The Little Wedding Island

I’m freezing as I stand at the side of the boat, looking at the horizon while mainland England disappears behind us. The spring sunshine was deceptively warm while I was packing, and my sad excuse for a coat is buried at the bottom of my suitcase. The biting wind is flapping my shirt around me and the bottom two buttons have ripped off with the force of it. Sea spray is splashing me in the face and my blonde hair is too short to stay up in a ponytail so I’m trying to clamp it down with the hand that’s not holding on to the boat railing. I should sit down, but firstly the blue sky on the horizon and the Isle of Wight in the distance as we bypass it are the kind of view that makes you want to look at it, and secondly, the single row of seating on this small boat is currently occupied by the only other passenger. He’s sitting with his arms folded on the back of the chairs and his body turned so his forehead is resting on them, groaning occasionally. I debate talking to him, but I vaguely remember hearing that talking can make seasickness worse so I don’t say anything. If I was feeling sick, the last thing I’d want is some random stranger asking me how sick I felt.

‘You’re freezing. You should put this on.’

I jump when the man lifts his head and speaks.

‘Oh, I’m fine.’ I try to pretend I wasn’t looking at him. ‘Thanks.’

‘Seriously. You’re shivering so much I can feel the deck vibrating, and I’m too hot to wear it. It’s just a coat, it won’t bite.’

It seems stupid to borrow a complete stranger’s coat, especially when I’ve got my own in my suitcase, but I keep thinking there’s no point rummaging through it when we can’t be far from the island.

‘You’ll have to come and get it though.’ He pats the coat screwed up in a ball on the seat beside him. ‘I don’t want to find out what might happen if I attempt moving.’

I go to protest but my teeth are chattering so much I can barely speak. I give in and walk over to the seats on the unsteady deck. ‘Thanks, that’s really kind,’ I say as I shake the coat out and slip my arms into it.

It’s warmed by the sun and I sigh in relief as my arms slide into the soft sleeves and wrap it around myself. He must be tall because it comes down to the knees on me and it’s heavy enough that it feels like wearing a rug, but it smells like a delicious mix of amber-y, spicy aftershave, and it warms me instantly.

‘No problem. Better you wear it than anything I’m likely to do to it in this state.’

‘Seasick?’

‘No, I just enjoy sitting on boats and groaning in my spare time.’

Despite the sarcasm, he grins up at me from the seats and I’m smiling back without even realising it.

He looks so ill, bless him. There’s sweat beading on his forehead in spite of the cold wind, and his skin is pale and mottled. I know he’d be clammy to the touch and I fight an urge to put my hand out and brush his dark blond hair back. ‘I’m sure we can’t be far from the island now.’

‘Can’t wait.’ He looks up at me with light eyes, somewhere between blue and grey, and a wide forehead that creases as he squints into the sunlight.

I think that remark was meant to be sarcastic too but the thought trails off and my breath catches in my throat at the sight of his lopsided smile.

I’m about to ask him why he’s going there when the boat jolts again and he groans, his hand going to cradle his stomach as he curls in on himself. His knuckles are white where one hand is still gripping the back of the seat and his skin goes even paler.

‘Is there anything you can take?’ I ask.

‘You have to prevent seasickness beforehand. It’s too late once you’re actually on the boat, and I didn’t know I was coming here until a couple of hours ago.’

‘Same.’

The boat rolls again and his cheeks take on the old cartoon cliché green tinge.

I bite my lip as I stand there, wanting to do something but unsure of how to help.

‘You don’t have to stay and watch.’ He waves a hand in the vague direction of where I was standing earlier. ‘Feeling like this is bad enough without a beautiful girl watching on.’

My cheeks flare red at his words, and I’m not sure if I’m embarrassed because he caught me watching him or because he called me beautiful. I can’t remember the last time someone called me beautiful… well, unless you count the builder up on scaffolding on my way to work last week, which I don’t. ‘Get yer tits out, beautiful’ is not quite the compliment most girls dream of.

‘Thanks for the coat loan,’ I say as I walk back over to the side of the boat, giving him as much privacy as I can on the small deck, and trying to ignore the butterflies in my stomach.

