She wasn’t regarding Charlie with quite the same fascination.
“I want to start over and build the life that’s right forme,” Charlie said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.
“What do you mean by that?” Marly asked.
“Gosh, I’m not quite sure yet,” Charlie said.
“Do you want to settle here? Long-term?”
“I absolutely see a future on the island,” Charlie said, but Marly was already interrupting.
“What does that future look like, though?”
Charlie was flustered now. She stammered a bit about following dreams or something. Her eyes flicked to me, and then back to Rosie and Marly. She’d trailed right off, and for the first time since meeting her, I had a sense that we’d reached something real. This wasn’t a topic she wanted to discuss.
“Marly, they’re just settling in,” Rosie said gently, squeezing her wife’s knee again. “Please, don’t feel you ever have to share anything with us that you’re not ready to share. That’s really important to us. We want to know you, of course, but we want you to show yourselves as and when you’re ready.”
She pressed a hand to her heart. It was all quite intense from an employer—we’re just the new shop managers, after all—andmaybe Marly thought the same, because she broke the moment by shifting the conversation on to crisp flavors (I went salt and vinegar, obviously; Charlie chose ready salted, which has got to be a red flag).
“How about you, Jones?” Marly said, watching me insert crisps inside my sandwich with a nod of approval. “What is it that you’re seeking here?”
The plan is to keep myself to myself. No more friends to lose, no more relationships to screw up—just some time quietly getting sober and starting afresh. I wasn’t intending to open up to anybody, least of all my new employers. But having watched Charlie bullshit her way through answering that question, I suddenly felt like telling the truth.
“I quit drinking the day I left the mainland,” I said.
Charlie went still, watching me, a crisp held neatly between her forefinger and thumb. She looked a little shocked.
I told them that I wasn’t a proper alcoholic, even as my head pounded. Even as that wolfish little voice in my head said,In fact, why are you stopping drinking at all? Wouldn’t it be lovely to have a lager with this picnic? And what would be the harm?
“The rural way of life appealed to me as well,” I said, “and the island life—I think it’ll—”
“So, you’re two days sober right now,” Marly interrupted. “How’s the withdrawal?”
“I’m fine,” I said, jamming my shaking hands between my knees. “I assure you, it won’t affect how well I can do my job.”
It probably was a bad idea to tell them about the drinking. But I think I’d needed to say it out loud. The way I need to writeDay two soberas the subject line on this email. Now I have no choice but to stick to it.
“Well, good for you, mate,” Marly said, rummaging in the bagand pulling out a large fruit tart wrapped in brown paper. “I’m coming up to nine years.”
“Sober?” I asked, surprised.
She handed me a slice of the tart. Ginger’s eyes tracked it. It was spiced apple, buttery and flaky, totally delicious.
“Yep. Stumbled on some seasonal work here while traveling the world, met Rosie, did the same as you—used moving here as a chance to start over. Rosie had just inherited the farm, and there was so much to be done. I wanted to be the best I could be, for her.” Marly gave me a quick smile. “It’s good you told us. I appreciate that.”
When I made the decision not to go down the route of joining an alcoholic support group, it was because I was confident I could do this by myself, and I still feel that way. But today has been a fucking hard day. And it’s actually quite good to know that if it getstoohard, someone on this island knows what that feels like.
Charlie asked Rosie about the story of the farm and how she inherited it. She was still flustered, I think. Maybe she didn’t like that I’d found something to connect with Marly over—or maybe I’m being unfair. Thinking the worst of people, of situations, of anything—another bad habit I’d like to shake.
“When my parents died,” Rosie said. “Ten years ago now.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry—of course, you don’t inherit something without losing someone,” Charlie said, wincing slightly.
Rosie reached for her hand. “It’s OK,” she said. “I can talk about them. I’d love to talk about them, actually.”
“It helps, doesn’t it?” Charlie said. “With grief? I find the more I talk…” Her cheeks pinked again—embarrassed at the admission, I think. “Anyway, tell me about them—they must have been such special people to have created this incredible farm.”
Rosie explained that Bramblebay had actually been in the Nicole family for generations. Her parents had only run the farm for a few short years before their deaths in a car crash on the mainland.
