‘Where’s the nearest place on the island that has a reliable cell signal?’ I ask. ‘It’s non-existent at the lodge.’
‘Only in the village, really,’ she says. ‘There’s Wi-Fi at the pub and the café, you can usually get the password at the till. Delta has a computer set up in there if you need one, you can book it by the hour.’
I’d probably find such antiquated systems charming if I was here on vacation, but right now it’s another thing to add to my growing list of irritations.
I pick up Cleo’s red hat and hand it to her. ‘Here, put this on, see if it cheers you up. I’m going for a walk.’
Cleo
3 October
Salvation Island
I DON’T LIKE RICE PUDDING
There’s someone sitting on the boulder at the top of the hill.
I’ve puffed my way up here to check my emails, my ankle is killing me, and now someone has beaten me to the spot. The good news is, it isn’t the American and his ridiculous coat.
I loiter a little way from the boulder, out of earshot of the woman sitting there with her denim jacket-clad back turned to me. I can’t tell if she’s on the phone from here or if she’s just taking the air. Taking the air – get me using ladylike phrases! That’s what happens when you binge-watch period dramas when you should be working. I tell myself it’s research, even though my life has very little in the way of corsets or side-saddle horse rides. Although, at a push, it could be said that we’re all just looking for our flamingo, aren’t we?
God, is this woman going to be much longer? I feel a bit ridiculous queuing for the boulder as if it’s a bloody telephone box.
I can’t hear her talking, and she’s very still. Then she suddenly cups her hands to her face and shouts. Or screams, to be accurate, a proper blood-curdler. I wince and take a few steps further back, intending to edge quietly away, but my phone beeps loudly in my pocket, finally picking up the elusive signal.
I pat my coat down in search of it, panicked, as the woman on the rock swings round. A few things strike me all at once: she’s younger than I thought, my age or thereabouts, her eyes are as green as Salvation grass and she’s really quite pregnant. A lot to take in, along with the massive rainbow-striped knitted scarf around her neck and the many silver earrings poking beneath the rim of her bobble hat.
‘Were you sneaking up on me?’
She scowls, suspicious, and then just as I start to mutter an apology – ‘No, I …’ – she cracks up laughing.
‘You’re staying at Otter,’ she says. It’s not such a great leap given that, as I now well know, Otter is the only accommodation on the island, and I’m clearly not a resident.
‘I am,’ I say. ‘Are you, er, okay?’
She looks wrongfooted, and then her face clears. ‘Oh, you mean the primal screaming thing? Just letting out a bit of frustration at my mother, she does my head in. Good for the baby, a bit of wailing, or so I’m told.’ She rests her hands on her bump and grins. ‘I’m Delta, by the way, wayward daughter of Slánú, back with a bun in the oven to bring shame on the family.’
‘Cleo,’ I say. She’s the first local I’ve heard pronounce the island’s Irish name. ‘Slánú?’ I say, hesitant as I attempt to pronounce it. ‘Did I say it right?’
She shrugs. ‘Not bad. Stick to Salvation though, only the old guard use Slánú.’
‘And you,’ I say.
‘Only when I’m being pissy about my delicate situation.’ She grins.
I feel a zing of female connection when we smile at each other. I guess it could just be that we’re a similar age, but something about her registers in my psyche. It might be that she reminds me a little of Ruby – she’s colourful and sparks with a similar energy – but I get the sense that she’s someone who knows herself well, and I feel a pang of unexpected envy. I often feel like a child playing at being a grown-up and hoping no one will notice, whereas she gives off the impression she knows where she’s headed in life. She looks as if she’s about to say something when my phone pings again, a volley of queued voicemail messages clamouring for attention.
‘Work,’ I say, glancing at Ali’s name on the screen. Ruby too.
She nods slowly. ‘Are you a writer?’
‘Yes,’ I say, wondering what led her to the assumption.
‘Thought so,’ she says. ‘I can see it in your aura. You’ve the look about you of someone who writes sweeping romances.’