When I wake up in the morning, there’s silence from Rohan’s room and I get the feeling he’s already gone out. And then I have to give myself a stern telling-off for my first thoughts being of him.
He’s R.C. Art, for God’s sake. I’ve only seen bits and pieces of his columns, but I’ve heard enough about him over the years I’ve been working at Two Gold Rings, colleagues sniggering over his articles like kids passing a banned book around the school hallways, comments and discussions about how The Man Land can let him get away with it, and now this stupid competition between the magazines.
I have to remember who he is. The funny, sweet guy from the boat yesterday is the same man. He is not someone who makes my knees go weak and butterfly wings beat in the pit of my stomach. He is a man who hates everything I love. My first thoughts in the morning can’t be of him. I’m going to lose my job if I don’t nail this article. All of my colleagues are going to lose their jobs. I have to think about all of the women who have turned to Two Gold Rings as they’ve planned their weddings, who will one day go to pick up a copy for their daughters as they plan their own weddings, and the magazine just won’t be there any more.
It’s not just about me losing my job, it’s about losing the whole magazine. And keeping the awful, controversial men’s magazine who think that employing people who get their kicks out of insulting others is a good thing. That is what I have to concentrate on, not Rohan Carter, no matter how sexy his name is. And the rest of him.
Why was he so nice to me though? Before he knew who I was, he was kind and sweet. And even after I threw my wine over him last night, he still seemed to care. He wanted me to talk to him afterwards. He even brought me cake. Why? What did he want? It’s not like he’s looking for love, is it? It’s not like he actually liked me. I get the impression that R.C. Art is not someone who likes people very much.
I scrub my hands over my face. I have to stop thinking about it. He’s a jerk who can turn on a nice-guy act when it suits him. It’s probably how he gets most of his column topics – by pretending to be someone he isn’t. I can’t let him spoil my time here. What I saw of this island yesterday looked beautiful and I can’t wait to explore it.
I owe Oliver a damn good article about this place, and I’m going to give him one, and it’s going to be better than Rohan’s. He’s obviously here to get the Edelweiss Island story and beat us, and I can’t let him. I have to do this better than him. And even if Two Gold Rings go out, we’re going to go out on a positive note, spreading love and happiness, unlike the kind of thing he’s used to spreading, which is generally more useful for fertilising farm crops.
***
Clara is hovering as I sit in the dining room, pulling apart a Danish pastry and looking out over the spectacular view. She’s offered me at least ten coffee refills, six pieces of toast, three full Englishes, and she keeps coming back to check if I need anything. I know she’s itching to say something. She probably wants to know why I threw wine over Rohan last night and then went up to my room in tears. She probably wants to know why I was ‘feeling ill’ but somehow managed to demolish a huge slice of chocolate cake.
‘He’s been hurt, hasn’t he?’ Clara eventually blurts out.
‘Who?’ I say, feigning indifference.
‘Mr Carter. I can tell these things, you know.’
‘I have absolutely no idea.’ I take an uninterested sip of coffee. ‘And if he has then I’m sure he thoroughly deserved it.’
‘Oh, do you think so?’ She pulls out the opposite chair and plonks herself down. ‘He seems like a lovely chap to me, but he’s definitely had his heart broken. He hides behind that humour and endless sarcasm but he’s hurting really.’
‘It’s probably muscle strain from carrying his gigantic ego around.’
She looks at me in surprise. ‘You too?’
‘Me? No, I’ve never been hurt.’ I glance down at my empty ring finger. ‘I’ve never had a chance to be hurt.’
‘People use humour as a barrier to protect themselves.’
‘Not me.’
‘I clocked him yesterday, you know. When he was reading my inspirational quotes about love on the walls, I saw him trying to laugh at them but I could tell they made him sad.’
I give her a sombre smile. She really does see the best in him. ‘I think you’re overestimating him. He was probably just genuinely laughing at them. That’s what he does.’
‘That’s what a lot of people do until they meet the person who makes them make sense.’
I think about the little plaques lining the walls of the hallway to the dining room. They’re sweet little quotes about love, well-known sayings written in pretty calligraphy on heart-shaped wooden boards. Some of them are a bit sappy even for me, but knowing what I know of R.C. Art, there was nothing false about his laughter at them. They’re all nice sentiments and something warms in my chest at the idea of one day meeting someone who makes me feel like that.
‘I’ve seen men like him so many times. They don’t know how to deal with their emotions so they just shut out their pain and make a joke of it. I’m sure he’s a lovely man underneath whatever it is he’s done to upset you.’
Either Clara is a mind reader or she saw much more of what happened last night than I thought she did.
