by Holly Martin
‘No, we need to get back before the storm hits us. We do not need to be on the water when the storm breaks or on this island with no shelter.’
He grabbed the cool box and ran down towards the boat, threw it in and then came back to make sure she got over the slippery rocks without falling.
‘I’m alright,’ she called, ‘get the boat started.’
He ran back to the boat and started the engine, just as another rumble groaned across the sky.
‘I checked the weather report, it said it was going to be clear skies all night. I didn’t see this coming.’
‘It’s OK, we’ll be back before it hits.’ She tried to offer some hope where she felt none.
He leant over and unhooked the rope, then turned the boat and headed back for the mainland.
The boat was soon speeding along but the wind had got up and the waves were much bigger. As they bounced over the water, the waves crashed over them. She could see him handling the boat with a sense of urgency and panic. They had to get back before the storm hit.
But then she suddenly didn’t care about the storm any more as she threw up violently over the side. The champagne, the strawberries, the chocolates, the chicken, the salad, the cheese, everything came out, but not just through her mouth, it streamed out her nose as well. Projectile vomit through her nose. Great! The waves crashed over her, as she sat at the back of the boat, soaking her to the skin, even dripping down into her shoes. She couldn’t even find it in her to care as she threw up again.
The sky lit up with distant lightning at periodic intervals, punctuated with more rumblings and more throwing up.
This was so much worse than the journey out. She didn’t think she had ever been this sick in her entire life. It came out with such force that she honestly thought she might have torn something in her stomach. In between her heaving over the side, she was able to note that she was soaked, numb with cold, and that the thunder was getting closer. They were heading straight for the storm now.
Suddenly the boat hit a big wave and rolled onto its side, depositing them both roughly into the sea. The waves closed in over her head, the icy cold stabbing her skin like a thousand knives. She fought back to the surface, but the weight of her clothes dragged her down. Her head broke the waves above her and she gulped in deep breaths of much needed air. The salt water stung her eyes as she looked around for George, but he was nowhere to be seen.
Chapter Ten
‘George!’ she screamed, thrashing around in the water trying to see him.
Suddenly an arm burst through the water near the boat but was gone again a second later. She swam as quick as she could to where she’d seen him, and realised his leg was caught in the boat at such an odd angle that he must be almost completely upside down under the waves.
Taking a deep breath, she plunged under the icy water, and saw him flailing around trying to pull himself to the surface. She grabbed a fistful of his coat and with immense effort yanked him back to the surface, treading water and supporting his head as he gasped for breath.
Her arms and legs screamed in protest as she struggled to keep him afloat long enough for his breath to return back to normal.
‘Hold your breath,’ she stammered with the cold. He nodded as she let him go and as he disappeared underneath the water again, she quickly turned her attention back to his foot. His boot was caught in the rope around the side of the boat. With trembling fingers, she managed to yank the boot off and throw it in the boat, freeing him from his constraints.
He burst from the waves like a sea monster, his curly hair matted to his face. She climbed quickly back into the boat, with his hand on her bum, shoving her unnecessarily hard. She turned round to help him in, but he was already throwing his leg over the side as he joined her on the floor of the boat.
She reached for him, wanting to touch him all over to make sure he was OK, wanting his arms around her to calm her down, to sooth the adrenaline pounding through her veins. But he was already on his feet, shoving the emergency cut-off cord back into its slot and somehow miraculously starting the engine again.
Within seconds the boat was bouncing along the waves and if she thought the adrenaline, the panic of nearly losing her best friend, would be enough to stop the sickness, she was wrong. She was thrown around in the back of the boat and the sickness started again.
A lot sooner than expected, the engine cut out and the boat was left bobbing in the water, like a toy tossed round in the wind and rain.
George’s hand was round her arm, round her waist as he pulled her up and half-dragged her to the jetty. She hauled herself up and, as he grabbed her hand, she ran on shaky legs back to his car. The thunder roared above them, and the rain lashed down on their heads. He flung open the door for her before running round the other side and jumping in as another rumble of thunder boomed around them.
He started the engine and turned the heating on full blast, but it barely made a difference in the painful numbness that was searing through her body. He turned the car round and floored the accelerator.
‘I hope we don’t meet Uncle Bob again.’ His voice was shaking with the cold.
At least, she thought as she shivered violently, she wasn’t being sick any more.
They got back to the flat very quickly and staggered, shivering, through the door. She made to go towards her flat but he pulled her towards his. They fell through the door and he put on both the electric fires in the lounge, then dragged her on trembling legs to his bedroom.
George started fighting out of his clothes, his fingers shaking with the cold. She kicked her shoes off and pulled her jeans down. She struggled with the buttons on her coat, her fingers unwilling to do the job required of them. He moved to stand before her and tried the buttons himself, but his fingers wouldn’t work either. She pulled his t-shirt off as he struggled with her coat. He resorted to ripping the coat off, the buttons pinging off round the room. She pulled off her hoodie and then her t-shirt as he struggled with his shoes.
