The idea makes me want to roll into a ball and curl up on the turf here beside Bernard.
But I don’t have to go back to modelling, do I?
The idea feels insidious and dangerous, like a sinkhole suddenly opening under my feet. I shudder as a cold breeze springs up and wrap my arms around myself.
I didn’t finish college. I’d barely finished school. I have no real qualifications and no talents apart from the ability to get myself into trouble and maintain zero body fat and a killer smile.
“So, what do I do now?” I say out loud.
The gentle sighing of the trees in the wind is my only answer. I settle down on the guard rail, and Bernard seats himself at my feet. A rowan tree is nearby, its leaves festooned with red berries. Reuben had told me that the locals believe the berries foretell a bad winter. I wonder what winter is like on the island, and there’s an empty sort of grief that I won’t be here to see it.
Bernard gives a gusty sigh and nudges my leg to get going.
“You’re right,” I say, getting to my feet and starting to walk again. “I’ll think about it later.” The words echo in the quiet air. But how much later? I can’t stay with Reuben forever. Would I want to? I want to lock the answer to that question in a dark room and throw away the key.
Reuben doesn’t want me as the permanent house guest from hell, but the thought of leaving him here with his lovely neighbours and friends makes me feel suddenly shockingly lonely. I have Pip, Mal, and Dean, but I’ve never really let them become true friends, because I don’t letanyonein.
And now I’m realising I have a job I don’t particularly like, casual friends who are probably way too busy to miss me, and in love with someone I can’t have.
Thankfully, before I can start crying, the path levels out, and I step onto Tobermory High Street.
It’s charming. The village sits around the Bay of Mull, and the seafront is full of little houses, shops, and its famous multicoloured cottages painted in bright primary colours—red, yellow, blue—bold against the winter light.
I remember seeing this place when I was little, when it had become the village of Balamory in a children’s programme. I’d loved the show so much and had watched repeats of it until my grandmother said she wanted to scream. I’d never have guessed that I’d end up here at the lowest part of my life with the love of my life.
Bernard and I start to walk, him looking at the seagulls contemplatively and me gazing into the shop windows. There are the usual galleries and chocolate shops mingled with the practical elements of a post office and a chemist. The place is busy, tourists wandering around and dipping into the shops while faster-moving locals dodge around them. Reuben had told me that it gets lethally busy during the summer, with too many people and not enough parking and I can well believe it.
I get out of the way of a family very intently not looking at the path ahead of them. Tugging on Bernard’s lead, I walk across the road and stand looking out at the water. The tide is in, and little boats bob on the water, sharing their space with some kids playing around in dinghies. I watch them idly for a few minutes until Bernard contorts himself trying to get to a seagull. He’s surprisingly good on a lead, so he must have had some training from the dickhead who left him behind.
Giving up on the seagulls, he lifts his leg up a red telephone box. It’s one of the old ones that you don’t find many of in England anymore, but they proliferate on Mull—like they came here for a holiday and forgot to go home. I wonder idly if I could do that.
We join the path and walk for a while until I come to a shop with two plate-glass windows. One shows books, the other art supplies. This must be where Reuben bought my supplies. I peer through the window, salivating over the rows of watercolour paints. I can’t go in with Bernard, though, so I reluctantly start walking again.
“You’re Reuben’s English lad, aren’t you?”
I turn at the voice and find an old man standing there bundled up against the cold.
My lip twitches. Reuben would find it terribly funny that my whole existence has been boiled down to being one of his possessions. I smile politely. “Yes, I’m staying with him.”
His eyes twinkle. “Got your clothes on today, though.”
I throw my head back, laughing. “I don’t think the High Street is quite ready for me in my pants, and I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but it’s bloody freezing today.”
“Bah, this isleesome. Balmy weather,” he translates. He gives me a toothy smile. “Well, tell Reuben that Jim says hello.”
“I will.”
I stand back so he can pass me, but he pauses. “He’s a good man,” he says steadily. “Very popular on the island.”
I wonder if this is meant as a warning not to fuck Reuben over. It should annoy me, but it doesn’t. I like that people recognise Reuben’s worth. It’ll make up for all the times he doesn’t recognise it himself.
“He’s always been well-liked,” I say steadily.
“Known him for long, have you?”
“More years than I can count.”
“Well, good to meet you?—?”
