Brianne’s husband dropped the food off an hour or so ago. He looked as if he’d been carved from Salvation rock, a great slab of a man with a huge beard and an even bigger grin. He made me think of those men who wear Lycra and pull lorries for fun. I’m sitting with a glass of wine now, trying to make myself relax. Mack looked equally wound up; I spotted him pacing the shoreline when I glanced out of the window while I opened the wine. His movements suggested agitation, simultaneously placing me on alert for trouble and pissing me off because I don’t want to have to deal with someone else’s shit. So I don’t get up when the door opens and he rumbles in, scowling, his big coat drenched. And I don’t say a word as he sheds his outdoor paraphernalia, slants a strange look my way and grabs a beer before coming to sit on the edge of the coffee table directly in front of me.
It’s an unexpected move, leaving me no choice but to listen to whatever he’s about to say. I mean, I could uncurl my legs from under my bum and walk away but that kind of open hostility just isn’t in me. So I swirl what’s left of the wine in the bottom of my glass and wait, studiously focusing on it.
‘I’m sorry if I’ve been short with you,’ he says eventually. ‘This isn’t your fault.’
Oh. That was unexpected. I meet his eyes, caught off guard, and for a few frank moments we’re just two normal people caught up in a genuinely difficult situation.
‘Why don’t we start over? I’m Mack Sullivan, thirty-five, photographer from Boston. Two boys, Nate and Leo. I like cold beer, the Red Sox, camping out.’ He pauses to think. ‘I’d take summer over winter, and lobster rolls and cheesecake would be my death-row dinner.’ I notice the flush on his neck when he takes a long drag of his beer.
It’s such a turnaround that I’m left floundering. I found it difficult just hearing his name earlier, I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with all these new details. He isn’t just the American any more, he’s a photographer and a father and a cheesecake lover.
‘Well, it’s good to meet you, Mack.’ I half smile, telling myself this is what I wanted – to make nice. Only slightly annoyed he’s done it first.
He touches his bottle to my glass. ‘Good to meet you too, Cleo Wilder.’
I don’t think I’ve heard my name spoken in an American accent before – it sounds a whole lot different, as if I’m someone far more cool and daring. What I’m feeling right this minute, though, is peer pressure. He’s shared and now it’s my turn. He made it sound so easy, but then he has that innate assured articulation Americans seem to be born with. I, on the other hand, am a buttoned-up Brit.
‘So as you know, I’m Cleo, twenty-nine, and I’m, er, a writer from London.’
His eyebrow does a thing and I pause. ‘What?’
He shrugs. ‘Nothing, continue.’
‘You thought I was older?’ I guess. ‘Younger?’
Mack shakes his head.
‘You’re surprised I’m a writer, then?’
He drinks beer and rests his elbows on his knees. ‘No. Go on, tell me more things.’
God, this is hard. I wish there was still wine in my glass. ‘I’m not sure what to tell you, really. I don’t have any hobbies besides writing. No animals, no kids. Horses scare me and … I don’t like rice pudding.’
I don’t like rice pudding?
‘That sounds like a whole lot of negatives,’ he says. ‘Why do horses scare you, Cleo?’
His mismatched eyes hold mine for a few heavy seconds and I feel bizarrely selfconscious about answering. I think he realizes because he gets up and grabs himself a fresh beer. I breathe slowly into the space he’s vacated.
‘More wine?’
‘A little,’ I say stiffly, as he brings it over and pours for me. I feel slightly foolish and out of my depth. I can’t even slink off to my room because this is my room. And it’s his room. Gah.
‘Good walk?’ I ask, glad when he drops into the corner of the sofa this time, instead of back on the table.
He nods. ‘This island is so much more than I expected, and I expected a lot.’
I’m almost ashamed to admit that I didn’t research Salvation in any great detail before I set off. Coming here was more about me than about here, which sounds pretty shallow now I think about it.
‘Salvation is the childhood home my grandmother talked about, the place where my mother set bedtime stories,’ he says. ‘I was always going to come here someday.’