The Little Wedding Island: the perfect holiday beach read for 2018

Oh, for God’s sake, Bonnie. I force myself to remember R.C. Art’s column and his arrogance downstairs. That’s what I’ll have to think about when I want to picture him naked. That’s who he is. Not the guy he seemed today, but the guy who gives men tips on avoiding women who want to get married and who thinks it’s okay to make fun of random people’s weddings. Even if they weren’t random and he knows them.

Even as I think it, I wonder what that means. He didn’t elaborate, so what was he trying to say? That it’s okay because he knew them? That they deserved it? Maybe he just said it because he knew it’d wind me up all night if I let it.

I try to concentrate on the cake instead. It’s rich and thick and the chocolate fudge is possibly the best thing I’ve ever eaten, and all I can think of is Rohan saying it’s probably made with bits of Clara’s chopped-up husband and it makes me laugh to myself. Then I have to give myself a severe talking-to. This is ridiculous. He isn’t funny. He’s horrible and I have to remember that. There’s no way I felt anything for him. He doesn’t believe in love and he hates weddings. He is so far away from my type that he might as well be in the Outer Hebrides.

I finish the cake and clean my teeth, and when I get back to the bedroom, all is quiet from Rohan’s side of the wall. I get into bed and wriggle around, trying to get comfortable. As I lie there staring at the ceiling, all I can picture is him doing the same on the other side. It shouldn’t be this easy to picture a guy in bed. And it shouldn’t be this hot.

The low volume of his TV comes on, reverberating softly through the wall, and I pull the duvet over my head, determined to ignore the noise as he flicks channels. Eventually he settles on something and I hear the canned laughter of a comedy show. I sit up and lean back against the headboard, my ears straining to figure out what it is.

The worst part is I can almost feel him on the opposite side of the wall. Our room layouts are the same in reverse, and I just know that he’s sitting in bed too, his back against mine with a wall between us.

After a few minutes I’m about to give up and put my own TV on when there’s a knock on the wall. ‘So, was that the best chocolate cake you’ve ever had or what?’ he calls through, his voice muffled.

The nerve of him. I could’ve been asleep for all he knows. I hate that he knows I’m sitting here too. He probably even knows that I’m trying to figure out what he’s watching. I’m not going to give him the satisfaction of replying.

‘It’s okay, it was a pointless question anyway. The answer is obviously yes. I think that might’ve been the best cake that’s ever existed.’

I clunk my head back against the wall, so tempted to say something that’ll make him laugh, to go back to the easy flirtation we had going earlier. That’s what I want – to un-know what I know now.

He’s quiet for a while and I think he’s finally given up, until he speaks again. ‘I know I deserved it, but would you happen to know how to get red wine out of a shirt?’

I can hear the smile in his voice. ‘That was my favourite shirt too. It’ll probably never be the same. Clara’s going to get some oxy-powered stain thingy on it for me. Apparently she’s seen some stains in her time after cleaning the honeymoon suite for twenty-something years.’

I clamp a hand over my mouth to stop myself laughing. This isn’t fair. He has no right to be this adorable after what he did online. This has got to stop.

I do a loud snore in the hopes he’ll get the hint.

‘That was the worst fake snore I’ve ever heard!’ he shouts. ‘You sound like a pig hunting for truffles on a whoopee cushion. Two out of ten, and one was for inventiveness!’

I roll my eyes and thunk my head back again. He’s quiet for so long that I’m sure he’s given up this time. I’m just thinking it might be time to lie down and actually try to sleep when he speaks again.

‘For what it’s worth, I’m sorry for posting the screencaps. I deleted the tweet the next day but loads of people had already RT-ed it by then. I went to DM you to apologise but you’d already blocked me. I am sorry, Bonnie, really.’

‘That’s not the point, is it?’

‘Ah-ha! So you are awake!’

Oops. I didn’t think that one through. ‘No, I’m talking in my sleep. I’m having nightmares about you.’

‘Aw, don’t be like that. Can’t we start over?’

‘No, Rohan, we can’t because you still don’t get it. I don’t care that you posted screencaps of me calling you every name under the sun – that’s my own fault. I should’ve known better than to try to reason with a troll on Twitter. I don’t care about the argument earlier. The main issue is still the same. What you do is horrible. Other people’s weddings have nothing to do with you. You can’t publicly ridicule them just because you have a sharp tongue and a way with words.’

‘Firstly, if pictures are posted on the internet then they’re in the public domain, and secondly, this was a one-off. I don’t usually ridicule random weddings. Sometimes I do investigations into what divorce lawyers earn or in-depth explorations into celebrity break-ups, and my last column was about how men can win at the gift registry.’

