Chapter Six – Andie
Chapter Six
ANDIE
E ven with the bucks camped out downstairs we sleep in only two of the bedrooms. Lizzie and I jump into the queen and Grace and Taylor hunker down in the king next door. As I snuggle into Lizzie’s side, I’m instantly transported back to one of our many slumber parties.
‘Well, this is one for the history books,’ she laugh-whispers.
‘Do you think she’s mad?’ I whisper back.
‘Who?’
‘Taylor,’ I clarify. ‘Like, what a mess! This is not the start to the trip I had planned.’
‘Oooh, I don’t think she cares,’ Lizzie says, rolling onto her other side, away from me.
Maybe she’s right. After the captain left, we lingered downstairs, opening a bottle of red for a nightcap. A few nightcaps in, Ben pulled out his phone and started showing Taylor pictures of his fiancée. It seemed sweet, but I didn’t love how closely their heads bent together.
‘Did you think she was being a bit too familiar with Ben?’ I ask.
‘Ben? Nah. She could use some holiday fun.’
‘But not with the buck!’
‘You should be on that train too, Ands. I saw you making eyes at that hot captain.’
Had I been that obvious? I can’t deny that when he inadvertently mentioned my favourite karaoke song, famously performed by Katherine Heigl and James Marsden in 27 Dresses , a shiver rippled down my spine.
I decide to ignore her and let out an exaggerated yawn.
‘Okay, it’s late now. Sleeeeeeeeep time,’ I say, closing my eyes.
Lizzy sniffs. ‘Fine, bossy-boots. But we’ll pick this up tomorrow.’
‘Mm,’ I murmur, pretending to nod off.
But my mind is already made up. Tomorrow I’ll be steering Taylor’s interest away from Ben and towards the captain.
I wake to Lizzie’s flailing arm whacking my forehead. In my dream, I had just swan-dived off the pontoon out front so my first thought is that my head has struck the riverbed.
I carefully remove her arm from my face. She groans and rolls over as I climb out of bed, slipping on a cotton gingham dress before checking on the other girls, opening their door a crack to peer into their room. We’ve slept in. It’s 9 a.m. – I’m expecting to see Taylor and Grace all tucked up and spooning sweetly, but Taylor’s side of the bed is empty. She must be in the bathroom.
I tiptoe down the stairs.
There’s no sign of Ben, but Garth and Richie are draped over each of the couches, snoring violently. Richie’s mouth is open and I’m overcome with the urge to fill it with whipped cream. I creep into the kitchen. I know we have cream somewhere for our banana splits. Banana splits – nailing both the yellow and the splitsville themes. I was quite chuffed with myself for coming up with that one.
But thoughts of sweet, creamy revenge dissipate as soon as I walk into the kitchen. It’s littered with half-filled glasses and hummus-smeared plates. There are more beer cans than wine bottles.
Now the alcohol has worn off, so has the novelty of the situation and I’m just plain annoyed. This morning’s plan was brunch mimosas and oysters on the deck of Pearl Island’s fanciest venue, the River Brasserie, but that won’t be possible now. Not only will I have trouble rousing the girls, but the faint pulse of a hangover in my temple is powering my paranoia. We can’t abandon ship and risk the boys taking the helm. However well we appeared to be getting on last night after a few bottles of red, this is war.
We’ll have to settle for some brasserie takeaways. If I’m speedy enough, I should be able to get there and back before the chief troublemakers stir. There’s no reply to the message I ended up sending Clara – aka the worst host in the world – on Airbnb last night, so I type out a quick follow-up and slip out the front door.
The cicadas are on full blast and so is the sun. I’m surprised at how fierce the heat is this early in the morning. According to my online map, the brasserie isn’t far. I duck as a bird zooms out of a tree in front of me, its head and body the colour of my dress and its wings a brilliant emerald green. A king parrot! I whip out my phone to take some quick footage, then giggle at myself. I’m definitely in my birdwatching era.
When I reach the River Brasserie, its highly Instagrammable lemon-striped umbrellas are pulled closed; so is the door.
I check my phone. It’s 9.30 a.m. Where is the island’s mimosa-swilling crowd?
I walk around to the rear of the restaurant to make sure I haven’t missed a back entrance, then step down onto the pillowy sand. Shells freckle the golden shore and the blue water glistens invitingly. If this were a movie, and I were a completely different person, I would strip down to my underwear and dive into the deep. But ‘Island Andie’ will have to wait. The only priority I have right now is to source us a brunch worthy of our first morning away. Taylor deserves more than a bowlful of boring, gluten-free cereal.
I continue along the beach, convinced I can see something promising winking in the distance. As I draw closer, I see that it’s a less-than-promising fibro structure.
