic nonetheless. I saw Mack’s photographer’s brain going into overdrive too.

‘More coffee?’ Mack says, coming in from outside. He hasn’t let the fire in the hearth go out for days now; even the stone walls of the lodge are warm to the touch. ‘Or birthday champagne?’

‘Let’s wait until afterwards,’ I say. We’re finally going to drink the champagne we found in the fridge, the bottle that was awaiting the honeymooners when we first arrived. I’m looking forward to this afternoon with nervous, swooping jitters, but I’m also looking forward to coming back here again later and spending the evening in this warm, peaceful place. And I’m glad I’m not going to be alone tonight. I’m trying not to think more than a day in front of myself at the moment, trying not to count down the days until I’m finally alone. It’s funny; I burned up so much furious energy wanting Mack to leave and now I’m burying my head in the sand about the fact he’s going to go soon. Another fact, apropos of nothing – flamingos bury their heads in the sand.

‘Who are you, beautiful creature, and what have you done with Cleo?’ Mack grins when I emerge a little later from the bathroom, almost ready to go.

Truthfully, I feel special. I’ve treated myself with extra care today, taking the time to enjoy the rituals of preparation. It’s easy here to bundle up and go make-up free, and it’s been a pleasure to remind myself of the joy I draw from applying eyeliner just so, and from taking time to paint my nails, oil my skin. It feels a luxury to wear my hair down. It’s one hundred per cent going to stick to my lip gloss when the wind catches it, but that’s okay.

‘Is it too much?’ I say, plucking at the frothed hem of my dress. It’s so very pretty, I felt Insta-romantic as soon as it settled over my body. The tiny shell buttons running down the seamed bodice do that period drama hoick to my boobs. It’s demure and nostalgic, entirely perfect for the occasion.

Mack picks up the flower circlet between his hands as I walk towards him.

‘It’s not too much,’ he says, placing the flowers on my head and then stepping back. ‘Let me look at you.’

I do a slow twirl on my bare feet, and when I’m facing him again, he reaches out and holds both of my hands.

‘You look … you look sensational, Cleo. Strong and soft, a true island woman. Now go out there and do yourself proud.’

It’s the rallying speech I didn’t know I needed. I don’t lean in to kiss him because this afternoon is so much about me that it feels almost like a betrayal to make it about us. I slide my arms into my oversized midnight-blue cardigan. It’s scattered with silver stars and almost as long as my dress, and at the door I pause to put on the yellow-striped wellington boots.

‘I don’t know how, but you’re pulling that look off,’ Mack says. ‘It’s kinda woodland princess meets warrior queen.’

It’s a good description – I’d feared the wellies had pushed me from boho to hobo. I pick up the basket I’ve packed with the things I might want with me: my mother’s birthday card and gift, the speech I’ve been working on, the ring from Dolores, a few other bits and pieces. It’s a clear, blustery, pale-blue day, one of the best we’ve experienced since we arrived here. The fanciful part of me hopes my dad blew away the rain clouds. I decide I’m allowed to give my absent father superpowers on my wedding day.

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