I glance over my shoulder, hoping no one else heard her. There are a couple of elderly ladies eating cake at a table by the doors and a guy lounging against the counter talking to Delta. I think I’m safe.
‘You don’t need to shout,’ I say, leaning in. ‘Things are getting more and more complicated here. I’ve just emailed you this week’s piece.’
She claps like an excited five-year-old. ‘The first one went down like a bomb,’ she says. ‘People have totally bought into the idea of your self-coupling experiment, and the addition of the American is unexpected gold dust.’
‘He is?’
‘Yes with a capital Y, my friend,’ she says, high-fiving the air. ‘The fucking irony of marooning yourself on a deserted island and still having to bunk up with some random guy, it’s hilarious!’
‘But not really in the spirit of the journey,’ I whisper-shout, scanning for the volume button to turn her down because she’s really booming. ‘It’s a damn sight harder to self-couple when I’m not alone. I’m worried, Ali, it feels as if the whole reason for me coming here is compromised.’
‘I’ll bet,’ she says, not the least bit sympathetic. ‘Chalk, though? Chalk? I couldn’t make this stuff up and I have a good imagination. You’re the talk of the office. Practically of the whole UK. You’re a sensation, darling.’
I’m used to Ali’s ‘big-sky thinking’， as she calls it. Others might call it wild exaggeration. The truth usually lies somewhere in between. ‘It’s just … the boat comes in a couple of days, weather permitting, and I don’t know whether to get on it.’
‘Won’t he?’
‘Not a chance.’
‘And do you want to?’
I don’t say anything because I don’t know the honest answer. I could ask her to try to find me a different place, another remote lodge on another remote island. But I’m here now and it was such a huge effort to make the leap, and, Mack aside, there’s an undefinable magic to this place I don’t feel able to give up yet. I feel a fragile but definite connection to Salvation, unexpected but unshakable.
‘Let me help you out,’ Ali says, forthright as always. ‘Stay where you are, at least until after your birthday ceremony. If you come home before then, I hate to say it, but it’s all been a big old waste of time. We’ve told our readers you’re going to fucking marry yourself, Cleo. Marry yourself. You can’t jilt yourself at the metaphorical altar – what kind of message would that send out to everyone in a similar position looking to you for validation about their own life choices?’
‘Jeez, Ali, that’s putting it a bit strong,’ I mutter, feeling railroaded. ‘I’m not the Dalai Lama.’
She laughs, delighted. ‘You are, though! Right now, you’re the patron saint of single ladies. You’re Beyoncé.’
‘If you do the dance, I’m logging off,’ I say.
She glances at her watch. ‘I need to dash anyway. Team meeting at two. I’ll tell them you’ve checked in and to hold off on booking your neck tattoo because you’re going to stick it out like a trooper.’ She blows me a kiss and then disappears.
Right. So that was an unambiguous order. I log into social media and find Ali wasn’t exaggerating all that much: there’s loads of buzz around our ‘social experiment’， as she’s billed it. My column and the photos from last week are splashed across the magazine’s official account. I can’t deny the ripple of professional pride that passes through me at being their most viewed and liked post, or the wave of pressure that follows right behind it. I read the comments for a couple of minutes and then click away from the page because the blood is starting to pound in my ears. This isn’t just my spiritual journey any more. Responsibility settles heavy on my shoulders. This isn’t a flighty experiment for column inches. It’s hopes and dreams, mine and a whole load of other people out there too.
My idle fingers tap the keys and, without really planning to, I’ve typed in Mack Sullivan and photographer and Boston. Oh shit. Okay. I’d kind of imagined there’d be dozens of hits that weren’t connected to the man staying in Otter Lodge, but there he is, top of the list. His website. His work. Sweet Mary, Mother of God. He’s actually amazing. I scroll through his latest exhibition images: I’ve never been to Boston but through the medium of film and Mack’s imagination, I feel as if I’m there now. I can smell the clam chowder and hear the roar of the Red Sox fans and I can imagine taking a Duck Boat tour on the Charles River. I click on to his portrait gallery and the images staring out at me stir my soul. Some are casual, his subjects caught in a moment, not even aware of his lens. Others are posed, with props, or close studies, explosions of character caught in the slightest of glances towards the camera. Emotion radiates from every pixel; he’s a true artist. I realize that, in a way, we’re kind of alike – he moves people with pictures the way I strive to with words.