The Little Wedding Island: the perfect holiday beach read for 2018

She suddenly seems to realise she’s said too much because she stops so abruptly that she may as well have clamped a hand over her mouth. She flaps us towards a table set back from the window, a red candle burning in the middle of it, a few rose petals scattered on the tablecloth around it. ‘Sit, sit, let me get the wine!’

She rushes out of the room and I look at Rohan who is looking at the empty doorway with a raised eyebrow.

I go to sit down but his hand is on the back of my chair before I have a chance. ‘Uh-uh. I promised I’d pull a chair out for you, didn’t I?’

I laugh as he does just that and I sit in the chair. ‘You try spreading a napkin across my lap for me and I’m going to wallop you.’

He laughs as he walks around the tiny table and sits opposite me, his back to the window. ‘So, we know they have a wedding photographer here…’

‘Why are they being so secretive?’ I say. ‘We know it’s an island for weddings. We know about the church, we know they offer wedding packages, there’s even a signpost for weddings at the top of the steps up from the dock. Why does she act as if mentioning a photographer is like accidentally letting slip the whereabouts of MI5’s secret headquarters?’

‘Maybe it’s exactly that. Maybe it’s, like, a mafia-run island for gang weddings or something?’

‘Yeah. That elderly couple on the beach, that woman weeding her garden, bouncy Clara… They’re all straight out of the mob, aren’t they?’

He grins as Clara comes back in with a bottle and two glasses. She sets one down in front of each of us and fills them with red wine. ‘Won’t be a tick with dinner!’

It’s only then I realise that, as well as only two glasses, there are only two chairs and only room for two people on this tiny table. ‘Aren’t you joining us?’

‘Oh, I had my tea ages ago. I just wanted to make sure you both had something hearty in your stomachs after such a long trip.’

As she leaves again, Rohan beckons me closer and whispers, ‘Do you think she means literal heart? Of her husband? Who’s chopped up in the freezer?’

I couldn’t stop the burst of laughter if I wanted to. ‘Oh, stop it.’

‘Yeah, you’re right. She’s probably defrosted him ready to cook. He’ll be in the fridge by now.’

It makes me laugh even more and I lean back in my chair and our legs bump into each other because neither of us has space to move away.

‘Sorry,’ Rohan mumbles. ‘I think doll’s houses have bigger tables than this.’

‘No worries,’ I say, because there are worse things than eating dinner with a gorgeous man’s leg against yours. I just hope my jeans are thick enough not to give away how long it’s been since I shaved my legs.

‘Dinner is served!’ Clara trills, appearing with two plates and setting them down in front of us. ‘A lovely stew, cooked with all locally sourced products.’

Rohan nudges my leg with his and I have to stifle more laughter.

‘Enjoy, dears! I’ll be back with a wine refill shortly, and if you play your cards right, there might be a slice of chocolate cake for afters!’

‘You’re spoiling us, Clara,’ Rohan says, giving her his widest smile.

Instead of melting on the spot like I expected her to, she fixes him with a firm stare. ‘I get the feeling you’re someone who deserves a little spoiling, Mr Carter.’ In the blink of an eye, she’s back to her cheerful self, calling ‘toodle-oo’ as she closes the door behind her.

‘Well, that was creepy.’

‘That was sweet. I think she meant she knew you felt ill earlier and wanted to look after you.’

‘Sounded like a threat to me.’ He yanks on an imaginary tie around his neck while making a choking noise. ‘Maybe that’s why they’re so secretive. Maybe every guest who “deserves spoiling” is the next on the hit list for chopping up in freezer bags.’

‘Well, I’m in the room next door so if she comes for you with an axe in the middle of the night, I’ll hear your screams.’

‘And do what? Lie there listening?’

I giggle. ‘Pretty much.’

‘Look at this,’ he says, poking a fork into his bowl of stew. ‘Talk about meat of unknown origin. What is that?’

‘Chicken.’

‘Looks like forearm-of-husband to me.’

‘You either have an overactive imagination or you’re being funny.’

His face breaks into a wide grin.

‘All right, you’re being funny,’ I say as our legs bump again.

‘Do you get the feeling that Clara is trying to play Cupid? The dimmed lights, the candle, the rose petals, the huge glasses of wine and table the size of a postage stamp?’