I squint in the bright sun to read the rusted iron sign screwed to the side of the building: C HARLIE F ARLEYS .
Hmm, looks more like a general store than a dietary-friendly café. I’m about to turn around when I spy a familiar hat bobbing in the window. A few seconds later the bell over the door of Charlie Farleys is tinkling and I’m inside.
The captain spots me right away. ‘Morning,’ he greets as I approach. His eyes are lighter in the morning sunshine, like mottled sea glass.
‘Hey. Have you heard from Clara?’ I can’t help the question from escaping immediately.
‘Not yet, but I’ve left her another message.’
Deep breaths.
He continues, ‘I promise I’ll have everything sorted by the end of the day.’
‘Okay, thank you.’ Hopefully, this trip is still salvageable.
‘No worries. I’ll keep you all updated.’ He turns back to his newspaper then appears to change his mind, his eyes flicking to me again. ‘It’s not your divorce party, is it?’
‘Ha, no.’
‘That’s good to know.’ My stomach tumbles. That’s good to know because he’s . . . interested? Stop it, Andie. What a silly leap to make. This is your opportunity to lay some groundwork for Taylor.
‘Actually, it’s Taylor’s. The one who was . . . ah . . . er,’ I stumble as I stop myself from describing her bare breasts.
‘Lost her hat?’ he cuts in.
‘Ah, yeah.’
‘Cap!’ a burly bloke booms.
‘Coming, Charlie!’ The captain rockets off the stool like he’s been bitten by a fire ant. ‘Speak later,’ he calls to me as he strides towards the register.
My focus shifts to a laminated menu the size of my head that’s resting next to the captain’s discarded newspaper.
There’s no point getting coffees now I’ve ended up so far away from Moorings. If I order hot coffees they’ll go cold, and if I get iced, they’ll be melted. Food it is. I study the menu. There’s a slew of burgers, hand-cut sandwiches, pizzas and . . . stroganoff? Not exactly brunch food, and I’m not seeing anything here that Taylor can eat.
I pick up the menu and walk over to the register.
Cap looks right at home, chatting to someone I presume is Charlie, his elbows resting on the counter, chin in his hands, hat off and placed next to him like a returned serviceman. In contrast, Charlie cuts an intimidating figure with a curly grey beard that’s so long the tip drapes across the counter and an anchor tattooed on one of his meaty arms. Next to him, the captain appears clean-cut – bare feet aside. Yes, once again he’s barefoot.
I catch the last snatches of their conversation. ‘Mate, just wait for summer to properly hit,’ the captain is saying. ‘You’ll be beating the crowds away with a stick. I really think things are going to pick up this season. Look at this place, she’s a stunner.’
With lifebuoy rings and an assortment of other nautical-themed paraphernalia, including rusty anchors and fishing nets covering the walls, ‘rustic’ is probably more apt a description.
‘Excuse me, sorry,’ I interject. ‘I was wondering what gluten-free options you have – maybe some oysters?’
Charlie looks at me wide-eyed like I’ve asked him to waive my bill. ‘No oysters! Didn’t you see the bloody sign out front?’ he mutters.
‘Ah no, sorry, I didn’t.’
‘Charlieee . . .’ Cap’s tone is warning. ‘What have I told you about being polite to customers?’
Charlie rolls his eyes. ‘Sorry, but oysters for breakfast? Bleurgh. Charlie Farleys only serves the food you want when you’re hungover,’ he explains. ‘Do you want to eat seafood when you’re hungover?’
‘Well, no . . .’
‘I initially wanted to run with, “Where reheated pizza is a home-cooked meal” as a tagline but my best mate here thought it wasn’t a goer, and with two little mites to support – and another on the way – I couldn’t take the risk.’
Ah, so Charlie is Cap’s best mate. I find myself grabbing onto insights about him like tasty morsels.
‘So what do you recommend?’ I ask.
‘I’d say the bacon-and-egg bap,’ Charlie says, moving away to clear a nearby table. ‘They’re sensational, aren’t they?’ He directs his question to Cap.
‘Yes, my man,’ says Cap. ‘Although you know my bacon-and-egg shits all over yours.’
‘So bake me some of that sourdough ya keep going on about!’ Charlie sings across the room as he stacks plates.
‘Not a chance.’ Cap grins.
‘Are the rolls gluten-free?’ I remind Cap of my requirements.
‘Taste-free? Absolutely not. And it’s not a roll, it’s a bap.’
‘Sorry, right, a bap, Cap.’
‘What did you call me?’
‘Ermm, Cap?’ I repeat.
The captain chuckles.