‘He hasn’t done anything to upset me. I don’t even know him. He’s a complete stranger to me.’
‘He likes you though.’
‘Oh, he really doesn’t, trust me on that.’
‘And I know you like him too.’
‘Oh, I really don’t,’ I say, wondering if she really is a mind reader. Maybe that’s why there’s nothing on the internet about The Little Wedding Island. Maybe it’s just sort of conducted via Jedi mind tricks.
‘I’ve owned this place for twenty-five years. I’ve met hundreds of young couples like yourselves, people who come to get married, people who come to honeymoon, people who return year after year for a little holiday. I’ve seen relationships begin and end. I’ve seen couples head over heels in love and couples who hate each other. Trust me when I say he likes you, and you know as well as I do that you like him too. There’s no point trying to deny it, it’s as clear as day every time you smile at him.’
‘I don’t know what gives you that idea,’ I mutter. ‘I don’t even know him, and what little I do know, I assure you I don’t like.’
‘He was really concerned about you last night. After you went off ill.’ She puts an emphasis on the word that leaves me with no doubt of how untrue she thinks it is. ‘He seemed really upset. And he comfort-ate masses of my chocolate cake. And so clumsy too. Quite how someone manages to pour wine down their own neck is beyond me.’
He didn’t tell her the truth. Part of me thinks that’s really nice. He’s saved me from her undoubtedly endless questioning, but the other, more logical part of me thinks that if he’d told her the truth, he’d have had to tell her why I’d thrown my wine over him, and that would’ve led to having to admit to being a reporter.
‘Are you certain that you feel better this morning?’
‘Oh yes, fine, thank you. I’m sure it was just a bit of residual seasickness that didn’t hit me until later. A good night’s sleep has sorted me right out.’ I don’t know why I’m bothering to lie. She can see right through me. But whatever the reason is that Rohan didn’t tell her the truth, I’m interested to see where he’s going with it, because if I know one thing about R.C. Art, it’s that he’ll stop at nothing for a story. It makes me wonder what exactly he’s trying to get out of Edelweiss Island. Is it really as simple as a punishment for arguing with me online, or is he going to put his own – horrible – spin on the church of no-divorces?
When I’ve finished my breakfast and left Clara disappointed at getting no gossip out of me, it’s way past time I started looking around this beautiful island. The sun is dazzling as I step out the door of the B&B and squint in the early April brightness. I close my eyes and breathe in the saltiness of sea air and the smell of flowers wafting on the breeze.
‘Good morning!’
I open my eyes to see Rohan. He’s leaning on the gate of one of the cottages further down the path, chatting to the woman with long grey-highlighted hair down to her waist who was pottering around in her garden when we reached the top of the steps yesterday.
I didn’t expect to see him so soon. I give him a tight smile and a nod, and he straightens up and looks like he’s excusing himself from talking to the woman. He’s going to come over and I don’t want to see him. I don’t know how to handle seeing him.
I do the sensible, adult thing and pretend I haven’t noticed him making his way towards me. I duck my head and hurry around the back of the B&B away from him. I pass Clara’s neat rose garden and stop on the coastal path, standing in the shade of the building, trying to catch my breath. I didn’t realise I was walking that fast but something has taken my breath away, and it definitely wasn’t his blond hair blowing across his forehead in the gentle wind.
I have to get a grip on myself. I’m bound to see him eventually. We’re in rooms next door to each other, unless by some miracle he’s leaving today, which he won’t be because I’d never get that lucky. He wants the same thing that I want, and I don’t think it’s a story that can be uncovered in the few hours before the next boat home.
I have to be professional about it. Civilised. Nothing happened yesterday. Nothing that meant anything, anyway. He’s just another reporter here to report on the same thing. If I happen to see him in passing, I will remain polite, professional, aloof. I can do that. Not doing that has already got me into trouble.
I keep expecting him to appear on the coastal path, and I’m not sure if I’m pleased or disappointed when he doesn’t. Did I make it obvious that I was running away from him? Good. R.C. Art should be used to being so offensive that women flee at the mere sight of him. I should be glad if he’s gotten the hint.
When he doesn’t come round the side of the B&B, I try to calm myself. I brush my top down and pull my straight hair back. Professional. Aloof. I repeat the words in my head like a mantra. I’m here to write an article. I love my job and Two Gold Rings and I’m not about to lose either of them because of him. I get to come to gorgeous places like this and call it work, and without Two Gold Rings, I won’t get to do that any more. That is what I have to concentrate on.
With that in mind, I straighten myself up and start following the sandy path that runs past the back of the B&B and continues around the edge of the island. Once I step back out of the shadow of the building, the sun is bright again and Rohan is nowhere to be seen. Good. Now I can concentrate on the island, not him.