‘How romantic. Most of my job is covering real weddings. It’s our most popular section of the magazine. I get to go to all these amazing weddings and interview the couples and do little write-ups about them and the venue and the dress and the flowers, and—’

‘And you haven’t died of boredom yet?’

‘It’s not boring, it’s amazing. I have the loveliest, most privileged job in the world. People let me in to their special, private days and share their love with me and our readers. And if I’m not doing that then I’m writing about bargain dresses or the best eyebrow shapes to compliment an up-do or how to DIY your own place setting cards.’

‘Cor. I bet paint watches you dry.’

I shouldn’t laugh, I should be insulted, but I let out a guffaw so loud that I’ve probably woken people back on the mainland. I have to get a hold of myself. Twitter was bad enough but actually validating him when he thinks he’s being funny is much worse. ‘I spend my days trying to make people’s weddings better. You spend yours trying to destroy them. We’re complete opposites, and one of us is going to lose our job this summer, and no matter how complacent you are, it isn’t going to be me.’

He goes quiet again and I think I’ve finally got my point across and he’s going to leave me alone now. We have nothing in common and I want nothing to do with him or his alter ego. I really don’t.

‘Do you like Some Mothers Do ’Ave ’Em?’ he says after a blissful silence.

‘What?’ I ask in confusion.

‘It’s an old show from the Seventies.’

‘I know what it is.’

‘If you put your TV on channel nine, it’s on all night. I love it. It’s an absolute classic, and this is a great episode.’

I’m not going to. I’m going to ignore him. I know the show well enough, I don’t need to put it on now just because he likes it. Even as I’m telling myself that, my hand sneaks out towards the remote control on the nightstand.

I settle back and get comfortable against the headboard, leaning my head on the wall, and I can’t help but wonder if he’s doing the same. It’s probably the weirdest thing I’ve ever done with a guy – sat and watched a TV show together, back to back, in different rooms – but I can’t bring myself to care as I laugh at Frank Spencer getting into his usual pickles, listening to Rohan’s laughter through the wall.

‘We laugh at the same things,’ he calls out when the adverts come on. ‘I don’t think we’re that opposite after all.’

‘Oh, we are,’ I say, but from the lifeless pile where they’ve landed like rocks in my stomach, one butterfly wing twitches.

Chapter Five

When I wake up in the morning, there’s silence from Rohan’s room and I get the feeling he’s already gone out. And then I have to give myself a stern telling-off for my first thoughts being of him.

He’s R.C. Art, for God’s sake. I’ve only seen bits and pieces of his columns, but I’ve heard enough about him over the years I’ve been working at Two Gold Rings, colleagues sniggering over his articles like kids passing a banned book around the school hallways, comments and discussions about how The Man Land can let him get away with it, and now this stupid competition between the magazines.

I have to remember who he is. The funny, sweet guy from the boat yesterday is the same man. He is not someone who makes my knees go weak and butterfly wings beat in the pit of my stomach. He is a man who hates everything I love. My first thoughts in the morning can’t be of him. I’m going to lose my job if I don’t nail this article. All of my colleagues are going to lose their jobs. I have to think about all of the women who have turned to Two Gold Rings as they’ve planned their weddings, who will one day go to pick up a copy for their daughters as they plan their own weddings, and the magazine just won’t be there any more.

It’s not just about me losing my job, it’s about losing the whole magazine. And keeping the awful, controversial men’s magazine who think that employing people who get their kicks out of insulting others is a good thing. That is what I have to concentrate on, not Rohan Carter, no matter how sexy his name is. And the rest of him.

Why was he so nice to me though? Before he knew who I was, he was kind and sweet. And even after I threw my wine over him last night, he still seemed to care. He wanted me to talk to him afterwards. He even brought me cake. Why? What did he want? It’s not like he’s looking for love, is it? It’s not like he actually liked me. I get the impression that R.C. Art is not someone who likes people very much.

I scrub my hands over my face. I have to stop thinking about it. He’s a jerk who can turn on a nice-guy act when it suits him. It’s probably how he gets most of his column topics – by pretending to be someone he isn’t. I can’t let him spoil my time here. What I saw of this island yesterday looked beautiful and I can’t wait to explore it.

I owe Oliver a damn good article about this place, and I’m going to give him one, and it’s going to be better than Rohan’s. He’s obviously here to get the Edelweiss Island story and beat us, and I can’t let him. I have to do this 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. Aloof. I repeat the words in my head like a mantra. I’m here to write an article. I love my job and Two Gold Rings and I’m not about to lose either of them because of him. I get to come to gorgeous places like this and call it work, and without Two Gold Rings, I won’t get to do that any more. That is what I have to concentrate on.

