Ormer is a Crown Dependency, so kind of part of UK but not? It was feudal until 2006, which is the year Justin Timberlake released “SexyBack,” i.e., about five minutes ago. So: slightly odd. But they’ve got a democratically elected government now, so that’s all sorted, and I have decided to consider this whole business quirky and cute.
That’s enough fact-based content for now—we’ve reached the harbor!
Arrived in harbor looking significantly more disheveled than I did in Guernsey (sea air very bracing) but quickly realized Ormer is not a place where anyone gives a shit about how your hair looks. The harbor—a concrete walkway between the rocks, poking out into the sea—was awash with people in work boots and worn jeans. Above me, the cliffs were dark and imposing, all shadows and sharp edges in the sunshine. A cargo ship had just cleared off in time for the ferry to dock, and the harbor workers were busy shifting the cargo into battered, ancient-looking tractors to be carted up the hill.
It was immediately apparent that health-and-safety rules are pretty chill here on the Isle of Ormer.
“Watch your head!” someone shouted at me.
I looked up. A rusted shipping container was swooping above me, dangling precariously from a crane-type structure on the harbor. I ducked—maybe screamed—and stumbled back.
“Watch your feet!” someone yelled.
I looked down to find myself mere inches from a precipitous drop into the sea. No railings, no big yellow warning signs, not even a casual traffic cone.
I stared around, slightly breathless. A few middle-aged tourists traipsed off the ferry behind me, dressed in white canvas hats, looking about as wary of the harbor activities as I was. A burly guy in his thirties barged through the middle of them, head down, a blue cap backward on his head. His sports bag whacked me in the hip as he powered by, knocking me off-balance.
“Hey!” I yelped.
He turned. The first thing I noticed was his deep scowl, then the gray eyes that met mine for a sharp half second, narrowed against the sun.
“You dropped something,” he said, nodding to the ground. His lip twitched slightly, as though he was trying to hold back a smirk.
“Excuse me?” I pressed a hand to my thundering heart as I scuttled further inland. This was not a comfortable place to lose footing.
The man pointed wordlessly, already walking backward away from me.
Argh. It was this diary, precariously close to the edge—must have slipped out of the top of my bag when he knocked into me. Which meant he could now see the cover, complete with the message Brianna had doodled there while helping me pack yesterday:
Secrets of my tender heart enclosed within
I swore and went to snatch it up. The other side reads:
I’M CHARLIE JONES, MOTHERFUCKER, BOW BEFORE ME
Would it be better if it had fallen that way up? Probably not, there were kids around.
“Thanks,” I said. “Though I wouldn’t have dropped anything if you’d not…”
He didn’t care enough to hang around for the end of this sentence.
“Arsehole,” I muttered.
I watched him go. His neck was a bit sunburned, and his cap said “CJ” on it—my initials (how weird! I thought). Shame he was clearly a bit of a dickhead, because he was hot, actually. The rugged scowliness, the earthy-blond scruff of hair beneath the cap, the long-sleeved tee clinging to defined pecs and biceps. It was giving “I’m a hot mess—try to fix me, why don’t you?”
Not a shame, actually, shouldn’t have written that. Sexy rugged men are firmly off new life agenda, even unproblematic ones, and he had “problem” written all over him. I focused on restoring the diary to the safety of my handbag and looked around the harbor again. A young woman in baggy skater-style shorts and an “Explore Ormer” T-shirt was waving to the tourists beside me, bouncing on the spot as if she couldn’t wait to get started. Her black, curly hair was streaked with blue dye, and she had at least six piercings—nose, eyebrows, a few in her lips. She caught my eye and smiled. It lit her up—she had an earnest golden-retriever energy to her.
“Visiting for the day?” she said.
Probably not reasonable to be miffed by her mistaking me for a tourist, but nonetheless, felt disappointed.
“Actually, I’m moving here,” I said, adjusting my straw hat, and then wondering if the hat was what made me look like a tourist, and promptly removing it. But—hat hair, plus boat hair…I put it back on again. “I’m the new farm shop manager.”
A tractor reversed by me at speed, the man in the driving seat twisted almost 180 degrees to look out of the dirty back window.
