“No partner, Chloe?” Poppy says. “That surprises me. You were always the one with the most boyfriends back at school.”
Is that a dig? Chloe can’t figure it out either from the puzzled look on her face, but she takes it in good faith. “Not at the moment. I don’t have a lot of time for men.”
“I’m sure that can’t be true.” Poppy reaches over and pats her knee. “You’ll find the right guy if you look in the right places.”
“Chloe isn’t too great at that.” The words come out of my mouth before I can help it.
She scowls at me, and I know I’ve gone too far.
“What’s that meant to mean?” Annabel asks, frowning.
“Don’t start,” Esther says wearily.
Poppy looks intrigued.
“Never mind,” I say to her disappointment. “I was just being a bitch.”
“I’d be careful of that if I were you,” Chloe snaps. “You’ve already made a scene of yourself today.”
“Let’s leave it there!” Esther insists, while Chloe and I glare at one another.
“What about you, Poppy?” Annabel says, to move the conversation along. “What have you been doing the past ten years? How is your family?”
It’s funny; it’s such an easy, typical question to ask of someone after a long time has passed, but Poppy seems to freeze up.
“All fine,” she says with forced breeziness. “I’ve been keeping myself busy. You know, my job takes a lot of work. I’d barely been out of university before going straight into it really. Not much to report on my end. I’m more interested in you four.”
“Oh, right.” Annabel doesn’t know what to say to this, so we end up eating the rest of the breakfast in what I hope is companionable silence, but seems to be more uncomfortable than anything else, the air thick with unanswered questions from the past.
“I think we need to work off that meal now,” Poppy says once everyone is finished, ignoring Chloe picking at her croissant. “We’ll give Tanya ten minutes to get changed, and then we’ll head up the mountain and see the view Robin was talking about. Everyone agreed?”
“You’re the bride, it’s your decision,” Esther says. “We can clean the plates and tidy everything away, seeing as you cooked.”
Poppy smiles. “I’ll relax myself on a sun bed and you can come and tell me when you’re all ready to go.”
Chloe opens her mouth to protest, but Esther shakes her head at her from across the table. At least there’s some joy I can take from that. Chloe looks unimpressed as Annabel and Esther start clearing plates, and halfheartedly takes the bowl of croissants with both hands.
“Make sure you change, Tanya, you really stink,” Poppy says.
She’s lighthearted as she says it, but it feels like a dig. I’m suddenly aware again of the citrusy orange smell radiating off me, the stickiness of my skin.
No one else hears her comment. Poppy walks away towards the loungers and flops herself down on one, raising a hand to her face to shield it from the harsh sun.
“I know she’s the bride, but she could help a little bit,” Chloe grumbles as she passes me.
“It’s her weekend.” Esther, always easy, gives another shrug of her shoulders. “She’s the boss.”
It’s an interesting power dynamic. An unusual one. I watch Poppy a moment longer, long after the others have headed to the kitchen with everything cleared from the table. And I catch her sitting up, looking around, checking that they’d done as told. She catches my gaze again but it’s not like before, where I felt we might be remembering the same innocent childhood memory. She stares at me with the same challenging look as earlier, and then makes a wafting motion with her hand, as if the stench of me still reaches her.
Eight
Esther
May 19, 2023
There’s a surprising freeness up here on the summit. It helps calm my irritation after losing the necklace. I couldn’t find it on the beach, nor in my room. I know it’ll turn up somewhere, it has to, but I feel oddly naked without it, and my hand trails to my neck in the hopes it will magically reappear.
