Page 63 of One Night on the Island

‘I’m ready now,’ I say.

‘Want me to walk with you a while?’ Mack says.

I shake my head. ‘No. I’ve got it,’ I say. ‘Will you be here when I come back?’

‘Do you want me to be?’

He isn’t asking me to need him. He’s asking me what I need.

‘I’d like that,’ I say. ‘Unless you’re busy?’

He lays his hand over mine on the railing. ‘I’m not busy.’

‘Okay then.’ I nod. I look at him, noticing the way the sunlight catches his mismatched eyes and warms his sandy hair. He seems taller and broader somehow, stoic and sure beside me. I get that déjà-vu feeling again, that we could be standing in the footprints of islanders from years gone by. If I glance back at him as I walk away, will he be in shirtsleeves and braces, his hands grimy from working the land? I push my shoulders back and walk tall across the beach, reassured by the knowledge he’ll be there waiting for me when I get back.

I can feel my elevated heart rate as I make my way over the uneven rock pools, placing my feet carefully to avoid slipping or crushing delicate sea snails clinging to the slick surfaces, my basket swinging in the breeze. I was right about my hair sticking to my lip gloss, but I don’t mind, because the skies are blue, my wellies have primrose-yellow stripes and I’m buoyed by the unexpected kindness of people who were strangers to me before I came here. This is the moment, the afternoon I’ve waited for. I’m here for this, and it’s not lashing down with rain or doomed to fail, it’s going to be magnificent and all of the things I dreamed it would be, because how could it not? Quiet exhilaration blooms in my chest as I slide between the rocks and place my basket down on the sand in the sheltered alcove. ‘I’m here,’ I whisper. ‘I’m here.’

I’ve shown up for myself. I haven’t stood myself up at the altar. Like every other single woman I know, I have a playlist on my laptop of inspiring songs for those moments when I need to feel powerful, and snippets of it merge together now as a soundtrack in my head. My alternative wedding march. Yes, Lady Gaga, I am on the edge of glory, and yes, Alicia Keys, this girl is on fire.

I leave my boots beside the basket and walk barefoot to the shoreline, the damp, compacted sand cold beneath the soles of my feet. For a few moments, I stand there and let the lace-edged foam chase over the very tips of my toes, my eyes closed, counting as I breathe in, counting my breath back out again, centring myself. There’s no rush.

When I open my eyes, I take the time to notice the physical sensations around me: the chilled breeze on my face, the whimsical movement of my dress about my knees, the shock of the ice-cold water covering my toes. I plant my feet a little wider and rest my balled fists on my hips, shoulders back, chin up. It’s a superhero pose I learned from an old episode of Grey’s Anatomy, one of the doctors used to do it right before going into surgery to save someone’s life. It’s overly dramatic to say I’ve come to Salvation Island to save my own life, but I’ve realized during my time here that I need to release myself from my gilded London cage. This is me pulling up a pew, making myself a cup of tea and asking myself a really crucial question … What do I want to do with the rest of my life? Or if that’s too much, what do I want to do next? ‘Here’s a blank sheet of paper, write your story, Cleo. Write your next chapter,’ I say out loud, still superwoman at the shore edge. ‘Make yourself some promises. Tell the wind your secrets and the ocean your dreams.’

In any other place at any other time, I might have felt self-conscious talking to myself, but not today. I feel pure and emptied out, as if I’m letting all of the negative pressures and feelings pass out through the soles of my feet, and every time the sea washes in, it takes away more of the things holding me back. I’m not someone who follows organized religion, but it’s close to a religious experience to feel so renewed, so held by nature.

There isn’t a boat on the horizon or a person in the distance. Mack mentioned finding a vantage point up on the cliff for photos but, as promised, I can’t see him. I could have the planet to myself right now. I head back to the clearing and pick up a driftwood stick. I use it to draw a large circle in the sand, then add the cushion I’ve brought with me to save my backside getting damp. Sitting down cross-legged, I straighten my spine, vertebra by vertebra. My yoga teacher would be impressed if she could see me right now. I must look next-level spiritual. Reaching into my basket, I lay out the contents around me in the circle. A card and gift from my mum. The cotton pouch from Dolores. I’m surprised to find a silver hip flask in there too, whiskey from Mack to warm me. Finally, I unfold the sheet of paper with my notes on it, smoothing it on my knee, holding tight to the corners so the wind doesn’t carry it out to sea.

‘Dearly beloved me,’ I say, clear and definite. Just saying those words out loud makes me smile. In my mind, this is my Donna from Mamma Mia! moment, preferably the Lily James version. I love Meryl and I actually own a similar pair of dungarees, but all the same, I’m channelling my inner Lily. ‘I’ve brought myself here today, in front of Mother Nature, Neptune and all the mermaids, to acknowledge that I, Cleo Wilder, do take myself, Cleo Wilder, to be my strongest advocate and my most loyal friend, my loudest cheerleader and my most trusted confidante.’

I pause and gaze out to sea, my palms resting on my knees, my hair swirling around my shoulders in the wind. I acknowledge I haven’t always been my own best friend, and I certainly haven’t always been my own strongest advocate. I’ve lingered too long in toxic relationships and I’ve told myself to put up with things I’d tell a friend not to tolerate.

‘I promise to listen to myself, to take the time to hear the voice in my gut, because I know myself better than anyone and I always have my own best interests at heart. I’m wise enough to know when someone is disingenuous and I know when enough is enough. I also know that I am enough, and I’m brave, and I will succeed. I won’t judge myself too harshly when I get things wrong because everyone gets things wrong sometimes, but I won’t let myself off the hook without learning lessons, either.’

