Top Ten Attractive Men from the Channel Islands. Isn’t Henry Cavill, the Superman actor, from there? Can you research? Ideally, get photos of Superman skinny-dipping. (People engage 20% more with articles that have a celeb angle.)
Small Islands to Suit Your Mood. Feel silly in the Scilly Isles, flirty in Fetlar, merry in Mull . . . A hotel in the Outer Hebrides are keen to sponsor.
Her next email says,
We need your coin story for Tuesday. We’re short on uplifting content, so it needs to deliver; heartwarming, life-affirming, etc. Try to find some long-lost relatives. Everyone likes stories about long-lost relatives.
Then finally,
And please plan to do an Insta live at twelve today. Somewhere beachy and beautiful to trail the mini-breaks piece.
Suki
* * *
* * *
I groan. It’s Friday today, and I’m leaving on Sunday night. I’m not sure how Suki thinks I’m going to stumble upon nudes of Henry Cavill just because he has some connection to Jersey. But it’s hard to push back on unreasonable requests with the pendulum of redundancy swinging over your head.
Dee often asks why I stay at Love Life, with the long hours and Suki’s aggressive management style. But the truth is I enjoy my job—well, the part where I get to research and write stories. Yes, it has its frustrations, but no job can be perfect. Work has been one of the few constants in my life when so much was changing. I like being a part of the Love Life family because, besides Gran, it’s the only family I have left. The thought of losing it makes my skin itch. So over breakfast, I get out my laptop and set about manically writing up notes for all of Suki’s latest ideas.
Before meeting up with the cabdriver, I head out to find somewhere to buy a change of clothes and a few other essentials a luggage-less girl might need. The hotel was able to furnish me with a spare phone charger, toothpaste, and a toothbrush, but I can’t bear to spend today in yesterday’s plane clothes. Around the corner from my hotel, I find a department store that opens early, and in it a pale blue summer dress and some flip-flops on sale, both perfect for a warm September day. I prudently pick up a few bits of makeup too—when J. Le Maistre calls, I don’t want to be caught looking anything less than my best.
The cabdriver, Ted, I remind myself, is waiting for me in the lay-by where he left me last night. The suitcase trundles along the cobbles behind me; I brought it so I can go straight out to meet Hot Suitcase Guy if he calls this morning.
“Morning!” I say to Ted as I climb into the backseat. He gives me a single nod in reply. He’s wearing the same ugly plaid flatcap he was wearing yesterday, and his beard looks more Tom Hanksy than ever. “So, I’m ready for the grand tour. Where shall we begin?”
“You want to go to all the places in your album?” he asks, clearing his throat.
“Yes, please.”
He holds out a hand. “Let me take a look at the photos again. I’ll plan the best route. Oh, and we should agree on a flat rate for the day—it will cost you a fortune on the meter.”
“Whatever you think is fair,” I say gratefully.
* * *
* * *
Once he starts driving, I don’t ask where we’re headed but jump straight on my phone and start leaving messages for Le Maistres. The hotel receptionist kindly made me a copy of the Le Maistre page in the phone book. As keen as I am to track down my mystery man, I’m also now increasingly anxious to get my own bag back. It makes me wince to think about some of the things I’ve confessed to my journal, words not meant to see the light of day. There is simply too much in my bag I cannot contemplate losing: my research notes, my favorite jeans, my vintage silk blouse—one of the last presents Mum gave me, the L-shaped earrings she and I made together; all things I would not have checked into the hold if I’d had more than thirty seconds to think about it.
Gazing out of the window as I dial another number, I watch the suburban sprawl of houses, schools, and shops morph into more rural scenery. I notice how considerate all the drivers are to one another. Ted waits to let cars out from junctions, as though we have all the time in the world. It is a far cry from the aggressive London driving I am used to. The Le Maistre number I’ve called rings and rings, so I hang up.
The roads narrow into single-track, tree-lined lanes, and we pass dog walkers ambling along next to freshly plowed fields. Then, as the houses disappear entirely and we’re surrounded by green, I see the distinctive face of a Jersey cow peering over a fence.
“Oh, a Jersey cow! Can we stop?” I ask. “Oh, will you look at them? They’re so beautiful!”
“You want to stop to look at the cows?” Ted asks, as though I’ve just asked him to stop so that I can inspect the exciting tarmac on the road.
“If there’s somewhere to pull in, do you mind? I’d love to get a photo.”
He makes a nondescript grunt but pulls the car onto a grassy lay-by.
I get out of the car and walk around to tap on the driver’s window, which he slowly winds down. Ted looks up at me and I see his full face for the first time in daylight. He has these dark, penetrating eyes with heavy lids that track my gaze—they’re a little intense, unnervingly so. I glance away, then ask, “Would you like to come?” assuming he might want to stretch his legs.
“I’m good, thanks. I’ve seen cows before,” he says, pulling a newspaper from the passenger seat and unfolding it in his lap. I suspect Beardy McCastaway lacks the rapport necessary to be a real tour guide.
Reaching the cow field fence, I take a long, deep breath. The early morning air is yet to be warmed by the sun, but the sky is a vast, vibrant blue, like a freshly unboxed day. Alongside the narrow road, ivy-covered oak trees sit behind a bosky bank of hawthorn bushes and wild grasses. It’s so peaceful, I can hear the birds chirping in the trees, the low hum of a tractor several fields beyond, and the faint buzzing of flies as they flit around swishing cow tails. I step cautiously up the bank, fearful of spooking the herd, but the few cows standing near the fence simply eye me with idle curiosity.
I read about Jersey cows in the in-flight magazine—they’re famous for producing amazing milk. They’re basically the Kate Mosses of the cow world: elegant, angular frames, soft fawn, teddy-bear-colored bodies, and wide doe eyes. One with a dark brown face and long lashes blinks at me, flicking flies away with a twitch of her head.
There is a photo of my mother next to a cow just like this one, so I turn my phone around to try and take a similar shot.
“OK, buddy, don’t move,” I say quietly, shuffling myself into position. It’s hard to get the angle right. Maybe if I just step up onto the fence rail, I’ll be able to fit both of us in the frame. In fact, I could climb over into the field, just for a second, and the positioning would be so much better.