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

      ‘Do you know the cure for seasickness?’

      ‘I think I remember hearing something about ginger,’ I say as I look back at him, surprised because I didn’t think he was going to speak again.

      His chin is resting on his folded arms and he’s looking at me over the back of the seat. ‘Go and lie on the grass.’

      The laugh takes me by surprise as he flashes that smile again, and I can’t stop giggling as I look away, not sure if it’s because he’s funny or because the butterflies in my stomach have made me suddenly and inexplicably nervous. It’s been a long time since any man caused butterflies.

      ‘At least we know you’re feeling well enough to be cracking jokes,’ I say to the open water.

      He laughs too and then groans. ‘Oh no. No laughing. Laughing’s bad.’

      I glance at him again and when our eyes meet, my face breaks into a smile. ‘So what’s a guy who gets seasick doing on a boat to The Little Wedding Island then?’

      ‘Pissed my boss off,’ he says. ‘Punishment.’

      ‘Hah. We’re in the same boat.’ I glance down at my feet and realise we are actually in the same boat at exactly the same moment he starts laughing again.

      ‘Literally.’

      ‘No pun intended,’ I say as my cheeks burn red again even though I’m laughing too.

      I go back to looking across the sea to take my mind off how much I want to keep looking at him. I sneak surreptitious glances in every time I can, taking in his sharp jawline and stubble much darker than his fair hair.

      ‘Oh, thank God – are we nearly there?’ he says, looking past me in the direction we’re heading.

      Rising from the sea in front of us is an island. From this distance, it doesn’t look big enough to be the famous place that everyone’s talking about, but there’s a raised area in the middle surrounded by trees, the hint of a building through the branches, and what can only be a church spire showing above the treetops. ‘Looks like the place.’

      ‘Great. It sounds like a hellhole but land is land at this point.’

      I look at him, wondering why he thinks it sounds like a hellhole, but he’s smiling again and I think he must be joking.

      ‘Well,’ he says. ‘All I can say is that I sincerely hope you’ll be on the same return journey as me. You’ve taken my mind off it. Actually, this is probably the best boat ride I’ve ever been on.’

      It makes me laugh again, simultaneously embarrassed and enjoying the easy compliments. ‘I don’t spend a lot of time on boats but this is probably the best one I’ve ever been on too. If you don’t find your sea legs, maybe you’ll just have to stay on the island.’ I don’t add that I’d maybe really like him to be staying there. He’s got a big holdall bag with him, the kind that looks too big for a day trip, and hope fizzes inside me that I might get to see him again. Hopefully when he’s not feeling quite so ill.

      ‘Oh, hell no. I’d rather ask a piranha to give me a pedicure than stay there any longer than absolutely necessary.’

      ‘I think it sounds lovely.’

      He looks at me with a dark eyebrow raised and even with his green-tinged pale skin, he still makes the look so incredulous that I find myself giggling nervously again. Why do so many people seem to have a problem with this place? I can’t wait to get there and see the church. I bet it just oozes romance. I’m looking forward to starting my article and proving Oliver wrong. When it’s published, maybe I’ll even send a link to that R.C. Art twat just to show him that love does still exist.

      As we get near the island, the boat pulls up to a concrete jetty and one of the crew moors it. ‘Low tide, bit of a climb, I’m afraid,’ he tells us.

      There are metal rungs set into the concrete side of the structure, and the deckhand bounces up them and holds his hands out for my suitcase. I hand it off to him and look behind me.

      Seasick Man is still on the seats and making no move to get off the boat. Now he’s bent over with his head between his knees. I can’t just leave him there.

      I go back over to him. ‘Can I take your bag?’

      ‘Out of context, you could be the politest mugger I’ve ever met,’ he mumbles, muffled because his head is still between his knees.

      ‘Well, I’ve already got your coat, so I may as well have your bag too.’

      ‘Just when you think chivalry is dead, a lady comes along and offers to carry your bags for you.’

      It makes me grin, but I pick up his bag and heft it over my shoulder without waiting for a reply.

      He groans again and pitches himself to his feet, staggering upright and clinging on to the back of the seats for support. ‘I’ll make it up to you. I’ll hold a door open or pull out a chair or something.’

      ‘Ah, but we’re in the new millennium now. There’s a rumour going around that women are quite capable of opening doors and seating themselves.’

      His laugh gives way to a groan. ‘You’ve got to stop making me laugh. It’s no good for those of us who are about three seconds away from a full-on Exorcist-style pea soup scene.’

      I laugh even though the mental image is not a good one.

      I carry his bag across the deck and hand that up to the waiting deckhand too, secretly glad that it’s heavy enough to suggest he’ll be staying a few days. I watch him make his way gingerly towards the ladder onto the jetty, swaying unsteadily and grabbing on to anything in his path for support. The boat is bobbing on the waves, and while I find the movement quite soothing, he obviously doesn’t.

      The captain of the boat stands and gives us a salute as we disembark. I clamber onto the first of three ladder rungs and at the top, the jetty is bathed in spring sunshine, and there’s a man waiting to board the boat we’re getting off.

      When Seasick Man makes it to the top of the ladder, he doesn’t look like he’s feeling any better. I reach out to offer him a hand up and he takes it. His hand is cold and his skin is clammy but his touch makes goose bumps rise across my arms where they’re still snuggled in his coat sleeves, and it’s not just because of the coldness.

      ‘Thank you,’ he mumbles, using his grip on my hand to haul himself onto the jetty. He dizzily stumbles into me and I put my other hand on his arm to steady him.

      ‘Enjoy your stay!’ The deckhand of the boat says, saluting us both and jumping back down to the deck.

      The man waiting to board lowers his bag to him and turns to go down the ladder, but he stops and looks at us. ‘You’re not reporters, are you?’

      I go to say something but he barrels on without letting me speak.

      ‘If you are, you may as well give up and go home now. The locals here are barmy. You’d think they’d want publicity, the idiots. If you’re here for a story, save yourselves the trouble and the overpriced stay in that crappy little guesthouse and get back on the boat. You’ll get a better story out of the dead jellyfish on the beach. That vicar’s about as open as a clamshell having a colonoscopy!’

      As he stomps angrily across the deck of the boat and the engine starts up, Seasick Man seems to realise he’s still holding my hand because he lets go abruptly and sinks down to sit on the little wall built around the opposite side of the jetty.

      ‘How would a clamshell have a colonoscopy?’ he says like he’s seriously considering the question.

      It makes me burst out laughing again. ‘I wouldn’t like to imagine,’ I say as I watch the boat with the angry man on it disappearing into the distance. He certainly had a bee in his bonnet about something. Maybe this is what Oliver was saying about reporters not getting anywhere when they came here. Surely the