Sunday October 5th 2025
For about five seconds after recognizing Berty Jones, I just stood there on the ferry in the island drizzle in absolute blank panic.
My first thought was that he was here on behalf of his wife, coming to get me for nicking Charlie’s job.
Not sure what “coming to get me” would have involved, but nonetheless, anxiety was through the roof.
“Excuse me,” he called, once he’d stepped onto the harbor.
I was just getting off the ferry. Red was there, helping people in her tour-guiding T-shirt; found myself reaching to clutch her arm as I stepped to land. She looked at me, puzzled, as Berty went on, “I’m looking for Charlie Jones?”
“Oh, fuck,” I muttered.
Red got the idea and pulled me behind her, out of view. I told her I loved her through the cloud of her curls.
“What’s going on, Charlie?” she whispered over her shoulder. “Who is that guy?”
“Which Charlie Jones?” someone on the harbor called back at Berty, to a chorus of laughter.
I realized—shit—half of the island was out here, preparing for tomorrow’s festivities.
Barn dance is tonight, but main festival kicks off tomorrow, so the harbor was getting decked out in full orange-and-gold glory.
Galoshes, Rosie and Marly were there, and I could see at least six members of the committee, even while cowering behind Red.
And there was Jones—my Jones, Ormer Jones, looking windswept in an old brushed-cotton shirt as he ducked his head so that Marly could speak in his ear.
“Got a couple of Charlie Joneses about,” Rog shouted good-naturedly, taking an armful of gourds from his trailer.
“What did you say?” Berty asked.
“Kind of a funny story, actually,” Rog said. “They both showed up for the same job, up at the—”
“Oliver?” Berty said.
Nobody responded to this. He said it again.
I obviously had no idea what he was talking about and was pretty preoccupied trying to work out how the hell I was going to navigate this situation (Why didn’t I just tell Jones about the name thing sooner?
Now it was going to be awful.) but did slowly clock that Berty was looking in Jones’s direction.
And Jones was looking very windswept, actually. Maybe more…frazzled.
“Look, mate, I can explain,” Jones said.
Never heard Jones call anyone mate before.
“Oh, so she came here for you, did she?” Berty said, readjusting his cap—always a tell that he’s feeling something, an experience Berty has never been particularly comfortable with.
“No, hang on, it’s not like that, she—”
“So where is she? Where’s Charlie?”
He was looking around now. I shrank back, but it was too late—Galoshes had spotted me.
“There she is,” she said.
Berty’s eyes settled on me. I saw the exact moment he recognized me—he looked totally astonished.
If I hadn’t been completely panicking at the imminent public humiliation (actual worst nightmare—in front of most of the committee, in front of Jones…) then might almost have been a little bit satisfied.
“Aspen?” he said.
My eyes went straight to Jones. He was stiff, arms crossed over his chest, staring at Berty.
“What the hell?” Berty said to me. “What are you doing here?”
“I can explain,” I said, a little desperately.
“You think this woman’s called Charlie?” Berty said, turning back to Rog.
“Ain’t she?” Kim called. “That’s Charlie Jones and that’s Charlie Jones.” She pointed at each of us in turn.
Berty’s face was a picture of disbelief.
“You think that’s Charlie Jones, too?” he said, pointing to Jones.
“He’s not called Charlie Jones?” Galoshes asked sharply.
Complete hush across the little harbor now. Remember hearing the ferry creaking behind me, and waves lapping against rock, and feeling totally disassociated from all of it.
Berty’s expression was dark as he pointed to us in turn.
“You all honestly think that these two people here have the same exact name? They are both called Charlie Jones? You think that’s an actual plausible coincidence, do you, and that they both turned up here at the same time for, what…no reason at all?”
“Well, it’s just one of those weird things, isn’t it?” Rog said, after a slightly defensive silence. “Like those stories about people who get swapped at birth or accidentally inherit each other’s houses or whatever.”
“That man is called Oliver. That woman is called Aspen.”
Everyone was staring at us. Anxiety was pulsing through me—could hardly bear it.
It was crushing, awful. Wanted to crouch down on the ground in a ball, or perhaps throw myself off the edge of the harbor—not to die, it wasn’t about that, it was just about doing something to make the feeling stop.
Needed to get out, get away, go somewhere nobody in the world could see me.
Galoshes marched over.
“You’re not Charlie Jones,” she said, looking at me.
“No.” My voice was croaky. My whole body was trembling. “I’m so sorry for—”
“And you’re not Charlie Jones.” Galoshes turned back toward Jones Oliver.
“No,” he said simply. He wasn’t looking at me. He turned to Marly and Rosie. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. Both of you.”
