Island Skye

by Fox Brison

  Sara

  Make mine a double!

  Nat

  Chapter 7

  Skye

  Hey, 007, get your arse to the Smuggler’s for one.

  I’d just gotten out of the bath when I received Sara’s text so quickly replied. Hey Sara, sorry, but I think I might give tonight a miss. Have one for me.

  Bollocks. If you’re not here in half an hour, I’m coming to get you… we have to celebrate.

  I was positive Sara would have heard all about my tribulations – hell most of the island probably knew by now – so why she thought I would be in the mood for celebrating was anyone’s guess. She was either being ironic, insensitive or she was drunk. I knew her threat wasn’t an idle one, and as I didn’t really like to drink alone, I didn’t put up much of a fight. Besides, Sara was very entertaining when she’d had a few and I needed a laugh almost as much as I needed to learn how to read tide tables.

  Okay, I replied, see you in a minute.

  It didn’t take me long to get ready, I was already half way there. I rifled through my clothes, what little I had with me, and decided on the simple; a checked flannel shirt dress, Chelsea boots and my brown leather bomber jacket. I quickly dried my hair, fluffing it up as best as I could, and applied a modicum of make-up. I didn’t usually bother to dress up for a Sunday night in the Smuggler’s with my best friend, after all the only talent worth looking at was the landlord’s rather cute golden Labrador, Charlie, but hey, after being dumped I needed the boost.

  I inspected myself carefully in the full length antique mirror; it was the one piece of furniture Stacy had actually approved of, and she’d dragged it from behind the door to the corner of the room where she could preen and pose to her hearts content. I sighed as my reflection stared back at me. I was average looking at best; my dark brown eyes lacked sparkle and my nose was too pointy for my liking. I applied a touch of blush to my cheeks, my slightly chubby cheeks, desperate to disguise the drawn and pinched visage of someone who hadn’t slept for thirty-six hours. I twirled to see the back of my ensemble, but gave it up as a bad job. I wasn’t overweight, but I wasn’t exactly svelte either; Michael, a colleague from the university, suggested I was a reincarnation of a Botticelli model and his gorgeous wife, Tara, called me curvaceous.

  Stacy simply suggested I go to the gym more often to eradicate my ‘love handles’. Christ, I wish I’d finished with that lying, conniving shallow TOWIE wannabe months ago.

  I shook my head and chuckled wryly. Now I was being feisty and confrontational? I picked up my keys, and performed the ‘have I remembered everything I need?’ pat down. Normally I spent an hour searching for either my mobile, purse or keys, but tonight everything was present and correct. Walking the narrow lanes leading down to the pub, I made sure to keep in as much as possible. Most of the island was devoid of pavements, and the ones they did have were so small you walked one foot on, one foot off, resembling a person with one leg shorter than the other. Local drivers acted accordingly, taking things slow and steady, but tourists were a different kettle of fish, so it was better to be safe than sorry or face being mowed down.

  That could be the motto of my life and I should get it made into a motivational fridge magnet. A picture of a flattened hedgehog sprang to mind. Yeah that worked.

  I waved to a few people I recognised and a couple of the local fishermen passing commented on floating cars which I shrugged off with a high pitched laugh, even though I was still seething at my stupidity.

  There were a few shops haphazardly dotted amongst the stone cottages and small houses lining the road, mostly gift shops which catered to the holidaymakers that made their way religiously, pun intended, to the ruins of the priory, and more than one dainty tea shop now sprinkled the main street of the town. Sara and Natalie’s mum ran one of the better ones. Mrs Jeffries had been a second mum to me. Actually, from the age of thirteen when I’d first met Sara in French class, she’d been my only mum, making sure I worked hard and ate properly. My own was too busy working three jobs in order to keep a roof over our heads and food on the table, although sometimes I wondered if that was just her excuse to keep out of the house. She certainly never showed any interest in us, even when she was there, and the only thing I remembered was the tiredness and regret that hovered over her like a black cloud.

  Everywhere was closed for the night, except for the one lone fish and chip shop which was protected by a gaggle of garrulous girls nudging each other as I walked past.

  Oh the joy.

