My phone vibrates, letting me know a message has arrived.
One – You sound in need of someone to hold you tonight. I wish it could be me.
Two – Raff, man. Devastating. I’ve just poured myself a whiskey in his honour.
Three – Good for Delta, a new baby always raises spirits. A toast to the new boy too, then. To beginnings and to inevitable ends.
Three A – And lastly, a toast to you. Be happy always, Cleo. Dance to Thunder Road and scatter your beautiful words across the pages. X
I read his words, and then click my phone off and look out to sea. To beginnings and to inevitable ends. I can’t shake the feeling that I’ll never hear from him again.
Cleo
23 November
Salvation Island
IF FOUND, RETURN TO SLáNú
So, the boat is coming back today, out of sequence because someone actually died. My fingers itch to text Mack, but I don’t, because our last texts were loaded with full-circle finality. A birth, a death, final advice. I’m not sure where you go from there.
Bruised clouds have hung over the island since Raff’s death, a mournful dimming of the lights by the weather gods. Delta’s baby is a spark, though. I called round to see her this morning, and between terrifying me with TMI post-birth stories and wrangling the baby into a suitable breastfeeding position aided by a pile of pillows and a printed-out diagram, she made a proposition that set all the cogs and wheels in my head awhirl in unison. I held the baby and listened to what Delta had to say, and then I left her to head down to the café. It’s closed today, but she’s given me the keys to let myself in.
Coffee in hand, I fire up the computer and wait for it to connect. I’ve already texted Ali over the weekend to let her know about the emergency change to my plans; she knows enough to understand why I’m not back at my desk in London this morning. She also knows the boat is coming back this lunchtime, weather permitting, so I should be in the office by Wednesday. Barney Doyle is over on the mainland waiting to come across and special supplies have been ordered in for Raff’s funeral next week. Barney Doyle, owner of Otter Lodge, Mack’s mystery relative. I’m harbouring unreasonable resentfulness towards Barney; I hope he loves the lodge enough. I feel as protective towards it as it has been of me. I dithered over leaving him a note this morning with instructions about how to light the temperamental stove and the special knack to closing the kitchen window so it doesn’t rattle in the wind. I didn’t, of course. It’s his place, I’m sure he knows its foibles.
My stomach flips as I wait for Ali to appear on the screen, the ringing tone amplified in the silent café. My bags are ready to go, but I am not.
‘Come in, my roving reporter, are you receiving me? Is this thing on?’ She taps on the screen as she looms in close to the webcam.
I grin and take a sip of coffee. ‘It’s good to see you too,’ I say.
‘So much hair,’ she says, making big air motions around my face with her hands. ‘Spa day on the cards asap, you’ve earned it, girl. The wedding ceremony column has lit up social media. Those photos, just wow.’ She crosses her hands over her heart and nods, priest-like.
Sometimes, it’s best to just come out with things, to say what you need to say quick and fast before you can back down. This, I know, is one of those sometimes.
‘Ali, I want to resign with immediate effect. I’m working on one last piece and then it has to be over.’
She blinks, craning her immaculately made-up face towards the screen, her hands still over her heart.
‘You can’t resign. Put your red bobble hat on and get back here, we need you.’
‘Ali, I’d really like to get this off my chest in one go.’
‘Cleo,’ she says, but stops when I shake my head.
‘Please?’ I say. ‘The last thing I’d ever want to do is leave you in the lurch after you took a chance on me. You’ve done more for me than you could possibly know and I’m forever grateful.’ I pause. ‘You saw that I needed some time out so you sent me here on this mission almost against my will, and I’m so glad, Ali, because it’s been absolutely life-changing. Cataclysmic. I’ve fallen in love with Salvation Island, and with a man, and then with myself, in that order. I don’t care if I’m having a bad hair day, Ali.’ Of all the things I’ve just said, I know that last bit will land. ‘I’ve been writing like I’m possessed, words spilling out, and if I come back to London now that will stop. I’m not asking you for more time off. I know you need a bum in my seat. But it won’t be my bum. My place is here for a while yet. The boat is coming today and I’m not getting on it. If I do, I’ll lose the impetus – being here is an essential part of the magic equation.’ I stop speaking, breathless.