I leave my boots beside the basket and walk barefoot to the shoreline, the damp, compacted sand cold beneath the soles of my feet. For a few moments, I stand there and let the lace-edged foam chase over the very tips of my toes, my eyes closed, counting as I breathe in, counting my breath back out again, centring myself. There’s no rush.
When I open my eyes, I take the time to notice the physical sensations around me: the chilled breeze on my face, the whimsical movement of my dress about my knees, the shock of the ice-cold water covering my toes. I plant my feet a little wider and rest my balled fists on my hips, shoulders back, chin up. It’s a superhero pose I learned from an old episode of Grey’s Anatomy, one of the doctors used to do it right before going into surgery to save someone’s life. It’s overly dramatic to say I’ve come to Salvation Island to save my own life, but I’ve realized during my time here that I need to release myself from my gilded London cage. This is me pulling up a pew, making myself a cup of tea and asking myself a really crucial question … What do I want to do with the rest of my life? Or if that’s too much, what do I want to do next? ‘Here’s a blank sheet of paper, write your story, Cleo. Write your next chapter,’ I say out loud, still superwoman at the shore edge. ‘Make yourself some promises. Tell the wind your secrets and the ocean your dreams.’
In any other place at any other time, I might have felt selfconscious talking to myself, but not today. I feel pure and emptied out, as if I’m letting all of the negative pressures and feelings pass out through the soles of my feet, and every time the sea washes in, it takes away more of the things holding me back. I’m not someone who follows organized religion, but it’s close to a religious experience to feel so renewed, so held by nature.
There isn’t a boat on the horizon or a person in the distance. Mack mentioned finding a vantage point up on the cliff for photos but, as promised, I can’t see him. I could have the planet to myself right now. I head back to the clearing and pick up a driftwood stick. I use it to draw a large circle in the sand, then add the cushion I’ve brought with me to save my backside getting damp. Sitting down cross-legged, I straighten my spine, vertebra by vertebra. My yoga teacher would be impressed if she could see me right now. I must look next-level spiritual. Reaching into my basket, I lay out the contents around me in the circle. A card and gift from my mum. The cotton pouch from Dolores. I’m surprised to find a silver hip flask in there too, whiskey from Mack to warm me. Finally, I unfold the sheet of paper with my notes on it, smoothing it on my knee, holding tight to the corners so the wind doesn’t carry it out to sea.
‘Dearly beloved me,’ I say, clear and definite. Just saying those words out loud makes me smile. In my mind, this is my Donna from Mamma Mia! moment, preferably the Lily James version. I love Meryl and I actually own a similar pair of dungarees, but all the same, I’m channelling my inner Lily. ‘I’ve brought myself here today, in front of Mother Nature, Neptune and all the mermaids, to acknowledge that I, Cleo Wilder, do take myself, Cleo Wilder, to be my strongest advocate and my most loyal friend, my loudest cheerleader and my most trusted confidante.’
I pause and gaze out to sea, my palms resting on my knees, my hair swirling around my shoulders in the wind. I acknowledge I haven’t always been my own best friend, and I certainly haven’t always been my own strongest advocate. I’ve lingered too long in toxic relationships and I’ve told myself to put up with things I’d tell a friend not to tolerate.
‘I promise to listen to myself, to take the time to hear the voice in my gut, because I know myself better than anyone and I always have my own best interests at heart. I’m wise enough to know when someone is disingenuous and I know when enough is enough. I also know that I am enough, and I’m brave, and I will succeed. I won’t judge myself too harshly when I get things wrong because everyone gets things wrong sometimes, but I won’t let myself off the hook without learning lessons, either.’
That’s quite a thorny one for me. Only a fool keeps doing the same thing and expecting a different outcome, but nevertheless it’s been the general trajectory of my romantic life. I’ve hitched my wagon to unsuitable men and then been newly surprised every time the wheels come off. I’ve tossed this pattern around in my head quite a lot lately, especially because Mack is, for all intents and purposes, yet another unsuitable man. He loves someone else, which is as big and unsuitable as it gets. But then Mack is different because we’re not actually dating with the intention of it heading anywhere. We agreed to our rules up front: when our time is up, we’ll close the door on it and throw away the key. I sigh. No, I don’t want to sidetrack myself with thoughts about what’s happening in my love life right now. This is about what happens next, what happens after Salvation.