‘Who are you, beautiful creature, and what have you done with Cleo?’ Mack grins when I emerge a little later from the bathroom, almost ready to go.
Truthfully, I feel special. I’ve treated myself with extra care today, taking the time to enjoy the rituals of preparation. It’s easy here to bundle up and go make-up free, and it’s been a pleasure to remind myself of the joy I draw from applying eyeliner just so, and from taking time to paint my nails, oil my skin. It feels a luxury to wear my hair down. It’s one hundred per cent going to stick to my lip gloss when the wind catches it, but that’s okay.
‘Is it too much?’ I say, plucking at the frothed hem of my dress. It’s so very pretty, I felt Insta-romantic as soon as it settled over my body. The tiny shell buttons running down the seamed bodice do that period drama hoick to my boobs. It’s demure and nostalgic, entirely perfect for the occasion.
Mack picks up the flower circlet between his hands as I walk towards him.
‘It’s not too much,’ he says, placing the flowers on my head and then stepping back. ‘Let me look at you.’
I do a slow twirl on my bare feet, and when I’m facing him again, he reaches out and holds both of my hands.
‘You look … you look sensational, Cleo. Strong and soft, a true island woman. Now go out there and do yourself proud.’
It’s the rallying speech I didn’t know I needed. I don’t lean in to kiss him because this afternoon is so much about me that it feels almost like a betrayal to make it about us. I slide my arms into my oversized midnight-blue cardigan. It’s scattered with silver stars and almost as long as my dress, and at the door I pause to put on the yellow-striped wellington boots.
‘I don’t know how, but you’re pulling that look off,’ Mack says. ‘It’s kinda woodland princess meets warrior queen.’
It’s a good description – I’d feared the wellies had pushed me from boho to hobo. I pick up the basket I’ve packed with the things I might want with me: my mother’s birthday card and gift, the speech I’ve been working on, the ring from Dolores, a few other bits and pieces. It’s a clear, blustery, pale-blue day, one of the best we’ve experienced since we arrived here. The fanciful part of me hopes my dad blew away the rain clouds. I decide I’m allowed to give my absent father superpowers on my wedding day.
‘I’m ready now,’ I say.
‘Want me to walk with you a while?’ Mack says.
I shake my head. ‘No. I’ve got it,’ I say. ‘Will you be here when I come back?’
‘Do you want me to be?’
He isn’t asking me to need him. He’s asking me what I need.
‘I’d like that,’ I say. ‘Unless you’re busy?’
He lays his hand over mine on the railing. ‘I’m not busy.’
‘Okay then.’ I nod. I look at him, noticing the way the sunlight catches his mismatched eyes and warms his sandy hair. He seems taller and broader somehow, stoic and sure beside me. I get that déjà-vu feeling again, that we could be standing in the footprints of islanders from years gone by. If I glance back at him as I walk away, will he be in shirtsleeves and braces, his hands grimy from working the land? I push my shoulders back and walk tall across the beach, reassured by the knowledge he’ll be there waiting for me when I get back.
I can feel my elevated heart rate as I make my way over the uneven rock pools, placing my feet carefully to avoid slipping or crushing delicate sea snails clinging to the slick surfaces, my basket swinging in the breeze. I was right about my hair sticking to my lip gloss, but I don’t mind, because the skies are blue, my wellies have primrose-yellow stripes and I’m buoyed by the unexpected kindness of people who were strangers to me before I came here. This is the moment, the afternoon I’ve waited for. I’m here for this, and it’s not lashing down with rain or doomed to fail, it’s going to be magnificent and all of the things I dreamed it would be, because how could it not? Quiet exhilaration blooms in my chest as I slide between the rocks and place my basket down on the sand in the sheltered alcove. ‘I’m here,’ I whisper. ‘I’m here.’
I’ve shown up for myself. I haven’t stood myself up at the altar. Like every other single woman I know, I have a playlist on my laptop of inspiring songs for those moments when I need to feel powerful, and snippets of it merge together now as a soundtrack in my head. My alternative wedding march. Yes, Lady Gaga, I am on the edge of glory, and yes, Alicia Keys, this girl is on fire.