That Island Feeling

Chapter Nineteen – Andie

Chapter Nineteen

ANDIE

I t’s time to complete your prompt! The Storytime notification pops up on my phone as I roll onto my side to find a fresh, cold patch of sheet.

If my phone is on, then power must have been restored. By the time I went to sleep last night the battery was completely dead. A relief, really, because who knows what my drunkie self would have texted Jack. Apparently, adding ice to a pitch-black house on a full moon was a recipe for absolute madness. With no operational blender to make frozen margaritas, we opted for tequila on the rocks with the leftover ice. A game of murder in the dark was suggested and promptly abandoned – the only things we were capable of murdering were our livers. Then Grace found the penis pinata I was saving for our final night (I had grand plans for a sort of completion ceremony) and it somehow ended up in the fire pit along with our charred exes – after copping a thorough beating.

I haven’t decided if I’ll meet Jack tonight. All I know is that I can’t shake the image of his mischievous grin from last night’s escapades, the flowing conversation, and the intoxicating feelings that made me forget to worry about being anywhere but with him. The thought of seeing him again makes my stomach explode into a swarm of excited butterflies. One butterfly seems to escape, travelling south and fluttering between my legs.

I reach for my phone and type out a message.

You haven’t specified tonight’s footwear. P.S. I’m not saying I’m definitely meeting you.

Rather than torture myself waiting for a reply, I swiftly exit our text chain, send a quick check-in message to Toby, and then find myself clicking into the Storytime app.

Your life of stories collected to remember , the title screen greets me. I swipe away today’s prompt, What were you like as a teenager? and tap into the completed stories, scrolling through years and years of videos, until I locate the one I’m after.

What was your favourite holiday?

They’d both answered this one. I take a deep breath and click into Mum’s clip first. It’s like looking in the mirror. Her honeyed eyes are framed by dark curls that cascade around her heart-shaped face. Her hair is a deep blue-black compared to my brown. I reach out to touch the screen as she speaks, her velvety voice instantly soothing me.

Gosh! Hands down, Pearl Island. So many lazy mornings spent in bed after nights staying up late playing games of Jenga and UNO, paired with too much wine. After lunch, we’d eventually make it outside and roll straight into the river. Dinner was plate after plate of the freshest oysters eaten with a squeeze of lemon juice and a splash of Tabasco. Total bliss.

As the clip ends, there’s a faint clatter of something in the background. I remember accidentally knocking the TV remote off the coffee table.

I open Dad’s story next. His expression is flat, but there’s a flicker of awareness in his eyes that’s since dimmed. This footage must be at least five years old.

Dad, what was your favourite holiday? I cringe as the sound of my younger self resonates through my skull.

Pillow. Lily , he rasps.

Mum’s entire face fills the screen, her skin radiating a healthy glow.

Mum! You’re too close.

She steps back from the camera. She’s dressed in her teaching outfit: a T-shirt featuring a famous movie quote – this one reads: ‘Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn’, and is paired with a blazer and jeans.

Sorry, honey. He means Pearl Island too. Harry loved reminding me how I insisted on bringing my own pillows from home and made him cart them on the river ferry. But then I forgot my swimsuit. He never complained about my skinny-dipping though! It’s largely responsible for how we came home with you in my belly, Andrea. Of course, we didn’t realise we’d fallen pregnant at the time. You were made from oysters and wine.

I hug my phone to my chest, like Mum’s housed inside it and not in the ground.

I eventually make it downstairs and nibble on a piece of dry toast, chuckling to myself as the memory of nibbling on Jack’s hand flashes through my mind.

It’s another stunning day. But the mood at Moorings is low-key. Low-key dying of alcohol poisoning. Grace is open-mouthed snoring on a hammock outside, while Taylor and Lizzie have yet to make an appearance.

Miraculously, after a dunk in the pool, I’m feeling human enough to get dressed.

I’m setting up day four’s ‘Famous exes’ game when the girls finally trickle into the living room.

‘What’s all this?’ Taylor asks, rubbing sleep from her panda eyes as she takes in the flash cards with celebrity names I’ve arranged in the centre of the coffee table, along with a lemon-coloured notepad and pen set at each of our places.