The journey, like Robin said, wasn’t too arduous, especially not for me, though Annabel and Tanya are sitting on rocks catching their breath. Beyond the huts, we took the path through the trees until we reached the sloping hill at the start of the mountain, gradually getting steeper and steeper until the path became a distinct upward battle. It narrowed towards the end, making us walk up in single file, until the summit opened out before us, a few metres wide. Someone, long ago from the look of rust on its surface, had traversed beyond the jagged rocks to the end point and placed a cross at the edge of the cliff. The grass at our feet is tall and free, with weeds sprouting everywhere. The surface isn’t flat, like the lawn by the lodge, but quite bumpy, making me cautious where I step. A solitary tree stands in the middle, a couple of dandelions sprouted beneath it. The summit itself isn’t very beautiful, a rather overgrown, small space, with rocks sticking up everywhere that the others are grateful to use as seats while I step closer to the edge.
Looking down, even though I would hardly call this a proper mountain, isn’t for the fainthearted. I’d wager the drop is at least sixty feet, straight down to the ocean below, the waves facing a stronger current here and hitting across the rock face with fury. The sea is also less clear, perhaps the current making the sand kick up and blur the waters, so there’s an added uncertainty about what lies beneath.
But I’m focusing on the wrong things. The summit, the drop below, the ocean—they’re not what the true appeal is. Robin wasn’t wrong. The view is spectacular.
From where I’m standing, I can see the entire island. The main beach stretches along one side, shining white, and a smaller beach runs across the other side, a tiny patch of sand all the way at the top of the island. Next to it is another hut, this one painted green to blend in with the trees around it.
“What’s that hut for?” I ask, pointing. The others stand next to me, squinting in the direction of my finger.
“I can’t see anything,” Annabel says. “What are we looking at, exactly? What hut?”
“The green one.” I point again. “Close to the small beach, right up the top there.”
“I see it!” Chloe cries triumphantly. Then she frowns. “That’s weird, Robin didn’t mention another hut. Do you know what it’s for, Poppy?”
Poppy is also frowning, brow furrowed as she studies the hut. “Perhaps it was here when this island was first built on. I doubt it’s livable now.”
“I’ll have to try and investigate on one of my runs,” I say. “It could be filled with old stuff.”
“Oh—actually!” Poppy slaps her hand against her forehead. “Robin did tell me what it was for. She said it’s where the power generator is kept. Said it was best to keep away as there’s all sorts of electricals in there. It’s practically blocked off from the rest of us as it is.”
“That’s a shame.”
“This view though,” Annabel breathes.
It’s not Annabel’s style, being outdoorsy. She’s an inside girl through and through, much more comfortable with a day of shopping and afternoon tea than hiking and braving the elements. After our disagreement this morning, she’s been steadily ignoring me, and even now focuses on the view outwards, as if I don’t exist. Tanya, normally better at pretending she’s having a good time, has been in a sour mood all morning after the orange juice fiasco, wearing an entire new set of jean shorts and top, accessorised with a scowl.
Chloe, meanwhile, who I thought would complain even more than Annabel and moaned that her shoes were rubbing the entire journey up here, has been in higher spirits than I’ve seen her since we arrived. She’s taken the digital camera Poppy brought with her, taking several dramatic shots of the island view from one way and then the other, as well as many of the trek up, and now she’s clamouring for someone to take a picture of the view with her at the centre.
“Please, Tanya!” she pleads, thrusting the camera in Tanya’s hands. “Just a couple, and then give me a chance to check the lighting.”
“God, fine.” Only Chloe could make Tanya turn photographer. I can’t help but chuckle at Tanya snapping away as Chloe poses.
“You’re quite fit, aren’t you?”
Poppy’s voice next to me makes me jump. I hadn’t heard her move towards me.
“I mean, I guess I would say so,” I tell her. “I run a marathon every year. But I haven’t got any strength.”
“That’s amazing. You have to be careful on your runs though.”
“What do you mean?”
She points to my wrist, the bruising on it obvious now, three distinct marks. “You must have banged your wrist this morning when you went running?”
I shrug my shoulders. “I guess so. I’m not sure. I bruise so easily.”
That, at least, is true. Even a small knock leaves me bruised for days. I wrap my hand around my wrist. I hadn’t realised my sleeves had rolled up, exposing my arms to the world. As hot as it is, I’m better off this way.