I click through the images of Salvation, letting the island seep slowly into my head, beauty to balance the bitterness. Moody skies, rolling grey seas, rain-lashed beaches, the warmth of Raff’s smile behind the bar in the Salvation Arms. Man, I wish he was here to share a beer with right now, I could use some company to save me drinking alone. Delta fills my screen, her green eyes full of trouble. The granite crosses at the church on the headland, a lone islander stooped to tend to the flowers. It brings me a great deal of comfort knowing Salvation is still out there living and breathing, the welcome of the people, the hostility of the weather, the sanctuary of Otter Lodge.
I click again and Cleo’s image fills my screen, laughing over her shoulder into my lens as the wind whips her hair across her mouth on the beach. They say the camera never lies for good reason. Every now and then, in just the right light at just the right nanosecond, you can capture the entire essence of a person in a single frame. This is one of those magic moments. I can hear her carefree laugh, I can see her innate goodness. If you didn’t know the person in this photograph, you’d want to. You’d look into her eyes for a while and you’d know that she’s someone who leaves a bright trail of starlight behind her, guiding lights for lost souls on the darkest of nights. That’s me, Cleo. I could really use your guiding lights tonight.
Cleo
2 November
Salvation Island
MESSAGE RECEIVED, UNIVERSE
Karen Carpenter was bang on the money about rainy days and Mondays. It’s Monday morning and it’s rainy, a double whammy, but I’m not complaining because it suits my mood. I’ve already been up once and gone back to bed, the weather can do whatever the hell it wants.
Mack’s been gone for six days now. It feels like six hundred years and then it feels like six seconds, as if I blinked him away. How I wish I could blink him back. I won’t even try to deny how much I’d love to look out of the kitchen window and see him walking down the hill, or to roll over and find him sleeping in bed beside me. It’s excruciating. Micro-love, we called it, but this feels like a major-love hangover. I’ve gone full-on mope – ‘Thunder Road’ on repeat, can’t face food, haven’t brushed my hair. I hate feeling this rough, it’s as if I’m letting myself down. I stood on the porch at first light this morning and squinted out to sea, wondering if the Pioneer had lifted anchor and sailed without me, bitterly disappointed by my lack of gumption. ‘I didn’t expect to feel this bloody terrible!’ I shouted, leaning forward over the railing. ‘It’s not my sodding fault I miss him this much!’ I yelled, full of fury, shocked by the actual physical pain of heartsickness. I need Mack to post me back that sliver of my heart, I think it might have been arterial. Is that a good enough reason to get in touch, even though we promised we wouldn’t? We have each other’s numbers; we scrawled them on the rules sheet on the fridge, for emergency contact only. I could sit on top of Wailing Hill and call him right now, listen to the clicks and silences of my desperation beam out across the miles to wherever he is. I won’t. Of course I won’t. But the fact that I could almost makes me feel worse. It’ll get easier, it has to. I won’t die of heart malaise. This isn’t a Shakespearean play. I’ll pull myself together soon, honestly I will, and I’ll brush my hair, eat something. Delete ‘Thunder Road’ from my playlist. Even as I think it, I press play one more time. Bruce plays his harmonica, soulful, and I curl up in a ball in the middle of the bed and cry.
There’s a note shoved under the door when I open my eyes. I see it from across the room, a flash of white on the floorboards, and I jump out of bed and scrabble for it in case it’s from Mack. Oh God! Did he come back? I straighten and lean against the door to open the folded piece of paper. It isn’t from Mack.
Hey Cleo, don’t miss group today, we have something for you. D xx
Delta. I sigh as I balance the kettle on the stove. I don’t think I can muster myself enough to walk over to the village this afternoon. I’m still wearing yesterday’s jeans and crumpled red-and-black-checked shirt, and my hair is more knot than not. I’m not going to go.
I take my coffee out on to the porch to think about it some more. I danced on this very spot on my birthday, spun round by Mack, my dress twirling out around my knees. I close my eyes and try to summon the joyful girl I was in that exact moment, but she’s beyond me. I take a sip of coffee, hot scald in the cold wind, and I sit down because standing is suddenly too much effort. I sit cross-legged and cradle my cup for warmth, my eyes fixed on the bay. He’s out there somewhere, across fathoms of water and several time zones, back to being a father and a son, brilliant photographer and discarded husband. Only maybe he’s not discarded any more. I had no idea it was possible to miss someone this much. I keep reminding myself that we had such a brief affair, it’s unreasonable to allow myself to fall this shockingly low. I put my half-full mug down on the sandy boards, sick of coffee on an empty stomach.