Page 74 of One Night on the Island

I look at the floor. ‘I believe you.’ I do. I’d like to think there was enough honesty in our marriage for neither of us to have cheated.

‘I don’t even know if it’s anything yet,’ she says. ‘I know I said it was serious. I thought it was, got caught up in it, I guess. Too soon, I think.’

I can’t help but wonder what caused the setback for them. I’m pretty sure they didn’t play happy family the whole time at the lake but maybe he headed down there for a day. I find myself hoping that he’s a terrible fisherman.

‘Too soon to know?’

She looks at me then and a tear spills down her cheek. ‘Too soon after you, Mack Sullivan.’

I have to tell her about Cleo. It isn’t fair that she’s laying it on the line and I’m not.

‘Listen, Susie,’ I say, trying to pick the words that will hurt the least.

We both look up as a car eases to a stop just down the street. ‘Shit.’ Susie dashes her hands over her damp cheeks. ‘It’s Robert. I didn’t know he was coming.’

Ugh. I pinch the bridge of my nose as she jumps to her feet. I watch Robert get out of his sensible sedan, glad the kids aren’t here to watch this. Button-down vest. Check. Goofy tie. Check. Wary expression. Check. Sudden fury burning through my gut like acid? Check.

‘I should go,’ I mutter.

Susie turns to me. ‘Mack, you don’t have to …’

I can’t tell if she’s asking me to stay or to go. Way I see it, if I stay I might hit him, which would unpick all the good work we’ve done here this afternoon. I know I kind of forfeited the right to such indignation when I rubbed out that chalk line in Otter Lodge, but there’s no applying logic to the emotions running through my veins right now. I’ve known Robert for more than seven years. Has he always been sweet on Susie? Has he been hanging around in the wings, waiting for a crack to worm himself into? I’m angry with him in a way I’m not with Susie. I could pay a psychologist a small fortune to offer me a whole host of enlightened theories as to why this burns, or I could just listen to the wounded lion in my chest telling me this dude moved in on my pride when my back was turned and I should rip his fucking face off. I’m not proud of my feelings, but there they are.

‘I’m gonna head out,’ I say. ‘Tell the kids I’ll call them later.’

Robert slides back into his car in an almost comical reverse move as I take the porch steps two at a time. I don’t even look his way, just keep on going until I’m back in my truck, gunning the engine, getting myself out of there before I do anything stupid.

Later, I sit at the dining table, three beers in, photos of Salvation Island on my laptop in front of me. I’m framing it as work in my head, but what I’m really doing is looking for a way to ease the ache inside me. I’m reminding myself that life won’t always feel this hard, that there will be other places and other times, that I can slow dance to ‘Thunder Road’ under the stars and still be a good dad. I’ve picked at my own scabs over the last hour or so, scrolled through old photos of the kids when they were little, of Susie looking exhausted and beautiful in her hospital gown a couple of hours after Leo was born, of home-made birthday cakes and wobbly first steps. It’s so much to let go of, this love. Baby teeth and first curls tucked away in envelopes in a house I no longer live in, the tie I wore on the day I married Susie, folded into the box with her wedding dress in the attic. The romance of us tangled with the hot mess of parenting, diluting us and strengthening our bond all at the same time. I can’t shake the depressing weight of failure off my shoulders. Other people make it, why not us? I’ve spent long, sleepless nights turning that question over in my head, walking through the places when I didn’t do enough, when I didn’t say the right thing, and it’s futile. It’s hard work falling out of love when you don’t want to.

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.

Don’t miss group. I expect Delta knew that any phrase that allowed me a choice would fall on deaf ears, whereas I feel less able to ignore such a direct order. Don’t miss group today. I circle my thumb over the crystal face of my father’s watch. I’ve worn it constantly since my birthday, pressing my cheek against the cool glass sometimes for comfort. Midday, it tells me. Get up off the floor, child, he tells me. Brush your hair and walk your bum over that hill. Don’t miss group. I sigh as I pick up my mug and head inside in search of a hairbrush.

Brianne notices me first and fires herself across the room.

‘You came,’ she says. ‘Come in, let’s get you out of that wet coat, I’ll hang it over the radiator to dry.’ Her eyes brim with motherly concern, even though she can’t be more than a few years older than me. She hurries me across to the group, where the women are already shifting seats to make space for me on the sofa beside Delta.

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