  ***

  The Smuggler’s Inn was one of two pubs on the island, and the one my friends and I frequented most often. Whitewashed with small windows, it was a gastro pub and guest house rolled into one. Inside, the scratched floors (marked by years of patrons moving furniture to suit their needs) were littered with the ubiquitous small, round mahogany tables and matching four legged stools, which, I have to say, were a hell of a lot more comfortable than the seats the hospital offered. The dark wooden bar, with its brass footplate running around the base, and glass shelves with mirrored backs reflecting the soft amber glow of the circular downlighters fixed into the racks above, took pride of place in the centre of the room

  I hadn’t understood Sara’s Bond reference (even though I was a total film geek and actually owned the whole commemorative James Bond collection in a silver box set that took pride of place on my shelf) until I arrived at the Smuggler’s and I heard Sheena Easton’s dulcet tones echoing from Sara’s mobile phone. “For Your Eyes Only? The underwater Lotus.” My eyebrows lifted in wry amusement and I shook my head. “Nice one.” I pulled out a stool and smiled in thanks as Andy, her husband, passed over a pint of Guinness. The pub had local beers on tap, the old fashioned white china and brass beer pulls each displaying a badge labelling a variety of ales, some good others eh, so so, however, my favourite tipple remained the smooth stout I’d grown addicted to when at uni.

  “Honestly, Skye, for someone who is allegedly intelligent, you do some really stupid things. How in God’s name did you get stuck on the causeway?” Sara asked.

  “Darl’, don’t tease,” I was about to thank Andy for his support when he added, “she may be suffering tide table dyslexia. It’s a little known affliction which affects a small minority of the population, usually in the summer months. Side effects include large monetary loss and urine extraction by friends and loved ones!” Sara fell into Andy, laughing her head off. I loved spending time with the both of them; we were like the three musketeers without the French accent.

  “Har bloody har har.” I took a long draught of my drink. “It gets better. Craig Thompson was run over by Stacy’s car down at Brewer’s Point this morning and I spent the afternoon getting piles at Berwick Hospital, which, by the by, has to be the slowest emergency room in the world. Then on the way back Tam Morton somehow convinced me to race the tide. I kid you not, the water was lapping the undercarriage and I had visions of being stuck in the hut for a second time in twenty-four hours. So if you still want me to have the kids on Wednesday night, I’d start being a tad more sympathetic.” I was joking, of course, and Sara knew it. I rarely saw my own niece and nephews so there was no way I’d forgo my time with her kids, Jack and Sally, my two amazing godchildren. Besides it was Disney night, one of my many guilty pleasures. Who in their right mind would give up the opportunity of watching Finding Nemo and Beauty and the Beast back to back?

  “Uncle Tam and Craig would have been better company than you had last night. I saw Aunty Mags at Mum’s.” Sara patted my hand.

  “Good to see the Holy Island messenger service is living up to its reputation. What is it they say? The three ways to spread news? Telephone… telegram… tell a Morton.”

  “The oldies are always the best,” Andy grinned.

  “In all seriousness, Skye,” Sara said, patting my hand again, “I’m glad you finally cut Stacy loose. You weren’t just chalk and cheese, you were more like slugs and salt. I can’t figure out what the two of you talked
about for a year.”

  “I don’t think there was much talking going on,” Andy jeered and Sara and I thumped his arm simultaneously. “What? M’laud I ask of you,” he said in his best lawyer’s voice, “based on the evidence presented before the court, is it such an unreasonable conclusion to reach? Yes, I agree with my learned colleague that Stacy was not, in fact, the sharpest tool in the box. However, she was clearly calidus fervens, or in layman’s terms, hot and fiery.” This time Sara was the only one to hit him, and pretty hard at that. “Ow!”

  “Who was hot? And why is your husband screaming like a little girl?” The soft voice behind me sent shivers down my spine. Yes, that’s right. Shivers literally rolled down my spine.

  “Erm, no-one. Andy was just telling us of a case he’s working on. What are you drinking? I owe you one after this morning,” I heard what I said and wished I’d phrased it a million different ways. Natalie just smiled and there, front and centre, were those bloody dimples again.

  I could really start to hate those things.

  Okay, so I lie. I could never hate them.