‘I think she might be,’ I say. I don’t add that I’m not complaining.

‘I hate that kind of thing. All this manufactured romance. The candle is not romantic, it’s a fire hazard. The dimmed lights aren’t romantic, they’re annoying because I can’t see what I’m eating. What she said just now – my whole personality will change when I find love. I’m so sick of hearing that.’

‘But love does change people. To quote Michael Ball, “love changes everything”.’

‘Maybe for saps like you and Clara, but not for me. Been there, done that, never doing it again.’ He looks up from his stew and meets my gaze. ‘Sorry. The thing I hear more than anything else is “oh, you just haven’t found the right girl yet”. Like one day I’m going to meet a woman who will instantly change everything I’ve ever believed about love.’

‘Which is?’

‘Love is a lie. It isn’t real. It’s a commodity used by people to get what they want. And don’t even get me started on weddings…’

That’s so sad. How can anyone believe that love isn’t real? Even if they haven’t experienced it personally, they still see it around them every day. It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell him he just hasn’t found the right girl yet, not in a patronising way, just because I think there’s someone out there for everyone and the world will click into place when you meet them, but I bite my lip.

He looks at me again. ‘Sorry, I went off on one again, didn’t I?’

I shake my head. ‘Nah. I was just thinking of a guy on Twitter who you would love.’

He smiles but I feel truly sad as I try not to burn my mouth on the steaming bowl of stew. How can anyone not believe in love? It’s all there is. It’s all we have to look for. We naturally want to find another human we connect with and make a life with them… Work, career, friends, money, all that is fine, but what’s the point if you’ll never find anyone to share it with?

‘So you’re not going to be testing out their church of no-divorces any time soon then?’ I ask, trying to lighten the mood.

‘Hah. I’d have a more enjoyable time throwing myself under a steam roller.’ He grins and the butterflies take off again. ‘Nah, I told you, I pissed my boss off and got myself stuck with the assignment that no one else wanted.’

‘What do you do?’

‘I’m the forbidden word around here.’ He looks around as if checking there’s no one in earshot before he leans closer and motions for me to do the same. ‘I am kind of a reporter. I mean, I’m not really, I just write for a magazine, but I am here to write an article about the island.’

Warmth blooms inside of me. We’re in the same position. ‘Snap.’

‘You too?’

If I smiled any wider, my face would split in half. ‘Yep. I write for Two Gold Rings, you know, the bridal magazine? My boss wants me to find out what’s really going on here. He thinks the people will be more open to…’ I trail off when I realise his face has gone from smiling to deadly serious. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘Two Gold Rings… Are there two Bonnies working there?’

‘No, why?’ I feel my forehead furrow in confusion.

The half-smile he gives me is more of a grimace than a smile. ‘I write for The Man Land.’

‘Oh, great. Not another one. I suppose you agree with everything that awful R.C. Art twat says?’

‘Kind of.’

My stomach plummets because I suddenly know what he’s going to say before he finishes the sentence.

‘I am R.C. Art.’

My chair legs scrape against the floor as I push myself back from the table like I’ve been burned.

Rohan Carter. R.C. Art. I should’ve made the connection earlier. I was so busy being wrapped up in how sexy his name is that I didn’t even notice the similarity. ‘No. No, no, no. You can’t be. R.C. Art is old and hairy and bitter and twisted. You’re nice. You make me laugh. There’s no way you are that hideous bloke who writes those awful columns.’

He doesn’t say anything.

‘You lent me your coat. R.C. Art would never do that. He’s way too horrible.’

‘You’ve spoken to me on Twitter once. You have no idea what I’m like in real life or why I write the things I do. R.C. Art is a pseudonym from my name and I never use a real photo so no one knows me.’

‘I’m not surprised. I’d be embarrassed to be recognised for the kind of bollocks you write too.’ I shake my head. I knew he was too good to be true. I should’ve known from what he said earlier. I should’ve realised he was just as cynical as those awful columns. God, I’m such an idiot. How can I have been stupid enough to think this island had somehow thrown us together in a twist of fate? This whole thing is R.C. Art’s fault, and now he’s gorgeous, funny, and kind Rohan too. ‘You could’ve told me earlier, you twat!’

