One Night on the Island(2)

Ali sits back down, absolutely unfazed by my speech, her fingers steepled in a way that suggests she’s either thinking or praying. ‘Exactly my point,’ she says finally. ‘This is the perfect opportunity to get away from the pressure of the huge surprise party your family are planning for your birthday, a valid reason to politely duck out of any impending weddings and baby showers, and the chance to catch your breath for the first time in three years.’

‘My family are planning a surprise party?’

Ali nods. ‘Your mum emailed me last week to check if you’d be able to take some time off and to ask for a list of all of your “London friends”. I use air quotes because she used actual quotes. She also mentioned looking up your old schoolmates on Facebook. Old boyfriends. Your funeral without you dying, basically.’

My fingers itch to text Tom for the lowdown. I love my family dearly, but surely they know me well enough to know that the ghosts of my past jumping out at me in a darkened room would be my personal hell? I’d rather get that flamingo tattoo. On my face.

‘So basically, it’s a huge birthday party, or accept your proposal that I self-couple alone on a remote island no one’s ever heard of off the Irish coast?’ I say, summarizing the meeting.

‘Salvation Island,’ Ali says. Her satisfied expression tells me how pleased she is by the serendipitous name of the island. She probably changed it herself by deed poll, or whatever it is you have to do to change the name of an island. It’s the kind of stunt she’d pull if she thought it would boost readership.

‘All expenses paid,’ she adds, as if that’s going to be the clincher.

‘Can’t I self-couple in my flat?’

‘No.’

‘The Maldives?’

‘Not all expenses paid, no.’

‘Will it be cold?’

Ali’s face contorts with the effort of trying to turn a grimace into a smile. ‘Come on, now. Who ever wrote their best work under a beach umbrella? Think inspirational log fires and steaming cups of ambition.’

‘You totally stole that line from Dolly Parton,’ I grouch, not at all happy with the situation.

Ali’s eyes gleam. ‘No nine-to-five on Salvation Island,’ she says, slowly reeling me in.

I weigh up my options. Just thinking about turning thirty spikes my anxiety levels again. Marking it with a huge party surrounded by people I no longer know, who will no doubt be sporting wedding bands like medals, has my heart reaching for its suitcase.

‘I do love Ireland,’ I say quietly, feeling Ali’s web closing around me. As it was always going to.

She nods. ‘The lodge is so beautiful, totally off-grid.’ She pauses. ‘A writer’s dream.’

She’s saying words she knows will speak straight to my heart. I may be a dating columnist right now, but thanks to wine-fuelled confessions, she knows about the secret novelist hiding out inside me, the fragile teen dreams all but buried under London life. I begrudgingly admire the way she says just enough to trigger a flare of tender hope. ‘How do you even know about this place?’ I say, wavering.

Ali sighs. ‘Carole sent me the details. One of her hippy friends used it as a reiki retreat or for rechannelling her negative energy, something like that. You know what she’s like, always thinks I’m on the edge of a breakdown.’ Ali’s sister-in-law, Carole, expresses her concern through birthday and Christmas gifts: cupping vouchers, life-decluttering manuals, a Tibetan gong Ali sometimes whacks when she wants everyone’s attention. ‘Think of it as a honeymoon,’ she says, getting the discussion back on track. ‘Or a … unimoon.’ She doesn’t even try to hide how thrilled she is with herself at that.

‘Is there Wi-Fi?’ I ask, clutching at straws. I can’t go if I can’t file my column.

‘Technically, no, but would I send you somewhere without it?’ She shudders. ‘They have it in the village – it’s just a ten-minute stroll away, apparently.’

Great. Cold, damp and no checking Insta while I’m on the loo. ‘You’ve already booked it, haven’t you?’ I say, resigned.

She hums the bridal march as she reaches into her drawer and slides a red pom-pom hat across the desk. ‘You fly on Friday.’





Cleo




Four days later


Somewhere on the Atlantic

FORECAST: HIGH CHANCE OF UNSOLICITED ADVICE


I’m about to die and it’s Emma Watson’s fault.

If I had any phone reception I’d call Ali and swear like a sailor, which would be entirely appropriate given I’m on board a rickety tug boat in the middle of the unforgiving Atlantic Ocean. It’s like being on the pirate ship at an amusement park, except without any sense of safety or fun.

Salvation Island – that’s the English translation, in any case. It’s actually called Slánú, but Ali tells me most people use Salvation, probably so they can maximize on ‘Welcome to Salvation’ tea towels and other tourist tat. If I had the strength, I’d find the name ironic. Instead, I grip the slippery railings beside my bench seat and mutter a made-up prayer for safe harbour. I shiver inside my inadequate coat as ice-cold sea spray smacks me right in the face, and I fervently wish I had a hood on rather than the drenched scarlet woollen bobble hat Ali gave me.