I hold the coat closed around me. It’s the darkest shade of navy blue, soft suede on the outside and thick sherpa fleece on the inside. It’s much too big, but it feels nice. Maybe it feels even nicer now because its owner called me beautiful and because he was attentive enough to notice my shivering and kind enough to offer it.

I try to concentrate on the horizon but my attention is drawn to the seats behind me like there’s a magnet there. I keep looking over my shoulder to check on him. He’s hunched over and breathing heavily, still so pale that a ghost would look healthier, and I wish I knew of a way to make him feel better.

‘Do you know the cure for seasickness?’

‘I think I remember hearing something about ginger,’ I say as I look back at him, surprised because I didn’t think he was going to speak again.

His chin is resting on his folded arms and he’s looking at me over the back of the seat. ‘Go and lie on the grass.’

The laugh takes me by surprise as he flashes that smile again, and I can’t stop giggling as I look away, not sure if it’s because he’s funny or because the butterflies in my stomach have made me suddenly and inexplicably nervous. It’s been a long time since any man caused butterflies.

‘At least we know you’re feeling well enough to be cracking jokes,’ I say to the open water.

He laughs too and then groans. ‘Oh no. No laughing. Laughing’s bad.’

I glance at him again and when our eyes meet, my face breaks into a smile. ‘So what’s a guy who gets seasick doing on a boat to The Little Wedding Island then?’

‘Pissed my boss off,’ he says. ‘Punishment.’

‘Hah. We’re in the same boat.’ I glance down at my feet and realise we are actually in the same boat at exactly the same moment he starts laughing again.

‘Literally.’

‘No pun intended,’ I say as my cheeks burn red again even though I’m laughing too.

I go back to looking across the sea to take my mind off how much I want to keep looking at him. I sneak surreptitious glances in every time I can, taking in his sharp jawline and stubble much darker than his fair hair.

‘Oh, thank God – are we nearly there?’ he says, looking past me in the direction we’re heading.

Rising from the sea in front of us is an island. From this distance, it doesn’t look big enough to be the famous place that everyone’s talking about, but there’s a raised area in the middle surrounded by trees, the hint of a building through the branches, and what can only be a church spire showing above the treetops. ‘Looks like the place.’

‘Great. It sounds like a hellhole but land is land at this point.’

I look at him, wondering why he thinks it sounds like a hellhole, but he’s smiling again and I think he must be joking.

‘Well,’ he says. ‘All I can say is that I sincerely hope you’ll be on the same return journey as me. You’ve taken my mind off it. Actually, this is probably the best boat ride I’ve ever been on.’

It makes me laugh again, simultaneously embarrassed and enjoying the easy compliments. ‘I don’t spend a lot of time on boats but this is probably the best one I’ve ever been on too. If you don’t find your sea legs, maybe you’ll just have to stay on the island.’ I don’t add that I’d maybe really like him to be staying there. He’s got a big holdall bag with him, the kind that looks too big for a day trip, and hope fizzes inside me that I might get to see him again. Hopefully when he’s not feeling quite so ill.

‘Oh, hell no. I’d rather ask a piranha to give me a pedicure than stay there any longer than absolutely necessary.’

‘I think it sounds lovely.’

He looks at me with a dark eyebrow raised and even with his green-tinged pale skin, he still makes the look so incredulous that I find myself giggling nervously again. Why do so many people seem to have a problem with this place? I can’t wait to get there and see the church. I bet it just oozes romance. I’m looking forward to starting my article and proving Oliver wrong. When it’s published, maybe I’ll even send a link to that R.C. Art twat just to show him that love does still exist.

As we get near the island, the boat pulls up to a concrete jetty and one of the crew moors it. ‘Low tide, bit of a climb, I’m afraid,’ he tells us.

There are metal rungs set into the concrete side of the structure, and the deckhand bounces up them and holds his hands out for my suitcase. I hand it off to him and look behind me.

Seasick Man is still on the seats and making no move to get off the boat. Now he’s bent over with his head between his knees. I can’t just leave him there.

I go back over to him. ‘Can I take your bag?’

‘Out of context, you could be the politest mugger I’ve ever met,’ he mumbles, muffled because his head is still between his knees.

‘Well, I’ve already got your coat, so I may as well have your bag too.’

‘Just when you think chivalry is dead, a lady comes along and offers to carry your bags for you.’

