Page 9 of One Night on the Island

If I had a book, I’d pull it out now and read it for dramatic effect because I’ve been waiting outside the store for ten minutes and I’ve only just now caught sight of her huge red beanie coming towards me. We’d set out from the lodge together, but it wasn’t what you might call a pleasant walk. She was in a bad mood because her brand-new boots have rubbed the skin off her ankle and I was preoccupied with getting there and with thoughts of Susie and the boys. At one point I offered to give her a ride on my back, because I’m not wholly without a heart and to be honest I was sick of her whining, but she just stomped off so I left her to her own devices.

‘You made it,’ I say. If looks could kill, I’d be dead. I nod towards the door. ‘After you?’

I expect she was planning to go in first anyway, but it makes me feel better to think I had a choice. I’m not sure, but as she passes I think I hear her mutter, ‘Bloody fucking mountain,’ under her breath.

Inside, the store reminds me of the lake campsite I went to every summer as a kid. Random stuff piled next to each other on the shelves; flashlights next to canned soup, shower gel beside pet food, a cardboard sheet of hair combs hanging above a rack of birthday cards. It seems like there’s no one in the place until we approach the cash register, then a woman bounces out from behind a beaded curtain with a sandwich in her hand. Elfin-faced and pixie-cropped, she radiates energy like a light bulb at full brightness.

‘Oh, hi.’ She dips her hand behind the curtain to lose the food, brushing her hands on her jeans to get rid of the crumbs. ‘I’m so sorry, I expected you to be someone else.’ I instantly warm to her; if there’s a more welcoming accent than the Irish one, I have yet to hear it.

Her smile widens, a gleam of anticipation in her clear blue eyes as she looks at each of us in turn. ‘You must be our honeymooners.’

‘Honeymooners?’ I say.

‘Over at Otter?’ she says. ‘Sorry I couldn’t stay yesterday to meet you with the key – I usually do as a rule but it was my husband’s birthday.’

‘We’re not honeymooners,’ we both say at the same time.

‘I don’t even know him.’

‘And I don’t know her.’

The woman behind the counter narrows her eyes, confused. ‘Oh, okay. Well, I’ll start, will I? I’m Brianne,’ she says, bright and breezy as a kids’ TV show host. ‘And you are …?’ Brianne shifts her gaze between us, waiting for one of us to speak. For a moment neither of us breaks cover, probably for similar reasons. I deliberately haven’t asked her name, and she hasn’t asked for mine either. It’s not easy to analyse why knowing something as simple as her name feels like too much information. I guess she’ll become somebody rather than nobody, and I’d prefer her to stay a nobody, however harsh that may sound.

I sigh, about to speak, but she whips her paperwork out of her inside jacket pocket and pushes it across the counter to Brianne, who scans it and looks up.

‘So you’re Cleo?’

Cleo. And there you go. I sigh and shake my head because, just like that, she’s somebody.

Brianne’s gaze shifts to me, uncertain, no doubt picking up on the weird energy between us. ‘And … you are?’

I clear my throat, unwilling, feeling like I’m thirteen and in trouble in middle school. ‘Mack,’ I mutter.

I feel her – Cleo – bristle beside me, and I deliberately don’t glance her way.

‘Look,’ Brianne says, reaching a black planner up from beneath the counter. ‘I’ve no clue what’s happening here, so you’re going to have to help me out.’ She flips the book open as she speaks, rifling through the pages. ‘Let’s see what I have written down in here …’

I hold my breath. Please, Barney, come through for me.

‘Cleo Wilder,’ she says. ‘But whoever made the booking ticked the honeymoon champagne package so I kind of assumed there’d be two of you?’

Even I’m confused now. I turn to look at Cleo. ‘Are you on your honeymoon?’

‘Oh, shut up,’ she snaps, irritated. ‘You know perfectly well I’m not on my bloody honeymoon. It’s probably my boss’s idea of a joke.’

Concentration furrows Brianne’s brow. I’m not surprised she’s having a hard time keeping up. So am I.

Cleo’s exaggerated sigh shudders up from her boots, a clear ‘can everyone please just stop speaking and listen to me’. I don’t think so. I need to get a word in here.

‘My cousin Barney owns Otter Lodge,’ I say.

Brianne’s face breaks into an easy, relieved smile. ‘Oh, so you’re Barney Doyle’s cousin? We were in school together. In fact, he was my secret crush when I was about six years old.’

She’s grinning, pink-cheeked, and so am I because here it is, bona-fide proof of my claim. The only person not loving this trip down memory lane is Cleo.

‘That’s so sweet.’ I laugh for a few seconds too long. ‘Anyway, Barney has offered me the lodge until New Year’s, so Cleo’s looking for someplace else on the island to stay.’

‘Hang on a minute.’ Cleo yanks her beanie off and thumps it down hard on the counter. ‘I’m not the one who needs a new place to stay.’

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