‘Isn’t that what people call you? Charlie just did,’ I say, suddenly unsure. How has it not occurred to me before now that Cap has an actual name?
He gestures to his cup that’s resting on the counter in front of me. ‘He was calling out my coffee order.’
I lean over to peer into the cup. Sure enough, remnants of the foamy liquid dotted with chocolate powder lurk at the bottom.
Ah, a cappuccino. A cap.
I want to strip one of the lifebuoy rings from the wall and throw it in the river so I can float away from my mortification.
Instead, I pretend I’m unfazed. ‘So, what is your name then?’
‘Jack.’
He sees my eyes light up.
‘Oh no you don’t,’ he warns.
‘So, you’re Captain Jack?’
‘Nope. He’s cancelled.’
‘Johnny Depp is. Captain Jack Sparrow isn’t.’
He ignores me. ‘So, I can’t tempt you with a bap, Andie?’ Cap – no, Jack – asks.
They do smell delicious . . .
‘Quick, everyone, duck!’ Charlie yells and rushes to the front door, flipping the ‘Open’ sign to ‘Closed’. ‘It’s Arthur on the warpath again,’ he hisses.
Jack smirks. ‘You better do as you’re told,’ he tells me as he drops to the floor.
The billowy cut of my dress comes in handy as I sink down onto the fabric, rather than onto the sticky lino floor.
‘He’s the island pest,’ Charlie whispers from his crouched position behind the closed entrance door. ‘He’s been coming in here every day, demanding to see my recycling to check it’s been sorted properly.’
‘More like the island kook,’ Jack explains. ‘Apparently he’s fashioning shoes out of fence posts so he can walk across the river.’ He snorts. ‘Even so, you can’t afford to get him offside, Charlie.’
‘I know, I know.’
A few moments later, Charlie clears his throat. ‘Okay, I think the coast is clear.’ He springs to his feet. For a large guy, he’s incredibly agile.
I’m no closer to uncovering any gluten-free breakfast options, and starting to worry I’ve been gone too long, so I order a takeaway cappuccino and pray that the perfect breakfast will manifest itself on my return trip.
I thank Charlie and promise I’ll be back at some stage to try his bap.
Jack follows me out the door, watching as a bird swoops so low it nearly knocks the coffee out of my hands.
‘That’s a king parrot, right? They’re so beautiful,’ I gush as I reach for my phone again. I’m one-handed so it’s a struggle.
‘Here, I’ll help you.’ I expect Jack to take my coffee, but instead he pulls his own phone from his pocket. ‘Yeah, they’re parrots. And don’t let Charlie hear you say that. The other week, a gang – yes, a gang, not a flock in Charlie’s world – of parrots ripped a section of tin clean off his roof – he’s only just replaced it.’
I stifle a giggle, but when I see his face is stretched into a wide grin, I laugh freely.
‘Got it. Arthur and parrots equal pests.’
‘So photo or video?’ he asks, sweeping his hair back with his free hand, as if shifting from off-duty cool to on the clock.
‘Video please.’
‘Wah-wah, wrong answer unfortunately. This is a photos-only situ.’ He gestures to his flip phone before pointing it in the direction of the bird.
‘Wow. Stone age much?’
His lips twitch. ‘Island age. What’s your number and I’ll text it to you.’
‘Ah, the oldest trick in the book.’ Heat rises off my skin as my decommissioned flirtation reflex kicks back into gear.
‘You know it.’ He grins. ‘Unless you’d prefer me to send your definitely pixelated photo via carrier parrot?’
I poke out my tongue. ‘Send the bird once you realise I’ve given you a fake number.’
As I give him my number (the right one) a flash of rainbow colour catches my eye. At first I think it’s another parrot, but when I look up, I see a man decked out in fluorescent Lycra pushing his bike down the beach towards us.
‘The first river boat must have docked. I better make tracks,’ Jack says.
‘You’re not driving the boat today?’
He shakes his head. ‘Nope. I was just helping Charlie out for the day yesterday. He juggles the shop with the island boat, and now he has antenatal appointments on top of that. His wife, Lena, is expecting in a few weeks.’
So the captain isn’t even a captain!
‘But I’ve still got to get to work, so I’ll update you on the boys’ new living situation as soon as I can. You’re also welcome to give me a holler if you’d like to see a half-decent bird. The best birdwatching is done from my paddleboard.’
I’m curious about what he does for work if it’s not driving the river boat, but he doesn’t offer up any more information, so I don’t ask. I can’t think of many occupations where you don’t need to wear shoes. I suppose we are on an island.
‘Thanks, but we’re more of a wine and charcuterie board kind of group,’ I decline in mild panic.
‘My invitation isn’t for the group, Andie. It’s for you.’