It makes me grin, but I pick up his bag and heft it over my shoulder without waiting for a reply.

He groans again and pitches himself to his feet, staggering upright and clinging on to the back of the seats for support. ‘I’ll make it up to you. I’ll hold a door open or pull out a chair or something.’

‘Ah, but we’re in the new millennium now. There’s a rumour going around that women are quite capable of opening doors and seating themselves.’

His laugh gives way to a groan. ‘You’ve got to stop making me laugh. It’s no good for those of us who are about three seconds away from a full-on Exorcist-style pea soup scene.’

I laugh even though the mental image is not a good one.

I carry his bag across the deck and hand that up to the waiting deckhand too, secretly glad that it’s heavy enough to suggest he’ll be staying a few days. I watch him make his way gingerly towards the ladder onto the jetty, swaying unsteadily and grabbing on to anything in his path for support. The boat is bobbing on the waves, and while I find the movement quite soothing, he obviously doesn’t.

The captain of the boat stands and gives us a salute as we disembark. I clamber onto the first of three ladder rungs and at the top, the jetty is bathed in spring sunshine, and there’s a man waiting to board the boat we’re getting off.

When Seasick Man makes it to the top of the ladder, he doesn’t look like he’s feeling any better. I reach out to offer him a hand up and he takes it. His hand is cold and his skin is clammy but his touch makes goose bumps rise across my arms where they’re still snuggled in his coat sleeves, and it’s not just because of the coldness.

‘Thank you,’ he mumbles, using his grip on my hand to haul himself onto the jetty. He dizzily stumbles into me and I put my other hand on his arm to steady him.

‘Enjoy your stay!’ The deckhand of the boat says, saluting us both and jumping back down to the deck.

The man waiting to board lowers his bag to him and turns to go down the ladder, but he stops and looks at us. ‘You’re not reporters, are you?’

I go to say something but he barrels on without letting me speak.

‘If you are, you may as well give up and go home now. The locals here are barmy. You’d think they’d want publicity, the idiots. If you’re here for a story, save yourselves the trouble and the overpriced stay in that crappy little guesthouse and get back on the boat. You’ll get a better story out of the dead jellyfish on the beach. That vicar’s about as open as a clamshell having a colonoscopy!’

As he stomps angrily across the deck of the boat and the engine starts up, Seasick Man seems to realise he’s still holding my hand because he lets go abruptly and sinks down to sit on the little wall built around the opposite side of the jetty.

‘How would a clamshell have a colonoscopy?’ he says like he’s seriously considering the question.

It makes me burst out laughing again. ‘I wouldn’t like to imagine,’ I say as I watch the boat with the angry man on it disappearing into the distance. He certainly had a bee in his bonnet about something. Maybe this is what Oliver was saying about reporters not getting anywhere when they came here. Surely the locals will be okay with talking to me? It’s not like I’m a tabloid reporter, I just write about weddings for a bridal magazine.

Seasick Man drops his head into his hands and exhales slowly.

‘Are you okay?’ I ask, even though he’s clearly not.

‘Yeah, thanks,’ he says without looking up. ‘That was just a bad boat trip. I’m sorry you had to see that.’

I wave a hand dismissively even though he’s not looking at me. ‘It’s fine. At least you didn’t puke on me, which is an improvement on another date I’ve been on.’ I blush bright red as I realise what I’ve said. ‘I mean, not that that was a date, obviously…’

He looks up, squinting at me in the sunshine. ‘You’re just trying to make me feel better.’

‘Nope, I honestly went on a date with a guy who turned up so drunk that he threw up on the pavement as he arrived, which splashed my shoes, and they were new, and he promised to pay to get them cleaned, and I never heard from him again.’

‘The bastard,’ he says, grinning.

‘Right?’ My face is actually aching from how widely I’m smiling at him.

‘So you have a history of making men feel ill then?’

‘Maybe I’m just doomed to meet guys with weak stomachs.’

‘Oi! I don’t have a weak stomach, I just don’t get on very well with boats. Generally I avoid them at all costs, but I couldn’t get out of this trip and I didn’t have time to prepare myself.’

I press the toes of my shoes alternately against the concrete. I should go – I know that. Now is the time to say it was nice to have met him and leave him in peace when he’s obviously still feeling like death warmed up, but I can’t make the words come out of my mouth.