It’s quiet this morning, a world away from the constant noise of traffic at the office in London. There’s no one around and I wander along the meandering path, taking in the picture-postcard little cottages and the steep drop of the cliffs below me. There’s a sturdy metal safety barrier along the edges of the coastal path – the only thing that looks modern among the picturesque thatched roofs and perfect little gardens.
I follow the path a bit further inland and crouch down to admire a patch of the white flowers that cover the space between paths. I don’t know what they are, but I run my fingers across silvery grass-like foliage and let them trail up to the furry white flowers. They smell beautiful too and I take a deep breath and inhale the scent that seems to waft across the island all the time.
‘Unusual, aren’t they?’
I jump at the sound of his voice.
Across the island, Rohan has popped up from behind a grassy hill with a white flower in his hand.
‘You’re probably not meant to pick them,’ I call over. ‘I’ve never seen them before, they might be a protected species or something.’
He grins and holds his hands out in front of him, crossing them at the wrists. ‘Well, you’d better come and arrest me then. I bet Clara’s got some pink furry handcuffs you can borrow while we await the arrival of the police helicopter to whisk me off to prison for this terrible crime.’
‘You’re hilarious,’ I say without cracking my face, even though the idea of prim and proper Clara owning pink furry handcuffs makes me want to smile, but I’m not going to give him the satisfaction.
‘Actually I didn’t pick it. My new friend, Amabel, gave it to me from her garden.’ He points to the cottage across the island and the woman he was talking to earlier waves to him.
‘Been using your false charms to gain the islanders’ trust already then?’
‘If I choose to ignore certain parts of that sentence, you think I’m charming.’
I do an exaggerated fake laugh. ‘Or just false.’
‘I like my version better.’ He grins like he’s waiting for me to reply.
‘You would,’ I snap, at a loss for what else to say. I can’t be standing here trying not to smile at R.C. Art. He’s the opposite of everything I love. I shouldn’t even be giving him the time of day. I flash a tight smile at him. ‘Have a nice day.’
I try to pretend I didn’t see the look of hurt flash across his face as I shove my hands into my pockets and duck my head, wishing I had a hood I could pull up so I didn’t have to feel his eyes on me as I march towards the village, not willing to hang around for him to catch up with me. Or for me to go back and apologise because I did see that look of hurt, and I’m not sure which is worse – the fact R.C. Art might have actual human feelings or the fact that Rohan cares enough to let one sentence hurt him.
Village isn’t the right term for the area I’m walking towards. As I get closer, the paths widen into a cobblestone street lined with old-fashioned black streetlamps, waist-high brick flower beds brimming with colourful buds, and a row of shops on either side.
As I enter the street, I walk through an arch strung with white fairy lights and a sign hanging from it that reads, ‘Welcome to The Little Wedding Street, your one-stop-shop to make your big day as special as your love.’ They really don’t mind a bit of sappiness around here. I bet Rohan’s seen it and had a good laugh. The thought is enough to spur me on. No more distractions. I need to take pictures, talk to some shopkeepers, and find out exactly what The Little Wedding Island is all about.
I’m the only person on the little street of shops and I look around in awe. It’s so perfect that it doesn’t look real. It’s like a set from one of those gorgeously romantic Hallmark movies. The cobblestones are sparkling in the sunlight, and pink and white bunting is strung across the front of each shop, above open wooden shutters and vintage awning. The doors are open and inviting, and nearest to me is a café with the most delicious smell of coffee and baked goods wafting out the door. I’m definitely going in there later.
For now though, I decide to have a mosey around the shops and see what they’re selling. Oliver will definitely want that in my article. Near the café, there’s a florist shop with a few potted roses outside, red buds just starting to form. There’s a large area of flat paving stones with the worn circles of flower buckets stained on the concrete and I imagine the florist probably displays her flowers outside most of the time. The shop front is painted pastel pink and there are soft curtains at the window edges with cherry blossom and strawberries on them, and even with no flowers outside, it looks so inviting. I walk towards it, but just as I get to the door, it closes with a bang and there’s the rickety sound of the wooden shutters dropping down inside.
It makes me jump so much that I nearly topple over. I look at the shop in surprise. The lights are suddenly off inside, and with the shutter down over the door, it looks closed. It must be the wind. A gust has probably blown it shut from the inside.
I take a tentative step towards it and try the handle, but it’s locked.
I look up at the shop like I’m losing the plot. Two minutes ago, the door was open. It’s like they saw me coming and shut up quickly.