  I checked her out, surreptitiously of course, I didn’t want to get caught ogling. Holy smokes she was far hotter than Stacy could ever hope to be. She sat on the stool next to me, her thigh brushing lightly against mine. Wearing a pair of faded skinny jeans, a tight white t-shirt and white converse Chuck Taylors, she looked effortlessly cool.

  And exceptionally sexy.

  “I’m surprised to see you here, Skye, after the night and day you’ve had.” Was there anyone on the island that didn’t know my shit? “Just an orange juice for me, I’d better keep a clear head. What time does the quiz start, Sara?”

  “Quiz?” I asked, surprised.

  “Yeah, didn’t Sara?” Natalie looked confusedly at Sara who ducked her head.

  “No, no Sara did not,” I answered, glaring at my best friend.

  “Oh come on, Skye, we wouldn’t have stood a chance without you, not with the bloody egg heads over there. They must do nothing but watch the Challenge channel all day every day. Besides, I don’t know what you have against pub quizzes, you’re bloody brilliant at them.” Sara flattered to deceive sometimes. Yes I had an uncanny ability to retain a huge amount of pretty useless facts, but the three amigos weren’t exactly slouches and would have managed just fine without me.

  “First prize is five minutes behind the bar,” Andy cajoled enthusiastically. After the horrendous calamity of a twenty four hours I’d just had, no more incentive was needed. I could think of nothing better than to get absolutely legless and five minutes pouring any drink for free would go a long way to achieving that goal.

  “Bring it on!” And I clinked my glass against Andy’s.

  Chapter 8

  Skye

  I hate the sun.

  I hate the morning.

  I hate the morning when it’s not only sunny, but I have the hangover from hell.

  I hate sunny mornings when I have the hangover from hell and someone is singing (badly) in my shower.

  Wait.

  What. The. Fuck?

  I was instantly slapped wide awake and bolt upright by two burning questions: Who on earth was the naked person singing Carrie Underwood in my shower and did we…? Panicking, I lifted the bedclothes and was more than a little relieved to find I was still wearing my underwear. Okay, good. I relaxed a smidgen. I may well have slept with someone last night, but it appeared sleep was all we did. I scanned the room, slowly; anything quicker and I would have (embarrassingly) replicated Stacy’s performance on Tommy’s boat. I took a breath. And then another. Shallow breaths held the nausea at bay and I opened my eyes again. Once the room stopped spinning, I refocussed and saw a familiar arran jumper on top of the dresser.

  Oh god, Natalie?

  I flopped back on the bed; I needed aspirin, water… and Michael J Fox’s DeLorean.

  “And I don’t even know… her last name!” The shower shut off and I quickly closed my eyes. If I pretended I was asleep maybe… hopefully… she’d just leave…

  I cocked one eye, just a little, the tiniest crack… OMG. Not only capitals but bold and italics were required OMG for the beauty carved in marble, a body so perfect it could have been sculpted by an Italian master.

  “Hey,” said the voice that could melt the polar ice caps, “you’re awake.” Natalie had her back to me and I watched her muscles ripple as she stretched to pull on a tight white vest. I bit my bottom lip.

  Dear God, her well defined shoulder blades were like angels’ wings.

  “Erm, hi?” My English teacher once said that the erms and ahs we littered our answers with were pauses, time to think words. Right about now I needed a dictionary, no, no wait… a thesaurus of time to think words. Especially when she tilted her head and looked at me. And oh wow that smile, that slight upturn of her lips like she knew a secret that I didn’t.

  “Thank you, for last night. It was truly amazing. Mind blowing. Unforgettable. And yes,” Natalie walked over, sat down on the bed next to me and clasped my hand. She stared at me, drawing me deep into her stunning hazel eyes flecked with green sparkles of luminosity. “Yes, I will marry you. I didn’t realise you felt the same way. And I agree San Francisco would be perfect for our honeymoon.”

  Did I say secret? More like an atomic sized bombshell and I was royally blown away. “Marry?” I squeaked. “I… San Fran… honey… it’s not… sweetie I mean I…” I did a fair amount of squirming before I managed to catch her eyes. “You little shit!” She was clearly taking the piss and I’d fallen for it, hook, like and proverbial sinker.