‘A fun quiz!’ I say enthusiastically, and Grace groans.

‘Seriously, Ands. Aren’t you hungover?’ she asks, flopping onto the couch.

I swallow thickly, my throat dry. ‘Yeah, a little,’ I admit. ‘But I thought some games might help us feel better . . .’

And it was actually on the itinerary , I think – unlike most of what we’ve done over the past few days.

I brush off their lacklustre response and start explaining the rules. ‘Basically, we have to match the celebrity exes, and the person with the most correct pairs wins. So, for example,’ I pick up two of the cards, ‘Miley Cyrus goes with Liam Hemsworth.’

I’m met with blank stares.

‘Okay, let me show you another,’ I continue. ‘Olivia Wilde and Harry Styles are a match.’ I stack their cards on top of each other.

‘Do you want to have a go, Tay?’

She takes a moment to power to life. ‘Oh my God, Jack!’

My face scrunches. There are no famous Jacks on the table.

‘I just remembered that whole thing in the bathroom last night. He asked you out!’

Oh . ‘Ah, well, yeah . . .’ My face feels warm as my mind replays the interaction.

‘Shit, I was sooooo drunk, I completely forgot that happened – until Harry Styles just reminded me!’

‘Really? What do you mean?’ They don’t look alike. Different hair and eye colour and builds – I’d guess that Jack is twice Harry Styles’ size.

‘I think it’s the same whole unserious vibe thing he has going on. Remember when Harry showed up barefoot at the Brit Awards? Maybe it’s also an age thing? He’s younger, right?’

‘Mm, maybe,’ I say, purposely vague.

‘So are you going to go?!’ Lizzie asks.

‘Of course she is,’ Taylor answers for me.

‘No-strings-attached holiday sex is exactly what Andie needs,’ Grace agrees.

‘That’s what I said to her the other night!’ Lizzie exclaims.

‘Ummm, hellllooooo, Andie is sitting right here,’ I interrupt, but there’s excitement buzzing in my veins.

This trip has been a series of surprises. Last night was a total write-off, yet unexpectedly, it turned into the most fun I’ve had in . . . well, years. Maybe I can temporarily lift my strict dating veto? It’s not like we’re talking about anything serious here. And for the first time in years, I actually have some time off from my life and its responsibilities – for four more nights, at least.

But can I really skip out on our spa session? Taylor might be okay with it now, but she could always change her mind, and I don’t want to jeopardise the reason for this trip – well, one of the reasons.

‘You don’t need a face mask anyway. Bitch, your skin is like a permanently glazed donut,’ Taylor says, pre-empting my concern. ‘And besides, nothing beats that post-sex glow,’ she adds, her eyes flashing.

I laugh. ‘I’ll think about it.’ My attention shifts to Grace. ‘It’s your turn.’

‘Oh no. Andie, we love you. But no more games.’

‘Okay, okay,’ I concede. Evidently no one is in the mood to rack their foggy hungover brains over ancient celebrity romance history.

As I pack up the cards, Grace declares that another round of naps is in order, but I’m fizzing with anxious energy. Not only over the prospect of meeting Jack later, but because, predictably, Toby hasn’t messaged back. If I hang around here, I’ll only drive myself mad obsessing about Dad. Is he up yet? What was for breakfast? How is his head wound looking? I’m trying to respect Toby’s wishes and resist the urge to call.

‘I might go for a walk,’ I announce, pausing to see if any of the girls will join me. ‘Anyone keen?’ I prompt after a beat.

Eventually, only Taylor responds. ‘Have fun,’ she murmurs, her eyes not leaving her phone screen.

I can’t see who she’s texting. I really hope that it’s not Ben.

There’s a new sign in Hazel’s garden: M Y GARDEN ISN’T DEAD, IT’S SLEEPING , positioned right next to a bed of wilting daffodils.

I check my phone again as I walk up the path, following a trail of freshly fallen frangipanis, the sweet scent of jasmine and vanilla filling the air. Nothing from Toby, or Jack. I tell myself I’m only here to pick up the Tupperware – we don’t want to lose our Airbnb bond over missing Tupperware – but I’d be lying if I didn’t admit to secretly hoping for a glimpse of Jack’s impressive form gliding past on his paddleboard.