‘I had no idea you were the same Bonnie! I even said I’d met two Bonnies this week. You never told me your surname or where you worked. How was I supposed to know you were the same one?’

I huff even though he’s got a point.

‘Besides, I imagined the Bonnie who attacked me on Twitter was a middle-aged desperado with a lot of cats, not someone nice and otherwise seemingly sensible like you.’

‘I didn’t attack you on Twitter!’ I start pacing up and down in front of the table, annoyed that he’s just sitting there with a smug look on his face. ‘You’re the one who screencapped my tweets, cut out your own nasty comments, and called me a deranged obsessive bridezilla from Cloud Cuckoo Land! Then you had the nerve to tell all your followers that Two Gold Rings were getting worried if they were resorting to such underhanded tactics, and asked them to enlighten me on a realistic view of marriage. I had a couple of hundred notifications telling me that weddings are crap and the only people to get anything out of them are the divorce solicitors.’

‘Well, if it helps, I had a few of your readers come to your defence and tell me I was a knob and I must be overcompensating for a small penis, so that was nice.’

‘I like my readers. They always make such valid points.’

‘Ha ha,’ he mutters, shaking his head. ‘I can’t believe you’re Bonnie Haskett. You’re the desperate wedding dress who called me a delusional twuntface. Why do you use a photo of a wedding dress when your bio even says that you’re still searching for Prince Charming? You’re not married, are you?’

‘That’s got nothing to do with you, has it, R.C. Art?’

‘Okay, let me put it this way – you’re obviously not married because you clearly still believe in love. If you’d ever been married, you’d have realised that there’s no such thing.’

‘Wow. I don’t know whether to be angry at you or just pity you. No wonder you get off on saying such nasty things. You’re trying to make everyone else as miserable as you are.’ I pick up a paper doily from one of Clara’s other dining tables and start shredding it with my fingers. It’s not quite as good as wringing his neck but it’s a legal alternative.

‘I’m not miserable, I’m just not deluded into thinking that one day someone will appear in a halo of white light with hearts and flowers swirling around them and all my problems will be solved.’

‘I don’t think that. I just think that marriage is something special. Meeting someone you have a connection with and knowing you want to spend the rest of your life with that person is magical. Not that I’d expect you to know that. All you do is tell men how to spot women who want to get married and trap them with a baby! You seem to think that no man on the planet actually wants to find someone they love and have a family.’

‘See, there’s this thing called freedom of speech where I’m entitled to say anything I want, and people are entitled to read it or not read it if they don’t agree. That’s why I posted the screencaps of what you said to me on Twitter. And you saw how many people agreed with me and thought you were a loser.’

I twist the doily so hard that I’m surprised it doesn’t disintegrate under my hands. ‘I was doing what I thought was right. What right do you have to grab a random couple’s wedding photos off the internet and make fun of them for your own amusement?’

‘What right do you have to tell me I can’t say something? My opinion is just as valid as anyone else’s. It’s up to me if I want to post that publicly, and up to you if you read it, end of story. You were clearly trying to engage me in an argument to make The Man Land look bad and your awful bridal mag look like the morally superior good guys. A clever tactic. It’s just a shame you resorted to name-calling when I didn’t take the bait.’

‘I wasn’t baiting you. I was trying to do the right thing and you twisted it to make it look like I was being underhanded and petty.’

‘You were trying to turn readers against me.’

‘No, I wasn’t!’ I’ve got a little pile of doily pieces on the empty table beside me where I’m tearing it into tatters. It would have been more satisfying if I’d drawn a Rohan-shaped stickman on it first. ‘It had nothing to do with the battle of the mags. I hadn’t even thought of that. All I was thinking about was how much prejudice that couple must come up against every day and you’re adding to it. Who you wrote for didn’t make any difference.’

‘Why do you care what I write about some random couple? What’s it got to do with you? You don’t even know them!’

‘Neither do you, do you? And yet you still think it’s okay to personally attack their appearance and call into question their love for each other because there’s a bit of an age gap!’

‘She’s fifty years younger than him!’

‘So what? Love can’t count. It doesn’t always strike at the time that twats like you find socially acceptable.’

