I don’t know where that last one even came from. All her talk about her siblings maybe? And thinking about the loneliness of being an only child caught between warring parents. I close my eyes and think about my sons, glad they’ll always have each other.
Cleo
12 October
Salvation Island
REMEMBER THE TRUMAN SHOW?
When I made my bucket list of things to do while I’m here, it didn’t include ‘refresh the chalk line down the middle of the lodge’ but that’s what I’ve just done as I wait for the kettle to boil.
Mack left early. I heard him get up, trying to be quiet as he moved around and gathered his camera gear. How can anyone need so much clunky equipment when the cameras on our phones are so damn sophisticated? My sister, Sadie, sends me pictures of her kids all the time, you’d think she has a professional photographer following her around twenty-four seven. I’ve taken loads of shots since I arrived here too, and I know it sounds like I’m blowing my own trumpet but some of them look good enough to be published. I might just send them to Ali along with the next piece.
I’ve set my bucket list aside today in favour of striking out and following my nose. I’ve been here for ten days now and I’ve yet to see much beyond the island shop. It isn’t that I’m uninterested in my surroundings; for the first few days I was too wound up by the unexpected complication （aka Mack）， and since then I’ve felt like a diver decompressing slowly through the fathoms in order to not get the bends. London is breakneck; here you move to a different beat. I think I’m finally ready now, acclimatized and keen to see what the rest of the island has to offer. A village, I know, and a church, quiet paths and views across the ocean. I’ve never lived in close proximity to the sea. Back home it’s easy to forget that we’re an island nation, especially living in London, but the ebb and flow of the tide is intrinsic to life here. It sets the island rhythm, dictates who leaves and who stays. We’re beholden and dependent on it, and I find that reliance on something so out of our control very soothing.
Even the mountain feels less of an obstacle today. The wind has dropped and I’m not soaked to the skin, and it’s really not all that awful now I’m taking it at my own pace. All the same, I’m glad to reach the boulder at the summit. I park my bum for a few minutes to take stock. God, the air here tastes clean. It’s like drinking diamonds. I gulp it down, imagining the purity party happening in my lungs right now.
My phone pips in my pocket, reminding me I’ve reached the only decent reception spot. Ruby’s voice blares out unnaturally loud when I autopilot click the screen. ‘Seriously, girl, no messages? No how you doin’， Rubes, don’t forget your keys because I’m not around to buzz you in?’ She pauses, and then starts again, fast and laughing. ‘I borrowed your blue top from your wardrobe, you know, the one with the red buttons down the back? I have a date tonight. Well, not a date. More of a hook-up, but you get the picture. It’s Damien, so, you know. Other news – your yucca died. I forgot to water it, it’s beyond saving, soz. Oh, and get this! You know Haley, that girl from –’
I click the message off without listening to the rest. I don’t know who Haley is. Rubes has a social circle bigger than the Arctic Circle, I can’t retain all the names. I’ve had that yucca plant for bloody yonks, it was in the flat when I got there, all parched and sorry for itself. I know it was only a plant, but I’d grown to enjoy the ritual of wiping its glossy leaves after I revived it. Besides, she knows perfectly well I love that top, it’s vintage from a market we stumbled through a few summers ago. I don’t like the idea of it crumpled on Ruby’s bedroom floor. I’ve met Damien a couple of times, usually when I’m running out to work and he’s ambling out of Ruby’s to do whatever he does with his days. He seems all right, a tall, angular man with unruly Harry Styles hair and half-buttoned shirts that cling to his body. They have a relationship that involves few words and a lot of action.
I loosen my grip on my phone. My emails are undoubtedly stacking up, but I’m not in the mood for further intrusion. I’m not as addicted to my phone as a lot of people I know, but I’ve certainly allowed it to become a necessary part of my life. My morning alarm, my distraction on the loo, music for the shower, my train journey companion. It keeps me up to date with my family too; a ‘like’ for the gold star Sadie’s eldest received for her project last week, heart-eyes for the tooth fairy’s visit to my youngest nephew. TV stars and celeb gossip. Colleagues and my mum. It drops me momentarily into their lives, a ‘like’ or quick comment so they won’t feel offended if we haven’t spoken in a while. I turn it over in my hands, my portal to the rest of the world. To Ali, chasing my words. To Ruby, wearing my clothes. To scads of email marketing shots I won’t read. I hold my finger down on the side button until it switches off.