‘They’re both writing you very long apology letters.’
He laughs.
‘I shall look forward to reading them.’
I pause for a moment, suddenly unsure what to say. Today has been a day of talking, of trying to find the right words to bridge the gaps between people. But maybe sometimes there aren’t any words. Instead, I take a step forward and he does too. And something in the air suddenly changes. As I look at him I feel it again, that electricity that rushed between us that first time in his studio. But this time it’s different. This time I’m not going to run away. Instead, I tilt my head up towards his and kiss him. And, thank god, he kisses me back.
His mouth is warm, his beard rough against my face. He weaves his fingers through the tangled mess of my hair. We part for a moment and he rests his forehead against mine.
‘God, I’ve wanted this since I first saw you,’ he says quietly.
I can’t help but laugh.
‘What, when I was out running, with mascara all over my face?’
He holds his hand up to my cheek.
‘Don’t. You’re beautiful.’
I don’t know what to say to that. Usually when I look in the mirror all I see are the bags under my eyes and each new line that appears on my face. But the way he looks at me makes me feel as though there could be something else I’m not seeing. I kiss him again.
‘Seriously though,’ he says, pulling away for a second, ‘you have no idea. This island is great and all but there’s no one here like you.’
‘Shh,’ I say gently, pressing my lips to his once more.
His grin makes my heart beat even faster. As we stumble into his room and pull each other down onto the bed I feel as though weights are being released, each one dropped lifting me higher. Today it’s like I’ve put down so many things I didn’t realise I didn’t have to carry forever. Worries about Ella and the guilt about my brother that has been there with me ever since I left this island. It’s as though I’ve been given permission to let go, and perhaps, to be happy too. I haven’t felt this light in years. I’m giddy with it, floating on it. Maybe this is what it feels like to really live. I abandon myself to it, to the way Mallachy’s touch feels on my skin, letting myself relish every sensation. As we find each other among a tangle of sheets, I feel for a blissful moment totally and utterly free.
A whisper in my ear.
‘Lorna.’
The sound pulls me awake; I must have fallen asleep. I stretch and open my eyes. Mallachy is propped up on his elbow watching me, the sheet draped over his waist. His eyes are bright and smiling and his hair sticks up messily from his head. I can’t help but run my eyes over his bare torso, muscular yet not intimidatingly so, padded round the edges with middle-age. My eyes flick to those hands that held me so gently yet firmly at the same time.
‘Don’t worry, you weren’t snoring,’ he says with a smile.
‘Oh, I never snore,’ I lie. He laughs.
The bedroom is bathed in light and for a second I flinch as I glance out the window; in our haste we forgot to close the curtains. But then I relax. We’re secluded on this side of the island: the only creatures who might spot us are the gulls that hop along the sand on Mallachy’s small stretch of beach. Slowly we dress again, Mallachy handing me items of clothing from the floor. Once we’re dressed, without really discussing it we drift out of his room and into the studio. It’s filled with sunlight, the view of the island and the sea stretching out around us.
Mallachy sweeps a pile of papers aside on his desk.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Clearing you a space,’ he replies, smiling.
He lays out a few blank sheets of paper, some pencils, a few brushes and a palette of watercolours.
‘I don’t know if I could. I haven’t drawn or painted in years.’
‘You don’t have to. But everything is here for you to use if you want to.’
I avoid the desk and walk instead around the studio, looking at the spines of books and gently picking up things here and there and placing them down again. A stick of charcoal, a palette knife, a paintbrush. Once, these things felt like extensions of my own body. Once, nothing made me happier than throwing myself into my painting and drawing. Where did that passion go? Did it disappear altogether, or has it simply been hiding?
Mallachy flicks on the radio, music filling the studio.
‘Why don’t you at least sit down?’ he says gently. And this time I do, perching on a stool at the end of the desk. On the table the white paper stares up at me. I pick up a pencil and hold it lightly in my hand.
Beside me, Mallachy sits too and I listen to the light scratching sound as he starts to draw, his head lowered, his hand moving swiftly. I hold my own pencil just a few millimetres away from the paper. Suddenly I want to experience it again – that feeling I once so craved of losing myself to pencil and paper. To show myself that while my life might have completely changed since I was a child, there are still parts of me that are the same. With a slight intake of breath, I make the first mark.