With that in mind, I straighten myself up and start following the sandy path that runs past the back of the B&B and continues around the edge of the island. Once I step back out of the shadow of the building, the sun is bright again and Rohan is nowhere to be seen. Good. Now I can concentrate on the island, not him.

It’s quiet this morning, a world away from the constant noise of traffic at the office in London. There’s no one around and I wander along the meandering path, taking in the picture-postcard little cottages and the steep drop of the cliffs below me. There’s a sturdy metal safety barrier along the edges of the coastal path – the only thing that looks modern among the picturesque thatched roofs and perfect little gardens.

I follow the path a bit further inland and crouch down to admire a patch of the white flowers that cover the space between paths. I don’t know what they are, but I run my fingers across silvery grass-like foliage and let them trail up to the furry white flowers. They smell beautiful too and I take a deep breath and inhale the scent that seems to waft across the island all the time.

‘Unusual, aren’t they?’

I jump at the sound of his voice.

Across the island, Rohan has popped up from behind a grassy hill with a white flower in his hand.

‘You’re probably not meant to pick them,’ I call over. ‘I’ve never seen them before, they might be a protected species or something.’

He grins and holds his hands out in front of him, crossing them at the wrists. ‘Well, you’d better come and arrest me then. I bet Clara’s got some pink furry handcuffs you can borrow while we await the arrival of the police helicopter to whisk me off to prison for this terrible crime.’

‘You’re hilarious,’ I say without cracking my face, even though the idea of prim and proper Clara owning pink furry handcuffs makes me want to smile, but I’m not going to give him the satisfaction.

‘Actually I didn’t pick it. My new friend, Amabel, gave it to me from her garden.’ He points to the cottage across the island and the woman he was talking to earlier waves to him.

‘Been using your false charms to gain the islanders’ trust already then?’

‘If I choose to ignore certain parts of that sentence, you think I’m charming.’

I do an exaggerated fake laugh. ‘Or just false.’

‘I like my version better.’ He grins like he’s waiting for me to reply.

‘You would,’ I snap, at a loss for what else to say. I can’t be standing here trying not to smile at R.C. Art. He’s the opposite of everything I love. I shouldn’t even be giving him the time of day. I flash a tight smile at him. ‘Have a nice day.’

I try to pretend I didn’t see the look of hurt flash across his face as I shove my hands into my pockets and duck my head, wishing I had a hood I could pull up so I didn’t have to feel his eyes on me as I march towards the village, not willing to hang around for him to catch up with me. Or for me to go back and apologise because I did see that look of hurt, and I’m not sure which is worse – the fact R.C. Art might have actual human feelings or the fact that Rohan cares enough to let one sentence hurt him.

Village isn’t the right term for the area I’m walking towards. As I get closer, the paths widen into a cobblestone street lined with old-fashioned black streetlamps, waist-high brick flower beds brimming with colourful buds, and a row of shops on either side.

As I enter the street, I walk through an arch strung with white fairy lights and a sign hanging from it that reads, ‘Welcome to The Little Wedding Street, your one-stop-shop to make your big day as special as your love.’ They really don’t mind a bit of sappiness around here. I bet Rohan’s seen it and had a good laugh. The thought is enough to spur me on. No more distractions. I need to take pictures, talk to some shopkeepers, and find out exactly what The Little Wedding Island is all about.

I’m the only person on the little street of shops and I look around in awe. It’s so perfect that it doesn’t look real. It’s like a set from one of those gorgeously romantic Hallmark movies. The cobblestones are sparkling in the sunlight, and pink and white bunting is strung across the front of each shop, above open wooden shutters and vintage awning. The doors are open and inviting, and nearest to me is a café with the most delicious smell of coffee and baked goods wafting out the door. I’m definitely going in there later.

For now though, I decide to have a mosey around the shops and see what they’re selling. Oliver will definitely want that in my article. Near the café, there’s a florist shop with a few potted roses outside, red buds just starting to form. There’s a large area of flat paving stones with the worn circles of flower buckets stained on the concrete and I imagine the florist probably displays her flowers outside most of the time. The shop front is painted pastel pink and there are soft curtains at the window edges with cherry blossom and strawberries on them, and even with no flowers outside, it looks so inviting. I walk towards it, but just as I get to the door, it closes with a bang and there’s the rickety sound of the wooden shutters dropping down inside.

It makes me jump so much that I nearly topple over. I look at the shop in surprise. The lights are suddenly off inside, and with the shutter down over the door, it looks closed. It must be the wind. A gust has probably blown it shut from the inside.

I take a tentative step towards it and try the handle, but it’s locked.

I look up at the shop like I’m losing the plot. Two minutes ago, the door was open. It’s like they saw me coming and shut up quickly.