‘Rude,’ I mutter to no one in particular. Maybe I’m just being paranoid. It was probably a gust of wind that slammed the door with such force that the lock clicked into place and the blind fell down. It’s not that windy today but we’re on a tiny island in the middle of the sea. The weather is probably unpredictable out here.
Well, there are plenty of other shops on the street if the florist doesn’t want me. There’s a bridal boutique on the opposite side of the street, a double window display inside it with three mannequins in each window, each dressed in beautiful wedding gowns. I smile at the sight, but as I take a few steps across the cobbles towards it, the window display starts to disappear from view as a blackout blind is lowered. They can’t be shutting up too. It’s not even close to lunchtime yet. I jog across the wide street, hoping to catch whoever’s inside, but I find that door locked too when my hand closes around the handle.
It’s not even eleven a.m. Where are they all going at once? Or do they just not want me to see inside?
Which is weird. Why would they not want me to see inside?
I glance behind me, suddenly feeling alone and unwelcome on what looked like such a warm and inviting street less than five minutes ago. It looks like a ghost town now. Apart from the café, every shop door is closed and every window has their blinds down. The florist has even drawn her pretty curtains.
Surely this isn’t because of me? I must be imagining it. Maybe none of the doors were open earlier. Or maybe they just close up for lunch really early here.
Two doors up from where I’m standing is a bakery. I can see the reflection of the cakes in the closed window of the shop opposite it. The door is still open and I decide to make a run for it. If I can grab just one shopkeeper, I’m sure they’ll have a simple explanation for the sudden mass exodus.
I stretch my calf muscles like I’m starting a marathon and sprint towards the open door of the bakery, and the very second I get there, just as I’m about to get one foot on the step, a woman slams the door shut from inside and I jump back in surprise.
She stares at me through the glass pane of the door, and keeps eye contact as she slowly and deliberately turns over the ‘open’ sign and pats it against the glass with a severe-sounding tap. The word ‘closed’ mocks me.
I step forwards and rap on the door. ‘What are you doing? Let me in!’ I say, wondering if they think I’m going to rob them or something. Do I look like a burglar?
Through the glass door, she looks me straight in the eyes, lifts a hand, and wags a finger at me like she’s scolding a toddler. She doesn’t break eye contact until a dark blind gradually lowers between us, blocking the view. A curtain has lowered inside the window too, shutting out the display of cakes.
This is ridiculous. What have I done to these people to make myself so unwelcome here? Why would any shopkeeper close their shop when a customer comes along? Doesn’t that defeat the object of having a shop? What’s going on?
I wander to the other end of the street, another metal arch strung with fairy lights and a sign saying, ‘Thank you for visiting The Little Wedding Street.’
Hah, I think as I lean against the arch and kick at a cobblestone, half expecting the shops to open up again now I’ve gone past, but there’s no movement. It really is like a ghost town, and I think of Oliver’s words about reporters coming here and still never knowing anything about the island. Is this why? Do they close down at the first hint of a tourist? I thought this was meant to be a place that relied on tourism. According to the cynics of the world like Oliver and Rohan, they’ve invented their church of no-divorce story to drum up tourism, and if that’s the case, this is surely not the way to go about it.
I sigh and turn my back on the street. I’m at the bottom of the hill leading up to the church. The cobblestones fade into neatly mown grass, and there’s a narrow path winding up the hill towards the grey building. Even from this angle, it’s still almost completely obscured by trees. There are other ways to get up to it – a wide tarmac path twisting around the coast edges and upwards in a circle around the hill – but I’d have to go back through the ghost street to reach it, so I take the little path.
The shops’ closing has upset me a bit. It’s made me feel like an intruder here, but I have to start my article somewhere and The Little Wedding Street certainly wasn’t very successful. I may as well get right to the heart of the matter and find out about the church.
I reach the top of the path and follow it around the hill to the coastal side of the island where it joins up with the wider road. I stop and lean against a tree to catch my breath, hoping no one is watching me feeling the effects of always taking the lift and not the stairs at work.
It’s like a forestry up here. Although the wide road is lined with uniform tree trunks, the branches above me are thick and unkempt with greenery and meet in the middle, not letting much daylight through. I’ve been to a lot of weddings in my time and I can safely say this is the most romantic walk to a wedding venue I’ve ever seen.
‘The proper road is a lot less steep, you know.’
I look up to see Rohan coming towards me, grinning.
Great. I’m sweaty and gasping for breath, and he looks just as gorgeous as he did earlier. Why is it that the hotter a guy is, the more of a state I look in his presence? Not that him being hot matters when he’s got the values of an immoral pond-skater, but I’m trying to be professional and aloof here, not the panting mess I currently am. My jeans have got grass stains on them from the climb up, my jacket snagged on every branch I passed, and there’s got to be at least half a tree attached to my hair.
