Page 23 of One Night on the Island

He shakes a stick of chalk out of the box.

‘You can trust me, I’m a scrupulously fair man,’ he says, bending to mark the floor.

I watch as a stark white line appears down the centre of the lodge, and I don’t make any land grab attempts because, true to his word, he makes a fair job of it.

‘There.’ He straightens, leaning a hand on the dining table to steady himself. ‘Your place and my place.’

I take my seat back at the dining table, now designated common ground.

‘I like it,’ I say and, bizarrely enough, I really do. I now have space that is mine and I feel I know Mack just well enough to believe he won’t violate it. I’ll return the favour and maybe, just maybe, this coming week won’t be as mentally draining as the last one.

He clears his throat and my eyes open in the darkness, my head still slightly spinning from the whiskey.

‘I’m a cat guy, not a dog guy,’ he says. ‘I drink tequila if I need to get drunk fast and I’ll always argue the case for The Wire over The Sopranos.’

I don’t tell him that I’ve never watched either because I kind of love that he’s picked up the ‘three random things in the dark’ baton. It tells me a lot in a shorthand way.

‘My family clubbed together to buy me a second-hand lime-green iBook for my fourteenth birthday, remember the clamshell kind? It was the stuff my teenage dreams were made of. I’ve started so many novels since then. I want to finish one,’ I say. I don’t tell him about the longing to feel my book in my hands, or about my secret dreams of red-carpet screenings when my book becomes a smash-hit movie. ‘I always pick the killer beans out of chilli and Helvetica is the only sane font choice.’

‘Killer beans?’

‘Kidney beans can poison you if they’re not cooked properly. How can you not know that and still be alive? I never touch them, just in case.’

I hear him laugh as I close my eyes, and for the first time since I arrived, I don’t wish he was somewhere else.

Mack

9 October

Salvation Island

THE BOAT COMES TODAY!

SEVEN DAYS UNTIL THE BOAT COMES

‘They were right about that storm,’ I say. It’s almost eight in the morning and neither Cleo nor I have felt the inclination to leave our respective beds yet; it’s barely light thanks to the stormy skies and the wind rattling the windows of the lodge. Cleo looks up and sighs, her face illuminated by the light from her laptop screen. I don’t know how she can focus to work; last night’s whiskey has given me a pounding headache right behind my eyes.

‘My eldest sister is terrified of thunder,’ Cleo says. ‘She used to hide under the kitchen table when we were kids.’

‘I never understand that fear,’ I say. I’m a fan of big weather. Scorch my eyeballs out or snow me in, just don’t bore me with endless grey days. My life has felt like a series of endless grey days since I moved into that damn condo. ‘How’s your head?’

She tips it from side to side, testing it before she answers. ‘Clear as a bell. I don’t get hangovers.’

‘Wow. You’re already my most annoying neighbour.’

Her eyes flicker along the bold white chalk line that seemed like such a good idea last night.

‘I know you might think it’s stupid now we’re both sober, but I want to keep it.’

I won’t lie; in the cold light of day I think it’s impractical and untenable, but the subtle rise of her chin suggests determination and it’s not a battle worth fighting as long as she leaves next week.

‘Fine,’ I say.

‘And I’d like to suggest a few other house rules too,’ she says, watching me through narrowed eyes. It feels as if she’s pushing against the edges of my patience to see if she can get a rise.

‘Go for it.’

Her shoulders slide down and she clears her throat, like someone stepping on stage to give a TED Talk.

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