Confused.com?

Another couple of odd events, but in a completely different way.
I hadn’t realised before, maybe because I wasn’t before, but now I’m lonely. I want to talk to someone about everything that’s happened. I need to share it with someone before I explode. But there’s no one. I don’t dare go down to the village; God knows what Pam thinks of me now.
I flip open my laptop and check on my website. There’s a message on it. A glowing white envelope of heaven sent correspondence. I click it open to find a booking request, my first. Four hikers who want a pitch at my new campsite, for two weeks starting in three days time. I close my eyes in thanks to whatever higher power exists.
With renewed vigour I go about my business, ignoring the village below and the spectre of ‘Arthur’. I clean the now completed toilet block, washing away the dust that clings to the fresh tile with long slow strokes to reveal the gleaming surface beneath. I tidy my house, washing the dishes and scrubbing the floor until my fingers are red and withered by the soapy water. I pick great bunches of fresh green herbs and put them in a jug on the table to scent the room.
The work makes me tired and so sleep is easier. For once I put aside my chick lit books with their Easter basket coloured covers, and open something a little more complex. I re-read a few of my course texts because their characters suffer so much indecision and angst, much better than the accusing and trashy happy endings that grate on every sore spot I posses. The days fill themselves with little pleasures, gradually blocking out all the pain of the past few days; cup of tea in the sun with a novel, winning an item on eBay and the oozing yolk of a perfectly boiled egg. (Well obviously not, but I tried)
The first I see of my visitors, some days later, is a procession of tiny green and beige clad people slowly making their way up the hill towards me. I make myself presentable and open up my spreadsheet so that I am prepared to enter their details. At last a knock comes and I open the door to four men in shorts and cagoules. Four rather weedy men it has to be said, but still, people.
“Hi! We’re the Kinden party?” the first guy, dark haired with glasses, says.
“Hello!” I shake his hand and move to one side, allowing them to enter.
“You must be tired; can I get you some tea?” I ask, perhaps a little too eager to please.
“No, thanks.” he holds up a hand to deter me “We really have to get the tent up, but we would like to know when dinner will be.”
“Any time you like” I say, baffled by this, like he needs my permission to make dinner.
“Brilliant” he grins “Will you be able to have it done by around seven?”
My entire face freezes. What? Why the hell do they think I’m cooking for them? As if he senses my shift in mood he frowns and produces a computer print out.
“That’s what it says on your website, “Let us feed you”? I thought it was a little strange, but never look a gift horse in the mouth, right?”
It’s a printout of my website, but it’s wrong somehow. One of the pictures has shifted to the side to fit on to the screen, blocking part of my slogan. He’s right it does say “Let us feed you” now, rather than “Let us feed your spirit.”, why can nothing ever go right?
I try to return his friendly smile and enter his name and the charges into the computer. At least he’s paying a decent price. When he and his friends have trooped outside to erect their tent I close the door.
Buggerbuggerbuggerbugger!! What am I going to do? I search through my ingredients, trying to conjure an idea. What can I cook for four people? I’ve grown used to my always slightly off concoctions. Over thick gravy, burnt pastry and over cooked pasta are tolerable when you are the one who has cooked them, not so much with other people.
Eventually I decide on a rustic supper of goat’s cheese potato bread with fruit and grilled vegetables on the side. There is no possible way that I can screw that up.
Oh God! Why do I ever open my mouth!
An hour later and I have made what looks like the most mutated pizza ever to grace the surface of mars. My grilled vegetables have become parched little slugs that taste of stove fuel, and my fruit…well the fruit is ok, even I can’t mess up fruit, but everything else is a disaster. I eye the failed bread/semi-successful pizza with distaste. Someone knocks on the door.
Bloody campers! I’ll just have to tell them that the food is out of the equation, that there is just nothing I can do. I dust off my hands and open the door.
It’s Arthur.
For a few seconds I’m too astonished to move, and then I come to my senses and start to slam the door. He jams his foot in the way and I look up, annoyed. It’s then that I notice what he’s holding. My pie.
Is he going to kill me with my own pie? The thought flashes wildly through my brain. Even as it does he inches the door open until we are looking each other in the eye.
“Did you make this?”
I’m pretty sure that I’m hallucinating from the fumes of burnt goats cheese.
“Yes” I say, as if this should be obvious.
“Ok” There’s a slight pause where I feel I should say “Ok, what? You psychotic weirdo pie thief”
“Well I’m a bastard” he sighs and runs a hand over his face.
“Obviously” I say before I can stop myself, letting the sarcasm that runs through my veins like blood infect my voice.
A slight rueful smile twitches at the corners of his mouth.
“I’m sorry, for…pretty much everything I have ever said to you, ever, alright? I’m a moron, can I come in?”
“If you keep saying things like that…yeah”
Wordlessly I move out of the way and he steps past me to stand in the middle of the room shifting nervously. I close the door and sit down in one of the chairs at the table. After a moment he takes the other and sets the pie on the table between us.
“So…you’re a bastard” I prompt.
“Yes” he snaps to attention and I realise he’s just been staring at me.
“And you are a bastard because…”
“Because…I was very wrong about you. I thought you were going to change the island, make it into a tourist trap to supplement you’re trust fund or whatever. I didn’t realise you were…like us, someone who likes this place just as it is.”
“Well I do, so that blows your first theory out of the water.”
“I’m working on my second.” He cocks his head playfully.
“Which is…”
“That you like this place just as it is, and so don’t pose a threat to the island. That you bake and…you punch harder than I do.”
“I’m a kicker too.” I allow myself a smile, this guy isn’t as bad as I thought he was, granted I thought he was the devil, but still.
We both seem to realise that we’ve leaned closer at the same time. For a second or two there is only an inch between us, then less, and I realise his eyes are slightly closed, just like mine. I can just feel his lip touching mine before he pulls away sharply. One moment I can feel warm breath on my face and my vision is filled with him, the next we have both pulled away.
“Do you want some tea? Or pie?” I ask, suddenly awkward.
“Sure” he gives a smile which is more like a grimace and swiftly looks away.
I busy myself with the kettle, getting out large blue and white striped mugs and matching plates.
“So…uh…” He gestures, wincing a non-verbal apology at his ignorance.
“Emma” I fill in.
“Emma, how old are you?”
Although it seems like idle conversation, I can still feel the tension in the room. For a few moments I agonize over the answer, to tell the truth is to put up a boundary, to lie is to put up a different one. Despite myself I feel that I’m starting to quite like this guy, and not just in the friendly “I no longer suspect you of being capable of murder” way.
“I’m 18, nearly nineteen”
Was it my imagination or did I just hear a sharp intake of breath?
“I’m 31” he says conversationally, but I can hear something else in his voice, an edge of regret and finality. I set the tea down on the table.
“I should actually be going…another time maybe.” he gets up and brushes past me, I feel a leap of excitement as he passes. How could this have happened? In the space of ten minutes I had gone from hating him, to not minding him, to very nearly kissing him. Bloody sea air.
“Miss Glades?” the voice of the lead camper pipes from outside.
Oh right, dinner.
I hastily throw together a platter of fruit, cheese and the less scorched vegetables. I open the door to the campers, wielding my very best hostess smile and hand the plate over. I make a plan to go into town to buy more supplies, as it looks as if I’m going to mess everything up at least twice. By the time I’ve eaten my own dinner and cleared away I’m hardly thinking of Arthur at all.
Well that’s a lie. To tell you the truth it’s really confusing, and I keep returning to the moment in the kitchen, playing it through again. I have no idea what’s going on with me, or him come to think of it.