‘Are you following me?’ I wheeze, trying to retain some dignity.
‘Of course not. I try to stay away from people who clearly don’t want to see me. Otherwise you get labels like “stalker” thrown around and there are all sorts of restraining orders and stuff. It’s not fun.’
‘It wouldn’t surprise me if you knew that from experience,’ I mutter.
‘Oh, come on. I write tongue-in-cheek columns that take the mickey out of weddings. I don’t do anything illegal and I’m sorry I’ve offended you so much that you think that badly of me.’
I feel myself softening as I look at him. He seems genuine and his calm but amused way of speaking makes me think I’m being irrational. R.C. Art is probably just an exaggerated character that he uses for his job, like Ali G or Keith Lemon. It doesn’t mean Rohan is really like that. ‘Sorry, that was a bit harsh considering you brought me cake last night.’
A wide smile breaks across his face and I suddenly feel even more out of breath than I already was.
‘So, are you heading for the church?’
I nod and he continues. ‘So was I, but if I’ve really upset you that much and you want me to leave, I’ll go and come back later.’
‘No, of course not,’ I say instantly, taken aback by how considerate he is. I would never ask him to do that and the fact that he’s offered – that he’d be willing to go away just because I’m here – makes me feel warm all over. No one who was truly as horrible as R.C. Art would care about my feelings that much.
‘I was hoping you’d say that,’ he says, smiling again. ‘And we haven’t had our meeting about cockroaches yet. I definitely heard some scurrying in the night. What about you?’
I laugh despite myself. Talking to him makes it very easy to forget everything apart from the ice blue of his eyes and the way they sparkle as he grins at me. ‘No. There are no cockroaches.’
‘Oh well, maybe it was just mice and rats then,’ he says as he falls into step beside me and we turn the next corner so the church gate is in sight.
‘You just think you’re being funny. The B&B is very clean and Clara’s lovely. All right, her taste is a little… not-of-this-century… but there are no cockroaches and definitely no mice or rats. If you heard anything last night, it was probably those awful china ornaments with the blank eyes. I reckon they’re possessed. There’s definitely something not right about them.’
‘Oh, tell me about it. There’s one of a little boy playing with a dead bird on the chest of drawers in my room and it’s looking directly at the bed. I had to get up in the night and turn it round to face the wall so it wasn’t watching me. I was surprised to find it hadn’t turned back around by itself this morning.’
‘Enough to stop anyone sleeping.’
‘Actually, I couldn’t sleep because I was horrible to this girl on Twitter last week and she deserves a proper apology.’ He nudges my arm. ‘I am sorry, Bonnie. Genuinely. Not just because you’re here or because my boss told me I should be sorry approximately thirty thousand times while he was ripping my head off on Monday morning. I shouldn’t have screencapped your tweets or tried to bring the magazine battle into it, and I definitely could’ve been nicer over dinner last night.’
Goose bumps creep across the back of my neck and a lovely tingle goes down my spine. I shake myself. ‘Apology reluctantly accepted.’
‘Good, we can at least be civil to each other, can’t we? We’re both working on the same thing and this island is less than two miles wide – we’re bound to run into each other.’
‘I guess.’ I sigh. I never expected R.C. Art to be so reasonable. ‘Rohan…’
He cocks his head to the side as he looks at me, his mouth curving up at one side like he’s trying not to smile.
‘I’m sorry too,’ I say. ‘I shouldn’t have thrown wine over you last night, and I should’ve just ignored you on Twitter.’
‘Nah, you’re okay. I write stuff that’s always going to get a reaction. I’ve been at it for years and I still haven’t learnt to ignore my critics.’
I want to ask him more, but we reach the church gate and he whoops in victory. ‘Well, would you look at that? I told you there’d be an arch of flowers.’
I stop in awe of the little lane beyond the gate. ‘That’s not an arch of flowers. It’s more a tunnel of trees.’
The church is still out of sight, nothing more than the occasional glimpse of grey bricks between greenery, but the lane leading up to it is incredible. Huge trees are evenly spaced along each side of it, but rather than the wild forestry of the road leading up here, their branches are all twisted and plaited together so they meet in the middle and form a tunnel. The branches are starting to burst with the green buds of spring, and to say it looks magical would be an understatement.
‘It’s plant life. It counts,’ Rohan says. ‘You can’t say they’re not predictable here. They may as well have ordered that straight from the catalogue of romantic things.’
‘Oh, come on. That’s incredible. It must’ve taken years to construct that. They must’ve let the trees grow and then spent years training them into that shape so it looks fantastic but doesn’t hurt the trees.’
‘Hmm,’ he mutters noncommittally.