She quickly went to the wardrobe and found a jumper which she pulled on and a pair of his jeans, which were way too big but she pulled them on as well. George, completely naked by the side of her, was also pulling on a jumper and jeans, then he grabbed the duvet and pulled her back to the lounge. He positioned the electric heaters next to the sofa, then lay down on it, pulling the duvet over the top of him. She crawled under the duvet, cuddling into him. He pulled her tightly to him as they shivered and trembled against each other.
‘You see, I said, you’d be getting to see my underwear by the end of the night,’ she said.
‘Yeah, if there was a checklist for a perfect second date, tearing each other’s clothes off would certainly be on there.’
* * *
George woke up, stiff from lying on the sofa all night. Libby was nowhere to be seen. He rolled onto his back, and thought back to the previous day. Even with the storm, the near-death experience and Libby throwing up as if it was an Olympic event, the second date had been pretty spectacular. And in fact if that had been a real second date, he was quite sure there’d be a third. They would talk and laugh about the seasickness and the storm just added drama to it.
The seals, the picnic, the sunset had been very romantic too. At one stage, just before the storm broke, he had nearly got carried away with the romance of it all and kissed her.
He wondered how she would have reacted to that. But he could have just laughed it off and said it was all part of the date. They were pretending after all. He frowned. He had to keep reminding himself of that. None of this was real. Everything he and Libby did was supposed to be preparing him for his date with Giselle not making him fall deeper in love with Libby.
Yes, he would definitely take Giselle to the islands if he got a second date with her, she would love it.
But then a niggling doubt settled into his mind. Had it been so perfect only because it was Libby? They had chatted for hours, but that was because they were already so comfortable with eac
h other. The silences were easy, not tense and awkward. And she had just laughed off her seasickness. Would Giselle really be that gracious? After throwing up she’d probably have refused to eat anything, if they’d gotten that far; she might well have insisted he take her home.
The whole point of the second date was doing something fun together. But if there was all that time for talking, and they didn’t have anything to say to each other, then it’d still be the last date they’d have. Giselle would perhaps appreciate the romance, but not the fact that it was so awkward and stilted between them.
No, ideally the second date would involve something fun, exhilarating and romantic but leave very little time for talking. Then on the third date they could talk and laugh about the second date. The islands would make a great fourth or fifth date.
Suddenly a loud squealing sound snapped him out of his reverie. He scrambled up, wondering what on earth the horrid piercing noise was. Realising, from the plume of smoke coming from the door, that it was the fire alarm, he ran towards the kitchen. Libby, half naked, came running out of his bedroom at the same time. They collided with such force that she somehow managed to punch him in the groin and his teeth smacked into her forehead. They both staggered apart, injured. She was the first to recover, as he was bent double with pain.
He watched as she yanked the tray from underneath the grill, which was smouldering nicely, and put it on the unit, seemingly burning her fingers in the process.
‘Ow, fuck, shit,’ she muttered, blowing on them.
She opened a window to let the smoke out, then grabbed a towel and jumped up and down, flapping it over the smoke alarm to try to stop the incessant squealing.
He couldn’t help smiling, despite the pain, because every time she jumped up, he got a glimpse of her underwear underneath his jumper. Somewhere between last night and this morning, she had lost his jeans.
The smoke alarm finally stopped and their ears rang in the silence. She turned back to the bacon, which was decidedly black, and sucked her sore fingers. ‘Crispy bacon OK?’
‘Perfect.’ He winced as he stood up, trying to ignore the searing pain in his nether regions. He took her hand. ‘Did you burn your fingers?’
She shrugged. ‘Ah, it’s OK.’
He put her fingers to his mouth and kissed each one in turn. Libby watched him, speculatively, and he realised that what he was doing was hugely intimate and quickly dropped her hand.
She laughed. ‘I would offer to do the same for your injury,’ she eyed his groin, ‘but maybe I’ll save that for our fourth or fifth date.’
‘Excellent, something to look forward to.’
She picked up a rasher of bacon, and nibbled sweetly round the burnt bits. She looked adorable dressed just in his jumper.
‘I can’t help noticing, Miss Joseph, that you seem to have misplaced your jeans.’
‘They were too big for me; I had to hold them up whilst I was cooking. That’s what I was doing in your bedroom, looking for some shorts. I didn’t realise the bacon would cook so quickly.’
Over mugs of tea, and the remains of the bacon, he discussed his concerns about the second date: that going to the island still gave too much time for talking and awkward silences.
Libby nodded. ‘Yeah, I can see that, stuck out on that island, it could get awkward. If we were in the pub, then we could always play pool if the conversation got desperate. If we were at your flat, and you were cooking me a nice romantic meal, if the conversation halted we could always put the TV on, or watch a film. But being on that island, there’s no escape, there’s just each other. And the toilet facilities lacked the je ne sais quoi that some women prefer.’
‘So what then, any ideas?’
Libby bit her lip, as she thought. He loved that she did that.