‘And she’s his fourth wife in five years! What do you think a bloke like that knows about love? Weddings are an annual occurrence to him. Love isn’t something that lasts a lifetime, it’s something that lasts less time than the guarantee on a new microwave!’

‘Other people’s relationships have nothing to do with you. I don’t know how The Man Land let you get away with the bollocks you write.’

‘My boss appreciates me being a realist. He wasn’t happy about the Twitter thing with you though. He was mad at me for posting the screencaps and making fun of you. Said I should’ve gone all Elsa and let it go.’

‘Which you should have.’

‘So should you,’ he fires back.

I let out an annoyed huff. He’s right. Oliver was right. I should’ve known that R.C. Art would use my tweets as a way to gain himself even more publicity, especially with this battle of the mags going on between us and them. I shouldn’t have got involved. But no way am I going to admit that to him of all people.

I sweep my pile of doily confetti into my hand and deposit it in the bin in the corner, and we glare at each other in silence, at an impasse that there is no getting around. I’m not going to apologise and I’m sure his self-righteous ego thinks he was completely in the right and has nothing to apologise for. How can he be the guy I was looking forward to having dinner with tonight? I’ve always had bad luck with men but this absolutely takes the biscuit.

‘Why are you here then?’ I snap when I can’t stare at his frosty blue eyes any longer. ‘What awful things are you going to write about this lovely island and its church of no-divorces?’

‘Nothing.’ He holds both hands up like he’s surrendering. ‘I’m being punished here. I got sent to write the article that no one at The Man Land wants to write but apparently everyone wants to read. I’ve just got to find out if the story’s true and write a bit about the island and why people are so keen to get married here. It’s not for my usual column, it’s just because no one else would do it. It’s your fault I’m here.’

‘It’s your fault that I’m here!’

‘Hambridge should be grateful to us for getting people talking. Our fight has garnered more public attention in one weekend than their ridiculous “only one can survive” marketing campaign has in weeks. They spent a fortune on it and it’s had about as much impact as a flip-flop in a thunderstorm. All we did was send a couple of tweets, and… bingo.’

‘There’s such a thing as bad publicity, you know. I don’t want to be talked about for having arguments online and getting—’

‘Meh. If people are talking about you, they’re talking about you. That’s what sells magazines.’ He gives me a saccharine smile. ‘Of course, if you knew that, maybe Two Gold Rings would have a hope in hell of winning this battle of the mags, no matter how ridiculous a marketing ploy it is.’

I fold my arms and give him my best death stare. ‘What makes you think we haven’t?’

‘Oh, come on. I’m sure your boss has lectured your office just as much as mine has lectured our office. You’re a niche, we’re not. We’re funny, you’re schmaltzy. We have a better online following, we have loyal readers, whereas your readers have an expiration date. The Man Land is clearly going to win, no matter how you frame your story about the church of no-divorces. It’ll be like taking candy from a baby but easier and less fun. At least if you take candy from a baby, you get sweets at the end. I’ll just get to keep my job and wave goodbye to another sappy, starry-eyed monthly issuing of printed dead tree.’

He raises an eyebrow like he’s waiting for an answer, and I can’t take any more. ‘God, how could I have been stupid enough to actually enjoy your company today? You’re just The Man Land’s rent-a-gob. You don’t care how many people you hurt as long as it gets you publicity. I’d say you just haven’t found the right woman yet, but there’s no way anyone’s ever going to love you with that appalling attitude!’ With that, I grab my wine glass and throw what’s left of the contents over him, slam it back down on the table, and stomp out.

The complete and utter knob. How dare he have the nerve to be so funny and sweet and really be R.C. Art all along? I actually felt sorry for him today, and there’s no way R.C. Art deserves even a second of sympathy. Seasickness is among the nicer things people probably wish on him.

Even though I’m fuming, I creep upstairs to my room hoping not to be intercepted by Clara. I’m not sure if I can face questions from her at the moment, and I breathe a sigh of relief when I make it into the bedroom. I don’t realise I’m going to cry until the door clicks shut behind me and tears start pouring down my face without my permission.

I liked him. I really liked him. I know it’s only been one afternoon, but there was something there, something that I’ve never felt on a date before, and it wasn’t even a date. I liked him being close to me. I wanted to spend time with him. I liked Clara mistaking us for a couple because I hoped her mistake was a sign. And then this. This is exactly the luck I have with guys. No sooner do you think you’ve found a good one, than they turn out to be a knob in disguise. Which is marginally better than some of the guys I’ve dated who have been knobs overtly, but still.