That’s quite a thorny one for me. Only a fool keeps doing the same thing and expecting a different outcome, but nevertheless it’s been the general trajectory of my romantic life. I’ve hitched my wagon to unsuitable men and then been newly surprised every time the wheels come off. I’ve tossed this pattern around in my head quite a lot lately, especially because Mack is, for all intents and purposes, yet another unsuitable man. He loves someone else, which is as big and unsuitable as it gets. But then Mack is different because we’re not actually dating with the intention of it heading anywhere. We agreed to our rules up front: when our time is up, we’ll close the door on it and throw away the key. I sigh. No, I don’t want to sidetrack myself with thoughts about what’s happening in my love life right now. This is about what happens next, what happens after Salvation.

‘The search for my flamingo is over. I am the flamingo.’

You know, I think I might get that tattoo Ali bangs on about when I go home, a tiny flamingo somewhere only I will see it. My inner thigh or in my armpit. A flamingo in my armpit. God, that’s not very appealing, is it? If I ever write my memoirs, I’ll call it that. I laugh to myself because it’s absurd, and then I look again at the vows in my hand. I’m quite near to the end now.

‘I’ll trust myself,’ I say. ‘I won’t be afraid to turn my ship around and sail in a different direction if the waters get choppy, even if it seemed like the right trajectory when I embarked.’

In my head, I conjure Julia’s ship from the cave wall and place her, majestic, on the distant horizon, sure enough of herself to plough through fathomless waters. I see myself at the helm, one hand on the wheel, the wind streaming my hair out behind me as I set a course by starlight. That’s the woman I’m becoming, I tell myself, imagining the smooth, worn wooden wheel beneath my hands, seeing the map of the planets and constellations I’ve laid out to plot my route.

I hang on to the image for a while, embedding it firmly in my brain because I love it, and because I know it’s time to turn the wheel and head in a different direction. Everything about coming here has led me to this point, to this vision of myself as skipper of my own galleon. I reach for the blue pouch Dolores gave me and tip the rose-gold Claddagh ring on to my palm. I touch my fingertip against it the next time I speak.

‘I give myself this ring as a symbol of my intention and of my self-respect and of hope.’ I find my fingers are shaking as I slip it on to my right hand. Gosh. I’m so glad Dolores gave it to me, it feels as if it has always been a necessary part of the ceremony. It looks perfect, and the symbolism of the hands holding the heart feels entirely appropriate as I cup my own heart in my own hands today. It’s okay to be reckless with your internal organs in your twenties, but I’m thirty now and need more careful curation.

I feel subtly different once the ring is on my finger. Not married, obviously, but committed. It’s a good feeling. Grounding. For a couple of minutes I sit in silence, unhurried, concentrating on my breath, embracing the sea-salt diamonds in my lungs. I’ve never been this close to myself before. A seabird wheels overhead, one of the orange-beaked ones I see regularly. I imagine him returning to the roost with news of my wedding for one, and all the birds shaking their oily black-feathered heads, mystified.

My mum was mystified by the whole thing too, but then she only knows gilt-edged save-the-date cards and tiered cakes and top hats. All of my siblings had frighteningly organized, grand weddings and I know it’s in her heart that I’ll follow suit. I reach for her birthday card now, setting the accompanying gift aside to open afterwards. My eyes mist a little when I open it to find messages from my siblings as well as from Mum. Both of my sisters have beautiful, sloping handwriting, their messages heartfelt and kind, making me smile as I think of them. Their kids have got in on the act too, bright crayoned hearts and kisses filling any empty spaces. It’s harder to decipher Tom’s doctor-like scrawl, and I laugh out loud when I work it out: Happy wedding birthday, you fucking insane weirdo! Guinness is on you when you get back. I can almost hear our mother scolding him for swearing from here. I swipe a tear from my cheek and read the final message, from her.

Happy 30th, my darling youngest child. How terribly modern to marry one’s self, but then you always were the pioneer of the family! Hope it all goes swimmingly, love Mum x

Her familiar handwriting makes me wish desperately that she was here, so much so that I can smell the perfume she’s always worn and hear the rattle of her glasses chain around her neck. ‘Love you too, Mum,’ I whisper. I blow a kiss into my hands and release it, hoping the wind will catch it and carry it home to her, that it will slip in through an open window and she’ll feel it settle about her shoulders like a scarf.

Pioneer. The word vibrates around me on the sand as I speak it aloud. It is an unexpected choice from my mother about me. I’ve always thought my family see me as indulged and fanciful, a scattergun rather than a directional bullet. The word has an air of daring, a sense of danger, a devil-may-care element of bravery. I look out towards my imaginary ship again and paint the word Pioneer on her starboard bow in looping white letters, and then I open my mother’s gift.

It’s quite a chunky box, it fills my hands. I haven’t seen it before, but the worn-at-the-edges tan leather tells me it’s a fair age. I lever the lid up on its hinge and find a wristwatch inside, again something I’m sure I’ve never seen before. The size tells me it’s a gents’ watch, edged in gold, the strap in plain black leather. I lay the box down, turning the watch over in my hands. On the back, it’s engraved with my paternal grandfather’s name, Abraham Wilder, letters worn smooth by wear. I slide my thumb over them and then I spot a note pressed into the lid of the box.

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