  “Sorry, I couldn’t resist,” she laughed, catching the pillow I flung at her.

  “So how bad was I?” I asked with the relief of a condemned man receiving the governor’s pardon whilst eating the last spoonful of his final meal.

  “I dragged your sorry arse home about eleven. On a scale of one to ten, with ten being hospitalisation, you were a mere four,” she waggled her hand, “maybe four and a half. Bit of a lightweight, are we?”

  “Bright side, it makes me a cheap date.” I mentally slapped my forehead. She’s going to think you want to date her.

  “Note taken,” she said with a wink. “So, Sara says you’re researching good old Cuthbert. I remember you being utterly obsessed with him when we were at school.”

  “Oh I still am. He’s the only man that’ll ever get my heart pumping.”

  “Again, note taken,” she grinned. “Need any help?”

  “You an expert?” Maybe it was because I was still two sheets to the wind, but the flirt in me roared forth and strode into battle. I settled back against the pillows and tucked my hands behind my head. “Or is it all talk and no walk?” She blushed. Wow. I had made Natalie Jeffries blush. I could get used to that, the way the colour highlighted her high cheekbones. Oh yes indeedy, that was a sight I could get well used to.

  “Coffee?” she stuttered, adorably.

  “That would be great. My tongue feels like it’s been licking Mrs McCarthy’s rug all night.” Shit, what was wrong with me? Not only was I tide table dyslexic, but I’d also developed double entendre Tourette’s!

  Natalie laughed and threw me my t-shirt. “I’ll put the kettle on.”

  ***

  By the time I cleaned myself up and made it into the kitchen, Natalie had not only made the coffee, but she’d started cooking breakfast too. Over her offerings of bacon and scrambled eggs topped off with a large mug of sinfully strong black coffee, we chatted comfortably about, well, anything and everything. She possessed a sharp sense of humour, slightly black, often sarcastic and she frequently had me in stitches. I felt myself loosening up and relaxing, even when we entered the murky world of politics and found our ideologies diametrically opposite. This was weird. Enjoyable, but weird. Natalie and I had spent most of our teenage years being around each other, and I’d watched as she’d grown from a gangly eleven year old into the stunning woman she now was. But this morning felt like I
was meeting her for the first time.

  I didn’t count the night before because I couldn’t really remember a bloody thing past round seven - local history.

  Sara kept me updated, kind of, on what Natalie was up to, and I’d followed her rising star with interest. It was one of the reasons we’d not seen each other since she was eighteen. She was often away either on international duty or training overseas, so had missed many family events, and the ones she did make, I’d missed, naturally. She was supposed to come with me, Sara and the kids to Disneyland Paris the previous Christmas, but Sara said she’d got a better offer. I watched every televised game she played. I even recorded some and watched them over. And over.

  Okay that sounds a bit creepy, but it wasn’t. Honest.

  Natalie was poetry in motion on the pitch, her body swayed and swerved like a prima ballerina performing Swan Lake in Covent Garden. And she boasted the athleticism of an Olympic high jumper, her long legs carrying her high into the air… her muscles straining as she competed for the ball…

  I wriggled uncomfortably and hoped she couldn’t read my mind.

  Natalie sipped her coffee and leant back, the bar stool tipping slightly as she rested her elbows on the kitchen unit behind her. “So, you and Stacy were together for a year?”

  Okay, so it seems we’ve passed the easy starters for ten. “Just under. It would have been our anniversary next week.”

  “Ouch,” she said with a cringe.

  “Nah, not really,” I shrugged. Hmm. “That made me sound like a heartless bitch, didn’t it?” I added after noticing Natalie start at my blasé answer.

  “No, of course not,” she smiled. “Well,” she held her thumb and finger slightly apart and squinted, “maybe just a titch.”

  “Sorry, it’s just...” I sighed, “it probably lasted about six months too long. Our differences outweighed anything we had in common by a good distance, and neither of us cared enough to try and make it work.” I wanted to be honest with Natalie. Everyone, especially Sara, was painting Stacy as the villain of the piece, but the truth was I was as much to blame. “I still can’t quite work out how we lasted so long, but her father is a bigwig in the alumni association, so I suspect that was something to do with it.”