“But,” Rog piped up, “if you’re not Charlie Jones, and you’re not Charlie Jones…” His face was crumpled in bewilderment. “Marly and Rosie offered that job to someone called Charlie Jones, didn’t they?”
“They did,” Galoshes said grimly.
“So where the hell’s the actual Charlie Jones?” Rog said.
“Thank you,” said Berty. “Where the hell is my wife?”
Lot of commotion after that. Don’t quite know what happened, really—was in my own little hell, the anxiety gnawing at my insides.
Red gripped my arm, the way I’d gripped hers as I’d stepped off the ferry.
“Are you OK?” she said.
“I’m so sorry,” I whispered, as everyone around began to speak to me.
“You’re who?”…“You lied to us?”…“Who the hell even are you?”
“Hey, come on. I’m sure you had your reasons. Give her some space!” Red said to the crowd around us, pulling me through so I was closer to Berty, Jones Oliver, Rosie and Marly. I nearly tripped over an absurd heap of pumpkins.
“You’re really not called Charlie Jones?” Rosie said to me, and her eyes filled with tears.
“I’m so, so sorry,” I said shakily. “It didn’t seem like this big a lie when you were all theoretical people, and the farm shop was just some cute idea…”
“I’m so sorry,” Oliver said.
There were tears in his eyes, too, and he still wasn’t looking at me.
Anxiety roared through me. What if he hates me now?
And who even is he? He felt suddenly like a terrifying unknown, and it made me realize that until this moment he’d seemed so safe to me.
Someone I could trust. Now he was a stranger.
That night we’d shared on the sofa, all the gaps and silences…
We’d hidden so much from each other—how could I have felt I knew him so deeply? I’d not even known his name.
And he’d not even known mine.
Did it matter? Don’t know, can’t tell—even now I’m writing this I’m too churned up to figure it out.
“You’re not called Charlie Jones, either?” Rosie asked him, hushed.
“I’m really sorry. I don’t know what else to say. Charlie suggested I could step into her shoes and come here, and…”
“Charlie did?” Rosie straightened. Her hand tightened on Marly’s. “So you know her? The person who actually applied for the job?”
“My wife,” Berty said.
Guess we were officially dropping the “ex,” then. No surprise there.
He looked at Oliver. “Do you know where she is? Is she OK?”
“She’s fine. She’s good, actually—the best I’ve seen her.”
Berty stiffened. “You’ve seen her? Is she here, then? She sent me a message this morning about coming here, but it was pretty random even by Charlie standards and I freaked out that she’d…you know.”
Not sure what that meant.
“She’s safe,” Oliver said. “She’s OK.”
Berty’s shoulders sagged.
“So there is a real Charlie Jones? Who wrote me that letter? Who applied for this job?” Rosie said insistently.
“Yeah, yeah, there is,” Berty said. He checked his phone, then his gaze turned to me. “And what exactly are you doing here, Aspen?” he said, with uncharacteristic sharpness.
Felt myself flush hot with shame. “It was Brianna’s idea,” I blurted.
“You know Brianna?” Oliver asked.
“She’s my sister. How do you know Brianna? Who even are you?” My voice cracked slightly.
Oliver looked lost. “I’m…I’m a friend of Charlie’s. That’s how I knew Brianna—through her. Did you know Charlie? As in, Charlie Jones?”
“That clears things up,” Galoshes said.
“This is Aspen,” Berty said shortly. “We dated for a while. When Charlie and I were apart. When you were dating Charlie.”
This was directed at Oliver.
“Oh my God,” I said, staring at Oliver. “You dated Charlie Jones? As in, the Charlie who’s friends with my sister? Berty’s ex-wife?”
“Yeah. I mean, Charlie and I have been just friends for a long time,” Oliver said—not sure if it was for Berty’s benefit or mine.
“She wanted this job, but then she…changed her mind, and suggested that I could just step into her shoes here. I know it was wrong,” he said, turning to Rosie and Marly.
“I should never have done it. And once I had done it, I should have told you. I kept telling myself it was just a name, and it didn’t matter as long as I was doing a good job… ”
“It did matter,” Marly said. “It really fucking did.”
“But this Charlie,” Rosie said, looking between us all. “The one who actually applied to work at Bramblebay. Where is she?”
“I’m so sorry, Rosie,” Oliver said, just as Berty said, “That’s what I want to know.”
Berty did a sudden double take at Rosie. “You’re Rosie?” he said. “Rosie Nicole?”
“Yes. Yes,” Rosie said, clutching one hand to the scarf at her throat.
“Oh, fucking hell,” Berty said, removing his cap altogether.
“It’s her, isn’t it?” Rosie whispered. “Your wife.”
“I can’t…” Berty paused. “She should be the one to tell you.”
Rosie looked almost frantic as she turned to Oliver, who was reading a message on his phone.