‘Andie!’ A dolled-up Hazel swings open her door, greeting me like an old friend. ‘You’re right on time!’

On time?

‘How are you with make-up?’ she asks, pulling me into the house.

‘Ah, not the best . . .’ I offer apologetically. ‘My friend, Taylor, is really good at beauty stuff. I can see if she’s free to help?’

‘Rubbish. Look at those perfectly shaped brows. You’re clearly a woman who understands angles.’

I follow her into the living room. Most of the furniture that crowded every corner is emptied out, as if the jumble sale has now packed up and left.

‘Are you moving?’

‘Of course not, dear.’

Hazel offers no further explanation, instead presenting two tubes of lipstick and thrusting them towards me.

‘Scarlet or rose red?’

‘Rose,’ I respond instinctively, thinking of her garden.

‘Excellent. That was Billy’s favourite.’ She pulls a compact from her make-up bag, puckers her lips and applies with precision, then combs her fingers through her silvery strands.

‘How am I looking?’ she asks.

‘Stunning,’ I tell her. She is radiant. It’s not just the colour on her lips; she has on a red wrap dress that hugs her curves gorgeously.

With an authoritative click, she snaps the compact shut and places her make-up down on a sideboard, one of the room’s only remaining pieces of furniture. Then she turns and starts dragging a velvet settee with bowlegs into the middle of the space.

‘Can I help?’ I ask, feeling uncomfortable watching her move the heavy furniture on her own. She might rip that beautiful dress.

‘Nope, I have it sorted,’ she replies briskly. Right, I had momentarily forgotten that when I met her, she was up a lemon tree. ‘Although –’ she continues.

‘Yes?’ I ask eagerly.

‘Maybe you can help set up my tripod?’ She points to a contraption leaning against the wall in the corner of the room.

I follow her instructions, setting it up to face the settee and slotting the phone she hands me into the mount.

‘I wish I had one of those cameras that captures high-quality video,’ she says, taking a seat on the settee. ‘But this will have to do.’

Her comment stirs memories of my professional camera gear I sold on Facebook Marketplace when I dropped out of my master’s degree. It was a shame to part with it, but it would only have gathered dust. Even with Mum’s guidance, I didn’t have the ten thousand hours it takes to become an expert in anything, other than constant worry about my family.

‘Since you’re here, dear, would you mind hanging around for a bit to press record, and check that I don’t look like the arse-end of a donkey?’

I laugh. ‘Of course. I’d be happy to.’ The girls won’t miss me – they’re probably still napping. ‘Is this for your documentary?’

‘Yes.’ Hazel dabs at her face with an embroidered handkerchief. ‘How is it looking?’

I bring my eyes to the screen. Hazel has positioned the settee directly in front of the stained-glass door leading out to the porch, so light pours in behind her, darkening the frame.

‘Actually, can I make a quick adjustment?’

‘Here I was, thinking all my problems could be solved with a single haircut,’ Hazel huffs.

‘It’s definitely not you,’ I chuckle. ‘But I’m going to move you back against the other wall, so we have that natural light to highlight your lovely face.’

We rearrange the room, and I readjust the tripod to a forty-five-degree angle, ensuring the right amount of shadow falls on one side of Hazel’s face. I then switch off the overhead light and switch on the corner lamp instead, recalling some of the tricks we learned in our studio-based subject.

‘I’ve given you a bit of a cinematic touch,’ I tell her proudly.

‘Well, the right girl certainly wandered into my house now, didn’t she?’

I beam, thoroughly enjoying myself. ‘Shall I call action?’

‘Let’s do it!’

‘Action!’ I yell, while pressing the record button. Immediately, Hazel launches into a detailed explanation of the different birds inhabiting Pearl Island, delving into the minutiae of the community bird-spotting noticeboard and precisely how it’s run. Before long, I find my eyes glazing over.

‘Am I too shiny?’ Hazel stops to ask, dabbing at her face again.