And all right, maybe he didn’t deliberately hide the fact he writes as R.C. Art, and maybe if I’d concentrated less on his sexiness and more on his name, I would’ve seen it too, and maybe if I’d introduced myself properly…

I don’t realise how much I wanted him to be Mr Right until I found out he wasn’t.

I have to pull myself together. I get up and peel my skinny jeans off one millimetre at a time and yank the black top over my head. With hindsight, it seems so stupid to have attempted sexiness for him. Of all people, the one guy I’ve actually liked in a really long while is none other than the one who’s caused the biggest problems in my life lately.

Just as I sit down on the corner of the bed and wonder how I’m going to manage to sleep tonight, and it has nothing to do with the army of dodgy ornaments looking at me, there’s a soft knock on the door. It’ll be Clara come to see why I stormed off, no doubt, and I can’t answer it because my breath is still hitching from crying and my face is all red and blotchy.

‘It’s me.’ Rohan’s voice filters through the door.

I freeze.

‘I’m sorry. I was harsh and out of line downstairs. I shouldn’t have said any of those things.’

I’m breathing so hard that I’m sure he’ll be able to hear it through the door. I try to concentrate on cooling myself down, deep breaths, in and out.

‘I know you hate me, but I’ve brought you a slice of the chocolate cake that Clara promised. It’s seriously the best chocolate cake I’ve ever had. I couldn’t let you miss out.’

I don’t reply, even though I really want that chocolate cake.

‘I told her you weren’t feeling well and I’d fetch it up on my way to bed. Apparently chocolate cake is a known cure for all illnesses. Antibiotics and stuff are on their way out, soon all GPs will be prescribing Greggs.’

It makes my face crease up with silent laughter, but I don’t know how to reply without having to answer the door and face him, and then he’ll see I’ve been crying, and he’ll know that I cared, and it’ll just be an even bigger mess than it already is.

After a few more minutes’ silence, I hear him sigh. ‘I’ll just put it down outside your door then. Don’t leave it too long, I can already see a cockroach in the corner eying it up.’

A laugh takes me by surprise and I slam my hand over my mouth and kick myself. He’s obviously heard. I picture his face slowly spreading into a smile.

He taps the door once more. ‘Okay. Goodnight.’

I listen as he unlocks his door and it creaks open, and just as I’m sure he hasn’t gone inside, there’s another gentle knock on my door.

‘Bonnie, I know it won’t make any difference to how much you hate me, but just so you know, they weren’t a random couple. I knew them, well, him anyway.’ He pauses and I know he’s waiting for me to say something. ‘Okay, goodnight. For real this time. Don’t leave this cake too long or I won’t be able to control myself and I’ll scoff the lot.’

I listen as he opens the door and closes it, and this time his footsteps sound from the other side of the wall. I know he could be tricking me. Maybe he’s waiting for me to get the cake so he can jump out and catch me, but I’m sure he doesn’t care that much. I’m just another woman he’s upset, and I’m sure that someone like R.C. Art is used to upsetting women. And men. And animals. And microorganisms. If aliens exist, he probably even offends them.

Even so, he apologised, and more importantly, he brought me cake. I tiptoe to the door and turn the key in minute movements, trying to open it without him hearing. I feel like a superspy as I inch the door open, scout around the landing to make sure he’s not hiding somewhere, grab the plate from the floor in front of me, and pull it into the room. I slam the door shut and let out a whoop of victory, completely forgetting I was trying to be silent.

From the room next door, Rohan laughs.

Great.

I perch on the edge of the bed and dig the fork into the gooey layer of chocolate fudge and the softest, moistest sponge cake I’ve ever tasted. God, this stuff could end wars. And he’s brought me a really decent-sized slice too, none of these little slivers that people try to pass off as proper slices of cake.

As I eat, I try not to listen to him on the other side of the wall. I can hear water running in his bathroom and I try not to picture him in the shower, naked. Water drops sliding down his torso, dripping off his wet hair, gliding down those solid arms… Coming out with a towel wrapped around him…