‘Can you imagine walking down here as man and wife? A father and daughter walking through this as he goes to give her away? Running through it with your new partner? Stopping here for your wedding photos? It’s perfect. I’ve never seen a more beautiful entrance to a church.’
He looks up at the trees and back at me. ‘I suppose you go to enough weddings to make a fair judgement so I’ll take your word for it.’
‘Doesn’t it feel special to you?’ I put my hand on my heart and close my eyes. ‘It feels like you can… sense how many couples have been married here. There’s such an incredible atmosphere.’
‘I think it’s called being away from city traffic.’
When I open my eyes, he’s looking at me with a raised eyebrow.
‘Know what I can hear?’ he continues. ‘The cha-ching of how much money this place must be dragging in from people who think they can sense romance in the atmosphere.’
I ignore him and try to open the gate instead but it doesn’t budge. It’s a wooden farm gate at around armpit height, but there’s a heavy chain binding it to the gatepost, and a hefty padlock that leaves no doubt about how welcome visitors are.
‘Seems warm and inviting.’ Rohan pushes the gate to see how steady it is. ‘I could climb that.’
‘Yeah, if you want to break your neck.’
‘Excuse me.’ A man clears his throat and we both look up to see a bloke in a black shirt and clerical collar coming down the lane towards us. ‘There will be no climbing of gates or breaking of necks today, thank you very much.’
He stops on his side of the gate and gives us a look that says he’d be more thrilled to find a hyperactive baboon with a box of matches and a fondness for pyromania waiting to come in. ‘Is there something I can help you with that may change your current plans for trespassing onto private property and possible mortal injury?’
‘We’ve heard a lot about your church,’ I say before Rohan can say whatever sarcastic comment is itching to spill out of his mouth. ‘We just wanted to come in and have a look at the place. It sounds magical.’
‘Ah, I see.’ The vicar nods knowingly. ‘Have you, perhaps, missed the giant padlock? Does the “keep out” sign translate to you as “come in, visitors welcome”?’ His voice is upbeat but there’s a hint of steel behind his words. ‘Reporters again, I presume?’
‘We’re just tourists,’ Rohan says. ‘Come to explore Edelweiss Island. You can’t stay here without having a butcher’s at the church, can you?’
‘Are you here to get married?’
‘No!’ Rohan sounds more alarmed than is probably normal to sound at the mere mention of a word.
‘Then I’m afraid I can’t help you,’ the vicar says with a shrug that looks more condescending than apologetic. ‘And if you get any further ideas of breaking and entering, I would like to advise you that I have a guard dog.’
‘Aww, I love dogs. What breed is he? Can we meet him?’ Rohan doesn’t wait for an answer before he lets out a shrill whistle to call the dog.
I expect to see a large, angry Doberman racing down the path hungry for a taste of blood. What actually happens is a little black pug comes waddling out of the woodland and sits down beside the vicar’s ankles.
‘Oh my God, that’s the cutest dog I’ve ever seen.’ Rohan drops to his knees and shoves both arms through the gate and starts cooing at the dog. I’m convinced he’s about to lose his fingers, but the dog wags his whole body as he wanders over, gives his hand a sniff, and promptly throws himself upside down on the grass and wriggles around for Rohan to tickle his belly.
The vicar clears his throat but the dog ignores him, wriggling happily as Rohan scritches him. Obviously an utterly terrifying guard dog.
‘Don’t be fooled. We use his size and friendliness as a decoy. He’d have you for dinner if he caught you doing something untoward around the church.’
‘He wouldn’t, would you, handsome?’ Rohan’s beaming as the dog paws at his hand for more belly rubs.
‘So are you the vicar here?’ I ask over the clucking of Rohan’s baby talk to the pug, realising how stupid the question is before the sentence is fully out. He’s wearing a clerical shirt and a white collar – what do I think he is, the scuba diving instructor?
‘If you’re a reporter, may I congratulate you on your top-notch investigative skills,’ he says, his voice deadpan.
‘I’m not a reporter,’ I lie. ‘We’re just visiting the island. Some of the locals were talking about how beautiful the church is so we wandered up to have a look.’
‘Well, I’m afraid you’ve wasted your time,’ the vicar says, folding his arms across his chest.
I’m no expert in body language, but the man on the dock and his clamshell having a colonoscopy metaphor springs to mind. This is not a vicar who’s going to invite us in for a cup of tea and a chat about the statistics of his no-divorce church. Why didn’t I expect this? After everything Oliver said about how hard journalists have tried to get info about this place, I should’ve known it wouldn’t be as easy as coming here and asking.
Rohan carries on petting the dog obliviously.