‘You don’t have to stay with the pathetic seasick loser, you know.’ He squints up at me again with a gentle smile. ‘I’m just gonna sit here until I feel marginally less like I’m going to die.’

‘I still have your coat,’ I say, even though I could easily take it off and leave it with him.

‘Well, considering that was the last boat out today so we’re obviously both staying the night, and I’m told there’s only one B&B on the island, I don’t think you’ll have much trouble finding me to give it back.’

I know. That’s the problem. I don’t have an excuse to stay with him, but I don’t want to walk away yet. Butterfly wings are beating inside me and my heart is hammering in my chest. I can still feel the imprint of his hand around mine and the smell of his aftershave on his coat is making me decidedly light-headed.

I sweep his coat under my legs and sit down beside him on the wall. ‘Actually, you still seem really unsteady on your feet. I’d never forgive myself if you toppled over a cliff or something. This island seems really cliff-y.’

‘Cliff-y?’ He says with a snort. ‘That’s what my mum calls Cliff Richard when she listens to his music. When all the neighbourhood dogs start yowling, she sticks her head out the window and screams, “Calm down, it’s only Cliff-y!”’

I can’t remember the last time I laughed so much at someone, especially someone I’ve only known for half an hour.

When I’ve wiped away tears of laughter and composed myself enough to look up, he’s smiling at me, a wide smile that makes crow’s feet crinkle the corners of his eyes and I have an overwhelming desire to run my fingers across them. He’s funny and he loves his mum. Is he literally the perfect man? His only flaw so far seems to be seasickness, which is really, really far down the list of things you don’t want in a man.

And I happen to have noticed that he’s not wearing a wedding ring. Of course, you can guarantee he’s got a girlfriend, but for one delicious moment, hope lives inside me.

‘I’m Seasick Rohan, by the way.’

‘People don’t really call you that, do they?’

‘They probably would if I went on more boats.’ He chuckles and holds his hand out for me to shake. ‘Generally just Rohan will do. And that is by far the worst first impression I’ve ever made. I’m really sorry.’

‘You don’t have to apologise for being ill,’ I say. ‘And like I said, I once had a guy throw up on my shoes before he’d even introduced himself, so you’re way above the worst of first impressions with me.’

He smiles like he’s trying not to smile and I’m still shaking his hand even though it clearly doesn’t need any more shaking.

‘I’m Bonnie.’

‘Oh, how weird. You’re the second Bonnie I’ve come across this week, and the first one was nowhere near as nice as you.’

I blush at the once again effortless compliment. Does he really mean them or is he just trying to be charming and/or get in my knickers? Or am I becoming as cynical as Oliver and R.C. Art? Can’t a guy just be nice these days?

His hand squeezes mine gently and I’m not sure if he’s just squeezing it or politely telling me to let go. I extract my fingers from his anyway. It’s gone way beyond a handshake now, but goose bumps tingle up my arm again. It’s just how cold his hand is, I tell myself. Nothing more. And goose bumps are pointless anyway – no way is a gorgeous, hilarious, mum-loving, thirty-something guy really going to be single or interested in me.

Instead of concentrating on how much I like sitting close to him, I turn away and look at the island instead. There’s not a lot to see from here. Judging by the endless stone steps leading up from the jetty, we’re on the lowest part of the island, and the rest of it towers above us on jagged cliff edges. There’s greenery up top, trees and plants, and there’s definitely a church on a hill, grey bricks showing through the leaves when the wind blows in the right direction.

‘So you’ve heard about this church then…’ I venture.

‘Yeah,’ he says.

I’m waiting for him to say ‘my fiancée wants to get married there’ or something – that would be just my luck. There aren’t many men who are gorgeous, kind, funny, and still single left in the world. Maybe if there were, I’d have had better luck in finding a Prince Charming to go with my dream wedding dress.

His eyes are on the building on the hills above us. ‘Looks like they’ve made it into a shrine. It’s got to be a joke, right? I mean, look at that. Even from down here, you can tell they’ve done everything they can to make it seem like some kind of sacred temple or something.’

‘Who?’

‘Whoever stands to make the most money out of it.’ He shrugs. ‘Probably all of them. My boss said you can buy wedding dresses and cakes and stuff here, so every business owner on this island benefits from people getting married there.’

