The Little Wedding Island: the perfect holiday beach read for 2018. Jaimie AdmansЧитать онлайн книгу.
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’