‘What’s it like to live here?’ I ask, trying to think of the most neutral, touristy question I can ask without arousing his suspicion. ‘It must be amazing.’
‘It’s very nice.’ He gives me a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes, and I wait for him to elaborate but he doesn’t.
‘Do you have many visitors?’
‘You’d have to ask Clara that. She’s responsible for the bed and breakfast, but I’m sure you already know that.’
‘Do you do all the weddings here?’
‘Yes.’
I press my lips together, trying not to show my frustration at his one-word answers. Only a reporter would get frustrated, but a tourist wouldn’t care.
‘We can’t even have a friendly conversation?’ Rohan asks, standing up. The dog looks up at him forlornly and does a snuffle of disappointment as he goes back to sit beside the vicar. ‘We’re not doing any harm. What’s your name?’
‘Paul,’ the vicar says.
‘Have you lived here long?’ Rohan asks.
‘A while.’
‘How long have you presided over this parish?’ Rohan tries again.
‘For a while.’
‘Well, thanks for those enlightening answers.’ Rohan gives him a smile through gritted teeth.
The vicar uncrosses and recrosses his arms again, making arm-crossing look like an art form.
‘Why don’t you allow tourists in?’ I persist. ‘What harm would it do if you just let us in for a little peek? We’re only here for a couple of days and we really wanted to get a feel for the island.’
‘If you’re not getting married here, you’re not coming in. End of story.’
‘How about a photo?’ Rohan asks him.
‘If you’re not here to get married, you’re not allowed to take photos.’
‘Well, I’d put it in my holiday snaps and show it to all my friends,’ he says. ‘Some of them are looking for wedding venues, they’d be interested in hearing all about it.’
‘I don’t need your help finding business, thank you.’
‘Well, I’ll be certain to tell them all how friendly and obliging you are.’
‘Will that be all?’ the vicar says, ignoring his sarcasm. ‘Good day to you both. Enjoy your stay on Edelweiss Island but don’t waste your time coming up here again.’
I look at Rohan and shake my head. This is pointless. I can see he’s thinking the same thing as we turn and walk away.
‘Nice to have met you,’ Rohan calls over his shoulder. ‘Thanks for your hospitality!’
I glance back to see the vicar leaning across the gate as he watches us go, as if making sure we don’t suddenly dart back and ransack the place or something.
‘Well, that got us off to a good start,’ I say. ‘Good job on threatening to climb his gate and proving his vicious guard dog is just a wriggly teddy bear.’
‘Me? You were basically Michael Parkinson. No tourist conducts an interview like that. I take it Two Gold Rings don’t send you on undercover work very often?’
‘We’re a bridal magazine, not a network of secret superspies. Who needs to go undercover to write about weddings?’
‘Yeah, well, I think you forgot to turn your flashing neon “reporter” sign off.’
‘And you clearly forgot to turn off your flashing neon “twat” sign—’
‘Ooh, hang on.’ Rohan looks behind us again and the vicar is just turning away. ‘I can get at least one photo.’
He whips his phone out of his pocket and takes off back towards the gate. ‘Hey, mate!’
I watch as he snaps a picture and runs away again, leaving the vicar yelling a string of expletives that you wouldn’t even expect a vicar to know.
Rohan’s laughing and out of breath as he runs back down the road and almost barrels into me as I wait at the curve of the road, ready to run too in case the vicar or the pug give chase.
‘You took your life in your hands there,’ I say, unable to stop myself smiling at how jubilant he looks.
‘Oh, I know, right? That adorable little dog is like dicing with death.’
‘He’s a vicar, Rohan. He’ll probably get God to strike you down.’
‘I’m sure many have tried,’ he says, still laughing as he scrolls through his phone. ‘Look at that. That really showcases my skills as a photographer.’
I take the phone when he holds it out and laugh at the photo on the screen – a blurry mess of fuzzy road, three of the vicar’s fingers, the back end of the dog. ‘Well, it’s the best picture our bosses are going to get with the articles at this rate.’
Our fingers brush as I hand the phone back to him and I try to convince myself it was nothing. Static electricity, that’s all. No matter what, he’s still R.C. Art underneath. He cannot be someone I feel a jolt with.
‘Well, that was like rubbing your face on a cheese grater but less fun.’ Rohan straightens up and pockets his phone as we walk back down the main road towards the rest of the island. ‘If he’d ducked any more questions, he’d have started quacking.’
‘I don’t get why they’re being so secretive. It’s like some secret club that you can only be in if you’re getting married. Why aren’t they encouraging tourism? I thought they’d be pleased to have people interested in their church.’
