It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell her I’m not a romance writer, but then … am I not? Not in the conventional sense, perhaps, but I write about love, so maybe I kind of am. Or perhaps it’s more than that. Maybe it’s destiny that I meet this green-eyed woman here today, maybe she’s my cosmic nudge to grasp the mantle and finally finish the novel I’ve been writing forever. To be honest, I’m a bit embarrassed about it – a journalist wanting to be a novelist, so clichéd – but secretly I have been wondering whether this trip might be a way to explore that long-held dream.
‘Something like that,’ I mumble, at odds with myself.
Delta looks away, out towards the sea. ‘It’s always been one of my favourite spots on the island,’ she says, standing up to stretch her back out. ‘I better get down the hill, leave you to your work.’
‘Don’t feel you have to leave on my account,’ I say.
‘Oh, I’m all yelled out for today,’ she says. ‘You should give it a go, no one will hear you up here.’
Except for Mack, I think, watching her as she walks away. She isn’t the kind of person I expected to find here. No Fair Isle sweater and ruddy complexion for starters, which I realize is my own terrible stereotyping.
I sit on the boulder as I press play on my first message. Ali’s voice bubbles into the air demanding the full warts-and-all lowdown, of course. I’ll call her on Monday. I could try now, the woman doesn’t know the meaning of ‘weekend’， but I don’t really want to because I feel as if I’m still decompressing, a London-weary accordion un-squeezing.
Ali and I made a Salvation bucket list before I came here, mostly my own ideas with a few of Ali’s additions, stuff she thinks our readers would love to read about. I open my Notes app now and scan it, wondering which of the items I’ll be able to tick off first.
Swim in the sea. That one was mine.
I love to swim in places other than chlorinated swimming pools but rarely get the chance, so I’m hoping the sea will be calm enough at some point to swim in without dying.
Spend twenty-four hours naked. I was reluctant to add this. Not because I’m especially prudish or have any major body hang-ups, it just felt a bit shoe-horned in for entertainment value. But Ali argued it on to the list as a way to connect with nature in the most elemental way, which I guess I can get behind. Not something to contemplate while Mack’s still around, though. I slide my fingertip down the screen.
Build a fire on the beach.
Eat a meal you’ve foraged yourself.
Make a life-changing decision.
Sleep outdoors.
I strike that one off the list. I hadn’t taken the inclement weather into account.
Write a poem, or maybe a song.
Make something with your hands.
The self-coupling ceremony.
I pause, tapping my finger lightly against the words. It’s still a work in progress, a brain-sketch more than a solid plan. The ceremony will be on my birthday because I want to do something to mark the day I turn thirty, a symbolic celebration of me. Ali is insistent on billing it as ‘marrying myself’ because it’s headline grabbing, hence the ironic honeymoon booking. I prefer to think of it as a self-commitment ceremony, a pause to acknowledge that I’m secure in who I am as a single woman. A champagne send-off for my twenties; a welcome in to my thirties. I bought a balsa wood bowl off eBay with unformed ideas of putting things in it and floating it out to sea. Or setting fire to it on the beach. I don’t really know yet, I’m still thinking about it. My eyes scan back up the list and pause on ‘Make a life-changing decision’。 Ali didn’t see that one; I added it after I’d left London. It’s something I’m mulling over in my quiet moments. What do I want the shape of the next few years of my life to look like? Who am I without a flamingo? I blow out a long, slow breath. Come on, Salvation Island, live up to your name. Save me. Or help me save myself, at least.
I stare at Ali’s name for a few seconds more and then, resigned, I tap her name to dial. I’m duty bound to at least let her know what’s happening here, check in and see how she wants me to play things. I hear the clicks and pips of the numbers as it attempts to connect, hillside to capital, but just as it makes the link a fierce whip of wind unbalances me and I stumble forward and lose the connection. Shit. I try again, holding really still, but all I get is voicemail. I can feel myself coiling back up with the familiar stress of it all, and I roll my shoulders and tell myself to step back from the feelings and leave it for now. I sigh and hang up without speaking, gritting my teeth against the urge to drop-kick the phone out into the sea.