better than him. And even if Two Gold Rings go out, we’re going to go out on a positive note, spreading love and happiness, unlike the kind of thing he’s used to spreading, which is generally more useful for fertilising farm crops.
***
Clara is hovering as I sit in the dining room, pulling apart a Danish pastry and looking out over the spectacular view. She’s offered me at least ten coffee refills, six pieces of toast, three full Englishes, and she keeps coming back to check if I need anything. I know she’s itching to say something. She probably wants to know why I threw wine over Rohan last night and then went up to my room in tears. She probably wants to know why I was ‘feeling ill’ but somehow managed to demolish a huge slice of chocolate cake.
‘He’s been hurt, hasn’t he?’ Clara eventually blurts out.
‘Who?’ I say, feigning indifference.
‘Mr Carter. I can tell these things, you know.’
‘I have absolutely no idea.’ I take an uninterested sip of coffee. ‘And if he has then I’m sure he thoroughly deserved it.’
‘Oh, do you think so?’ She pulls out the opposite chair and plonks herself down. ‘He seems like a lovely chap to me, but he’s definitely had his heart broken. He hides behind that humour and endless sarcasm but he’s hurting really.’
‘It’s probably muscle strain from carrying his gigantic ego around.’
She looks at me in surprise. ‘You too?’
‘Me? No, I’ve never been hurt.’ I glance down at my empty ring finger. ‘I’ve never had a chance to be hurt.’
‘People use humour as a barrier to protect themselves.’
‘Not me.’
‘I clocked him yesterday, you know. When he was reading my inspirational quotes about love on the walls, I saw him trying to laugh at them but I could tell they made him sad.’
I give her a sombre smile. She really does see the best in him. ‘I think you’re overestimating him. He was probably just genuinely laughing at them. That’s what he does.’
‘That’s what a lot of people do until they meet the person who makes them make sense.’
I think about the little plaques lining the walls of the hallway to the dining room. They’re sweet little quotes about love, well-known sayings written in pretty calligraphy on heart-shaped wooden boards. Some of them are a bit sappy even for me, but knowing what I know of R.C. Art, there was nothing false about his laughter at them. They’re all nice sentiments and something warms in my chest at the idea of one day meeting someone who makes me feel like that.
‘I’ve seen men like him so many times. They don’t know how to deal with their emotions so they just shut out their pain and make a joke of it. I’m sure he’s a lovely man underneath whatever it is he’s done to upset you.’
Either Clara is a mind reader or she saw much more of what happened last night than I thought she did.
‘He hasn’t done anything to upset me. I don’t even know him. He’s a complete stranger to me.’
‘He likes you though.’
‘Oh, he really doesn’t, trust me on that.’
‘And I know you like him too.’
‘Oh, I really don’t,’ I say, wondering if she really is a mind reader. Maybe that’s why there’s nothing on the internet about The Little Wedding Island. Maybe it’s just sort of conducted via Jedi mind tricks.
‘I’ve owned this place for twenty-five years. I’ve met hundreds of young couples like yourselves, people who come to get married, people who come to honeymoon, people who return year after year for a little holiday. I’ve seen relationships begin and end. I’ve seen couples head over heels in love and couples who hate each other. Trust me when I say he likes you, and you know as well as I do that you like him too. There’s no point trying to deny it, it’s as clear as day every time you smile at him.’
‘I don’t know what gives you that idea,’ I mutter. ‘I don’t even know him, and what little I do know, I assure you I don’t like.’
‘He was really concerned about you last night. After you went off ill.’ She puts an emphasis on the word that leaves me with no doubt of how untrue she thinks it is. ‘He seemed really upset. And he comfort-ate masses of my chocolate cake. And so clumsy too. Quite how someone manages to pour wine down their own neck is beyond me.’
He didn’t tell her the truth. Part of me thinks that’s really nice. He’s saved me from her undoubtedly endless questioning, but the other, more logical part of me thinks that if he’d told her the truth, he’d have had to tell her why I’d thrown my wine over him, and that would’ve led to having to admit to being a reporter.
‘Are you certain that you feel better this morning?’
‘Oh yes, fine, thank you. I’m sure it was just a bit of residual seasickness that didn’t hit me until later. A good night’s sleep has sorted me right out.’ I don’t know why I’m bothering to lie. She can see right through me. But whatever the reason is that Rohan didn’t tell her the truth, I’m interested to see where he’s going with it, because if I know one thing about R.C. Art, it’s that he’ll stop at nothing for a story. It makes me wonder what exactly he’s trying to get out of Edelweiss Island. Is it really as simple as a punishment for arguing with me online, or is he going to put his own – horrible – spin on the church of no-divorces?
When I’ve finished my breakfast and left Clara disappointed at getting no gossip out of me, it’s way past time I started looking around this beautiful island. The sun is dazzling as I step out the door of the B&B and squint in the early April brightness. I close my eyes and breathe in the saltiness of sea air and the smell of flowers wafting on the breeze.
‘Good morning!’
I open my eyes to see Rohan. He’s leaning on the gate of one of the cottages further down the path, chatting to the woman with long grey-highlighted hair down to her waist who was pottering around in her garden when we reached the top of the steps yesterday.
I didn’t expect to see him so soon. I give him a tight smile and a nod, and he straightens up and looks like he’s excusing himself from talking to the woman. He’s going to come over and I don’t want to see him. I don’t know how to handle seeing him.
I do the sensible, adult thing and pretend I haven’t noticed him making his way towards me. I duck my head and hurry around the back of the B&B away from him. I pass Clara’s neat rose garden and stop on the coastal path, standing in the shade of the building, trying to catch my breath. I didn’t realise I was walking that fast but something has taken my breath away, and it definitely wasn’t his blond hair blowing across his forehead in the gentle wind.
I have to get a grip on myself. I’m bound to see him eventually. We’re in rooms next door to each other, unless by some miracle he’s leaving today, which he won’t be because I’d never get that lucky. He wants the same thing that I want, and I don’t think it’s a story that can be uncovered in the few hours before the next boat home.
I have to be professional about it. Civilised. Nothing happened yesterday. Nothing that meant anything, anyway. He’s just another reporter here to report on the same thing. If I happen to see him in passing, I will remain polite, professional, aloof. I can do that. Not doing that has already got me into trouble.
I keep expecting him to appear on the coastal path, and I’m not sure if I’m pleased or disappointed when he doesn’t. Did I make it obvious that I was running away from him? Good. R.C. Art should be used to being so offensive that women flee at the mere sight of him. I should be glad if he’s gotten the hint.
When he doesn’t come round the side of the B&B, I try to calm myself. I brush my top down and pull my straight hair back. Professional.