‘Exactly. It’s like, Clara is welcoming, but only to a degree. Her niceness feels very fragile, like if we step out of line once, she’ll push us over the cliff with a smile on her face.’
‘Well, maybe not quite that violent,’ I say, even though he’s hit the nail on the head perfectly, and I never thought R.C. Art was someone capable of being so perceptive. ‘I feel like she doesn’t really trust us because we’re not a couple. I think she’d like us a lot more if we were.’
‘I think everyone would like us a lot more if we were.’ He knocks his shoulder against mine and waggles his eyebrows, making me go hot all over. It’s the sea breeze, I tell myself. Maybe there’s an altitude difference being up a hill like this. It was quite a steep walk, after all.
‘So are you persona non grata at The Little Wedding Street too?’
‘Yes!’ I say, feeling stupidly relieved that it’s not just me. ‘You too?’
‘Are you kidding? One man slammed the door so quickly he nearly had my fingers off. And I got onto the step in one shop and a woman chased me out with a broom. A broom! I felt like I was in an Enid Blyton book. Who chases people with a broom these days?’
‘So what are they hiding? What don’t they want us to see?’
‘You want my cynical unromantic take on it?’
‘Why am I not surprised that your take would be cynical and unromantic?’
The proud grin he gives me says he takes that as a compliment, and I roll my eyes and nod for him to go ahead. At least he asked if I wanted his opinion. I thought R.C. Art was the type to force his opinion on people whether they like it or not.
‘I think it’s all a bunch of lies and they suspect we’re reporters, and they don’t want reporters here because we’re likely to uncover the truth.’
I go to protest but he stops me. ‘Look at it this way, this is apparently a super popular wedding venue now. People travel from all over desperate to get married here. There’s no way they treat actual couples like that or no one would ever come here. It’s just us.’
‘What a comforting thought,’ I mutter, slightly annoyed that he’s probably right. We know they do wedding packages here, but you can’t buy everything in one place if the shopkeepers shut your fingers in the door in their effort to keep you out. The vicar said as much – if you’re not getting married, you’re not coming in. Rohan’s right – it’s just us.
I glance up at him walking beside me and he smiles, making me feel glad not to be quite so alone.
We reach the bottom curve of the road down from the church and are back on the flat of the island again, smooth paths running through the patches of little white flowers as the expanse of the island opens up in front of us when we emerge from the trees. An old couple are sitting on their garden bench sipping coffee in their perfect cottage garden and they wave and shout hello as we pass.
‘Mmm, coffee,’ Rohan says. ‘Would you join me for one? If you’re not going to run away from me this time, that is.’
‘I didn’t run away from you.’
‘No? What were you doing then?’
I glance at him. ‘There was a bee.’
He laughs. ‘You’re nothing like I imagined the Bonnie I argued with on Twitter would be either, you know. But that’s okay. I’m surprised too. Pleasantly.’
I thought I couldn’t blush any harder but my cheeks prove me wrong. He’s so easy with his compliments but he doesn’t sound false, and it shouldn’t be like this. If anyone had asked me last week what I thought of R.C. Art, it wouldn’t have been that he’s actually quite sweet, a little bit charming, and that he can be funny when he’s not insulting newlyweds.
‘The café do a great caramel latte,’ he says, sounding like he’s trying to tempt me.
‘You managed to get served at the café?’
‘Yeah. I couldn’t face Clara’s prodding over breakfast so I went there. It’s the only place on the island that didn’t shut the door on me. The owner is my new best friend now.’
‘You’ve really been working your charms on the locals, haven’t you?’
He laughs again. ‘Oh, I think it was her charming me, not the other way round. Put it this way, I went in earlier and said, “Latte to go, please,” and ten minutes later I knew her name is Kittie, with an ie, not a y. That’s very important. Apparently she refuses service to people who sound like they’re pronouncing it with a y. Of course it’s not like the pronunciation is exactly the same or anything.’ He shakes his head with a grin. ‘And she’s been running the café for the last twelve years, despite the fact she’s got a bad knee and her hip’s been replaced twice, she’s got angina, and her husband’s got an enlarged prostate, which makes it difficult for them to have sex as often as they used to.’
I burst out laughing.
‘And you think I was trying to charm her.’ He winks at me and multiple butterfly wings are twitching back into wakefulness.
He points at a bench nearby. ‘I might be a grumpy old cynic but even I can appreciate that view. Do you want to sit down and I’ll run and get a couple of coffees to go?’
‘Sounds perfect.’
He grins and I watch as he jogs along one of the little paths, past another cottage, and disappears onto the wedding street. Whoever would have thought a couple of days ago that I’d be having a coffee with R.C. Art and not considering pushing him off a cliff? Not yet, anyway.