‘OK, you should let her choose. You can suggest that you do something fun, something different for your second date. You could suggest a competition for who can come up with the best date, she can choose the second one and you’ll choose the third one. There can be certain rules like a maximum budget of fifty pounds. That way, if she plans the second date you can get a sense of what she likes and can plan your third date round that. Also, you are almost guaranteeing there will be a third date, even if the second date was rubbish, because she will be intrigued to see what you come up with after her date.’
He grinned broadly. ‘I like it, I really like it. It kind of brings an element of fun to our relationship right from the word go. It’s brilliant. But you know what this means, don’t you?’
She finished off the rest of her tea. ‘What’s that?’
‘Our next date, our next second date, you have to plan it.’
‘OK, you’re on,’ she grinned.
He let out a small sigh of relief that she had accepted his proposal so readily. Another date with Libby. How many more of these could he realistically go on for research purposes? But the dating competition was a brilliant idea, mostly because they were now back to their second date, instead of their third. A perfect reason to go ahead with it.
‘Tonight?’ he asked.
She pulled a face and he quickly backtracked. ‘Of course you’ve probably got other things planned, we can do it some other time.’
‘No, tonight’s fine. I was just wondering what I could pull out of the hat at such short notice.’
‘It doesn’t matter what you choose, nothing will outdo the island, with the seals, the picnic and the sunset.’
‘No, that doesn’t count any more. If the date I’m planning is actually our second date, then the island date never happened. We had our first date at the restaurant…’
‘With the dirty sex at the end?’ he asked hopefully.
‘No.’
‘Damn it.’
‘So we had our first date and that’s when you’ve suggested this dating competition. So we are starting off from an equal footing, we’re both on nil–nil.’
‘OK, OK,’ he sighed, ‘nil–nil.’
‘Right then, our second date…’ She trailed off thoughtfully. ‘Wait, am I Giselle or Libby?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Am I doing a date that I’d enjoy or that I think Giselle would enjoy?’
‘That you’d enjoy, definitely.’
‘But how is that going to help you practise for Operation Giselle? I have what you might call an eclectic taste when it comes to things fun.’
Damn it. He should have said a date that Giselle would enjoy. Otherwise it was too obvious that he wanted another date with Libby.
‘It will just give me a sense of how the female brain works.’
‘OK, something I’d enjoy…’
She smiled as she stared off into the distance and he was relieved that her competitive streak had her focussing on the details of the date rather than the actual reason behind it.
‘You have a plan, don’t you?’
She grinned mischievously. ‘Oh yes, there’s definitely a plan.’
‘What should I wear? I don’t want to turn up in my high heels and find we’re abseiling down a cliff.’
‘Something old, something that you won’t mind getting a bit dirty.’ She smiled, somewhat evilly he thought.
‘Oh, that reminds me, let me give you your daily present before you go. It’s just something small.’ George walked off into the bedroom and opened his wardrobe and hauled out the huge snowman he had bought the day before. It was bigger than him and had somewhat of an evil facial expression, though he didn’t think that was intentional. With great difficulty he dragged it into the lounge and Libby burst out laughing.
‘Six days before Christmas my true love gave to me, a promise for no more bad poetry.’
Libby laughed again. ‘George, how on earth will I take that with me to New York?’
‘Well if you stay, you won’t have that problem.’
She smiled. ‘Maybe I will.’
* * *
Amy was late, she was never late. It was Seb’s only day off
and she was in charge. He would be waiting for her and she hated to let him down.
She had done her shopping and was just carrying the bags out to her car when she saw Carol, Mia’s sister, in the car park, struggling with several heavy bags as she made her way over to the bus stop as light flakes of snow swirled around her. Amy had stopped her and insisted she drove her home. When she’d got there, Amy felt obliged to help Carol unpack all her bags as the old woman talked non-stop about some man called Sean who she’d had some passionate affair with. As much as Amy had wanted to stay and hear all the gory details, helping her had made her late and Carol, living the furthest point away from Silver Cove, would make her even later.
There was a short cut: Cow Bell Lane, which she was now racing along. She hated this road, it was narrow, windy and steep, and she would much rather add the fifteen minutes’ drive to her journey to avoid it but today she had no choice – even taking this road would mean she’d still be a bit late.
The only good thing about this route was that no one ever used it: it was dangerous and the locals knew better than to drive on it. Passing an old wooden hut, she put her foot down.
Suddenly flying over a blind summit, a silver sports car tore towards her. The road was only wide enough for one car so she swerved just in time to miss it. Everything seemed to happen so slowly as her car flew through the air. It hung there for ages, almost suspended from the grey clouds, and she vainly found herself trying to steer the car to safety, pumping the brakes to stop what happened next. The car tilted downwards and a flash of green came tearing towards her. With the sickening sound of metal buckling around her, she knew nothing more.
* * *
Seb had only just opened the pub doors, but Big Dave was already waiting outside for his lunch.
‘Where’s the lovely Amy today? Didn’t expect to see you, I thought Thursdays were your day off?’ Big Dave followed him back to the bar and took up his regular stool.
