“You stuck to the main tracks on the island, right?” Jones asked, turning to face me. He seemed to have no issues looking at me post–pig incident. He was still doing his intense eye contact thing, trying to hook me in whenever I risked a glance his way. “As in, the paths where the horses and carts go?”
Implication being that I’ve only explored about as far as the visiting tourists. This rankled, maybe because it’s true—I haven’t ventured as far into the wildness of the island as I might have. Want to say it’s because I’m so busy with the farm shop, which I am, but if I’m honest, it’s also because I’m nervous of going further afield.
I do love it here. But all the things I love are also the parts that scare me a bit. The wildness, the lack of, you know, health-and-safety stuff. Take Windward Ridge, for example.
It’s this absolutely stunning isthmus (just googled this word, what an absurd collection of consonants) that connects Little Ormer and Great Ormer, with a narrow path running all the way along the ridge. The land drops off on either side, falling away from you into two sandy beaches far below. Like a walkway through the sky. Stunning—genuinely breathtaking. And there’s a set of steps cut into the rock, all the way from the top of the ridge down to the sea. It looks like an incredible place to swim—the water’s almost turquoise where it touches the sand.
But the steps are literally just…steps. No handrail. No sign saying, maybe, watch your footing a bit because you’re miles above the ground on a very steep downhill staircase. And it makes me feel nervous.
Which is very much not the attitude I was shooting for when I turned up here, determined to start life over. To find my brave again. To be the woman I want the mother of my future child to be.
“I’m planning to go hiking soon,” I said. This was true, in the sense that right then I had just made this plan. My week is ridiculously busy, though, packed with cleaning, stocktaking and restructuring the shop layout—I panicked slightly. Really don’t have time to start hiking. “Next Monday, maybe. When the shop’s next closed.”
“Great idea,” Jones said, taking a bite of his sandwich. “Tackling Pook Rock, perhaps?”
I had no idea where that was. How did he suddenly know the island better than me? We’ve only been here for ten days.
Was alarmed to notice that even though Jones was irritating me, I was no longer able to use this to help me overlook his attractiveness. Even eating a bacon sandwich looked good on him. Found myself gazing at his forearms, his hands, his mouth. Has the barn-wall moment addled my brain?
“Absolutely,” I said. “That’s top of my list. How’s your…” I couldn’t think of the right word for it. “Recovery? Going?”
“I’m fine,” he said. Bit short—embarrassed, maybe. “And you?”
“Yep! I’m fine, too.”
“Great.”
We clattered about the kitchen in silence.
“Good that we’re both fine,” Jones said.
“Yep.”
He sighed. He looked as though he was deliberating.
“Are you OK?” he asked eventually, putting his sandwich down on the plate.
“I just said—”
“Charlie, I don’t want to get involved in your life, at all, but your hands are shaking so much you’re spilling water down your arm.”
Put down the glass of water I just poured and knotted my hands behind my back. Didn’t think he’d notice the shaking. It’s just a stress thing that plays up when my sleep is bad.
“You seem a bit…anxious,” he said. “Are you? Anxious? In general, I mean?”
“What? Like, do I haveanxiety? Oh, no, I’m a bit highly strung, that’s all. Probably haven’t eaten enough.”
Actually do find it super hard to eat when I’m in one of these phases—generally just exist on juice and tea for a while.
“You know, it’s OK if you found that whole situation with the committee tough. They were kind of…arseholes to you.”
The corner of his mouth lifted in a small, sympathetic smile. I could feel tears coming on again, and then I started to go red, because crying in front of this man would be intolerably humiliating, so my face decided to blush, becausethatwas better, and then I justhadto leave, because of all the stuff going on in the face department, and then said something like, “Oh, I’m fine, thanks, though, nothing I can’t handle!”
Even though it would have been obvious to absolutely anybody, let alone my unsettlingly intuitive life-double, that I am not handling this well at all.
Fled to the bedroom. And now here I am, googling Pouque Rock (not Pook Rock, apparently), just to bloody spite him. Which is me all over, isn’t it? What was it Brianna said when we first talked about the idea of me coming here? “Have you ever in your life done something because you wanted to, and not because you thought it would impress someone else?”
Wednesday August 20th 2025