‘No, you look great!’ I reassure her quickly.

‘So what’s this face about then? Is there something else you’d prefer to hear?’

‘Oh, not at all –’ I start, but she interrupts me.

‘Be honest, Andie-girl! I want this documentary to be the very best it can be.’

I consider Hazel’s question for a moment. ‘Okay, well, I’d love to hear some of your island stories. Maybe you can start with how you and Billy met?’ I suggest tentatively, not wanting to take over what she had planned.

‘Oh no, I don’t want to talk about that sort of thing. This documentary is supposed to be a tribute to the island, not my life. I’m not going anywhere just yet.’

‘You’d be surprised how much human stories can help colour factual content. People respond to things they can’t read in history books,’ I say, recalling the words of an old university lecturer. Or perhaps they were Mum’s? I wish I could remember clearly.

Her mouth downturns slightly, still appearing hesitant. So I’m surprised in the next moment when she agrees.

‘Hmm, okay, very well then. You’re the expert.’ She re-pockets her handkerchief. ‘Billy and I met when he was performing at a bar in Port Hope. He was an opera singer. We met after his show, when I asked him to sign my program, and he invited me to dinner the next night – he had no idea I lived on the island. Hannah helped me get ready, curled my hair and lent me a pair of strappy heels to wear – wait, sorry.’ Hazel stops and twists in her chair.

‘Can we check this is in shot?’ she asks, glancing at the frame hung on the wall to the left of the settee. ‘It was a thirtieth-anniversary gift, and I’d love to have it in view.’

The artwork is a yin–yang symbol outlined in iridescent gold. One side is coloured black, the other is white. On the black side, a delicate white pearl sits nestled at its base, while atop the white side, there’s an empty space, as if it’s awaiting its pearl.

‘It’s stunning,’ I say, leaning in to inspect the phone screen. ‘I’ll just get you to shuffle over a bit,’ I instruct as I readjust the angle slightly.

‘Okay, I think we’ve got it now,’ I say. ‘Good to continue?’

Hazel nods, her expression brightening.

‘Well, you should have seen Billy’s face when I turned up in my tinnie. I think he fell in love with me then and there – my dress billowing out over the motor, oyster cuts all over my feet. He took me to The Oyster House over on Crescent Island and I felt like I was in Pretty Woman , with no idea which piece of cutlery was for what. But one thing I did know was exactly how to eat those delicious oysters – I downed close to two dozen that night. We went back to The Oyster House every anniversary.’

She stops talking suddenly.

‘Everything okay? I still have the pearl artwork in shot,’ I confirm.

‘No, no, it’s not that. It just occurred to me that I don’t want this to be all bunny rabbits and rainbows. I want to depict the bad alongside the good.’

‘Hmm. Maybe you could tell us about a particularly challenging time you’ve faced while living on the island?’

A shadow crosses Hazel’s face. ‘Oh, that would have to be a day three years ago now. One of the darkest times in Pearl Island’s history, when we found out our oysters were no longer safe to eat. At first, we were hopeful it was just passing bacteria from the contaminated water, but unfortunately, it turned out to be a viral outbreak that was set to ruin us. Millions of oysters dead in only a few months. It would have been hard to believe if we didn’t have the carcasses to show for it, piled high in the harvesting shed of what was once a thriving farm.’ Hazel pauses, shaking her head. ‘It devastated us.’

You were made from oysters and wine , Mum’s silky voice sounds in my head.

‘Wow,’ I breathe. ‘Does that mean you can’t eat the oysters here anymore?’

‘No, unfortunately not.’ Hazel shakes her head. ‘There’s been no oysters for years.’ She clears her throat. ‘Anyway, perhaps that’s enough of the bad for now – back to the bunny rabbits! Who aren’t as cute as they seem and are in fact a destructive pest, as I’m sure even a city girl like you would know!’ Hazel leans forward towards the camera and begins a fresh island story. But my mind is elsewhere. No oysters?! The thought sends an unexpected stab through my chest.

I’ve spent so much time picturing my parents honeymooning here, and oysters were always an integral part of that image, of that island feeling.