‘That’s very cynical.’

‘I’m sorry, I think I misheard – did you say realistic?’

I frown at him and he grins. ‘I just think it’s so contrived. We’ve been here for five minutes and I can already guarantee that those weeping willow trees are planted to hide it in plain sight. I bet it’s surrounded by flowers and there’s probably a sickeningly romantic little archway made of roses, so every sucker who comes here falls for the “oh, come and get married in our exclusive magical church” spiel. We promise your marriage will never end in divorce, and if it does, the boat ride over here is so choppy that it’s not like you’d want to come back and complain, is it?’

I don’t know whether he’s being funny or sarcastic or is just feeling ill. ‘Don’t you think it’s sweet? I’d love to get married in a place like this. Even if it is just a story, I still think it’s romantic.’

‘There’s no such thing as romance. There are people who profit from romance and there are guys who want sex. Couple those things and you’ve got a booming industry that thrives on telling women what they want and making men feel inadequate.’

‘Maybe at the beginning of a relationship, but not when it comes to weddings. Weddings are a commitment to spend your life with each other, for better or worse.’

‘Hah. Weddings are a commitment to spend a fortune and spend the rest of your life making each other miserable.’

I frown at him again. ‘That’s horrible. That’s not—’

He drops his head into his hands and groans. ‘Sorry. I could’ve held back a bit there. You’ll have to forgive me, my head’s pounding and the world’s spinning, and I think several donkeys have had a kick at my stomach. I don’t usually get quite that ranty with complete strangers. I just hate weddings.’

Another one. How many people can you find in one week who hate weddings? ‘You’re not here to get married then?’

He laughs, a bitter sharp sound. ‘Oh, trust me, marriage is not something I’ll be subjecting myself to, ever.’

Even though I don’t agree with his cynicism, and if we were having this conversation anywhere else, I’d have got up and walked away by now, I still don’t want to get up off this wall. This is the kind of conversation that crabby old men corner you with at weddings. They tell you to write about how much their wife got in the divorce or how much their solicitor charged.

It’s probably just how sick he feels. Everyone’s a bit harsh when they feel rubbish, and he’s still as pale as a freshly bleached bedsheet and I still want to put my hand on his forehead and see if he feels as hot as he looks. In temperature and sexiness.

There’s a couple walking hand in hand along the sandy beach to our right, and they look at us for a moment before waving.

I give them a wave back and my brightest grin. Rohan gives them a tight smile. ‘Thought we were being watched,’ he says through gritted teeth.

‘Oh, they’re just out for a walk, bless them.’

‘You didn’t spot them hiding behind one of the rocks just now then?’

‘No.’ I look at him in surprise. ‘I doubt they were hiding. They were probably looking at rock pools or something. Or the dead jellyfish that angry man mentioned.’

He laughs. ‘They have binoculars.’

‘So they’re bird-watching. They probably think we’re sitting here waiting for the boat and wondering if they should tell us it’s already left.’

‘Oh, I think this is the kind of island where the locals know exactly who is on it and exactly what they’re doing at all times. I’m sure they’re well aware that we’ve only just arrived.’

‘Well, I think you’re a cynical old grump.’

He starts laughing. ‘I’ll take the cynical grump bit but I’m thirty-six, you don’t get to call me old yet!’

I laugh too, my shoulder pressing against his, heat spreading outwards from the point of contact, another little shiver going through me. He’s only two years older than me. Could he get any more perfect?

‘Are you feeling any better?’ I ask when I realise that it’s probably weird to just sit here leaning against him.

‘Yeah, I am actually. I think talking to you should officially be classed as a cure for seasickness.’

‘And I think you should get a refund on your lessons at charm school,’ I say, even though I’m pretty sure Dulux do paint in the same shade of red as my cheeks.

‘Not being charming, just being honest,’ he says as I get to my feet. ‘Besides, I can imagine how much of a state I look at the moment. I think I’d have to try a bit harder than that to charm the socks off you.’

‘When it comes to most guys being charming, socks are not the item of clothing they want to charm off.’

‘Well, you can rest assured that I’m not interested in charming anything off you, including but not limited to socks, and I think it’s safe to say that the charm is gone when I’ve spent the afternoon retching into a bag in front of you.’