Page 2 of That Island Feeling

Picking up my glass, I take in the scene with a satisfied sigh. Moorings, our home for the next week, is even better than it appeared in the photos online. Half an hour ago, when the river boat docked at Pearl Island’s tiny wharf, we loaded our suitcases into wheelbarrows and bumped our way up the leafy hill, then down again to the other side of the island where the sprawling house twinkled in the sunlight. Stepping inside felt like walking into a brochure. With panoramic views of the glittering river from every window, a gourmet kitchen, an expansive outdoor deck, an infinity pool and a hot tub, the waterfront home really does have every possible amenity for seven perfect nights of R&R.

Peace settles here in a way it never could on the mainland (‘the mainland’ – would you listen to me already!). Sydney was all hurried bodies and honking cars. Our giggles and snort-laughing aside, the only soundtrack now is the soft lapping of water on the foreshore. We’re steps away from a white sandy beach, and a shiny barbecue and garden fire pit sit waiting to be assaulted by cliché city girls. I wonder if the fire pit knows its fate – that it’s about to become all fire-starters and scrunched newspapers in our quest for Instagrammable s’mores?

There’s an occasional squawk and flash of electric blue and emerald green from birds high up in the gum leaves. King parrots, maybe? I smile to myself as I imagine becoming a professional birdwatcher by week’s end and disembarking the Pearl Island river boat in full safari get-up, binoculars proudly strung around my neck, ready to identify the markings on bin chickens. Although it might be best if the parrots stay hidden, given they don’t match our cheerful yellow colour scheme.

Upon googling ‘divorce party decorations’, a lemon-yellow aesthetic was the obvious pick. After all, we’re here to help Taylor turn lemons into lemonade – or, more accurately, lemons into champagne. In addition to the copious bottles of sparkling and the truckload of decorations I’ve purchased off Amazon, I’ve custom-ordered a lemon meringue divorce cake. Yellow snacks were harder to come by – especially gluten-free yellow snacks. Hummus is yellow-ish. Luckily, the house is inoffensive with its fresh white decor, and we’re more than happy to have a view of that gorgeous blue, blue water.

Hopefully I can steal a few moments at some stage to launch myself off the pontoon that’s anchored at the beach in front of the house. I noticed it as soon as we arrived; it’s made from floating timber boards like those old-timey rafts in American summer camp movies. Or, maybe I’ll just lay out there like a lazy seal, tracking the sun’s movements.

‘Bottoms up!’ Grace sings out as she lifts her glass.

‘Just a sec,’ I interrupt. ‘I’ve prepared a quick toast.’

I catch her unsubtle eye roll in Taylor’s direction.

Shit. How have I messed up already? I thought I’d planned everything to perfection.

‘Well, girls.’ I hold my glass aloft, ignoring their exasperated expressions and my sloshing stomach. Public speaking used to be my forte, but that feels like a lifetime ago now. It might have posed a challenge if I’d stuck with a career in the arts, but it turns out it’s not an issue as a kindergarten teacher. Thankfully, five-year-olds don’t seem to intimidate me in the same way adults do – even on rainy days when they’re cooped up inside, acting particularly feral.

I clear my throat. ‘Thanks for making the effort to be here this week. For arranging the time off work – especially you, Liz, with your kid-wrangling. I know it’s not easy, but Taylor – we – truly appreciate it.’ I steal a glance at Taylor, and she responds with a weak nod.

‘I might say a couple of words too,’ Lizzie announces suddenly, stepping up onto one of the chairs.

I stifle a relieved sigh. Girls’ trip back on track.

This is the first real holiday I’ve taken since Dad’s dementia diagnosis. Even Taylor and Mitch’s destination wedding down the coast was a whirlwind one-night celebration. With Mum having passed only six months prior, there was no space for an extended getaway – it was straight back home.

‘To mums going wild!’ Lizzie cheers, bending down to clink glasses with each of us.

‘To divorcees and fiancées going wilder!’ Grace cries back.

I laugh nervously. We’ve paid two thousand dollars in bond and I plan on getting every cent of it back. I remind myself that Lizzie’s definition of ‘wild’ is washing her whites with colours. Grace has always been a looser cannon, but in recent months, Maeve and the new rock on her fourth finger have done a good job of keeping her better tethered.

‘We’re going to have so much fun!’ I exclaim. ‘An entire week of vision-boarding, chick flicks, swimming, oysters and wine. And we get to enjoy it all with this as our backyard.’ I gesture to our stunning surrounds.

I can hardly wait for the endless sunshine, moonlit evenings and the infinite D&Ms of the week to come.

The spectacular summer day soon transforms into a spectacular summer night. The moonlight shines down on the river, turning the water a golden champagne colour. Fitting, given the number of bottles we’ve consumed.

Unsurprisingly, our carefully packed suitcases remain untouched, and we end up in the pool. The last of our inhibitions vanish – along with our swimsuits. It feels like I’m finally shedding my grief cloak and slipping into something more comfortable – an older model of me.

‘An-die!’ Taylor sing-songs, proffering her glass. ‘Refill, please!’

There’s glassware in the pool. The thought cuts through my alcohol-buzzed brain. We agreed we wouldn’t have any glassware in the pool.

Andie, it’s not important. We’re having fun.

I roll off my lemon inflatable into the shock of cold water and paddle quickly to the edge, my speed increasing at the thought of glass shards attacking me like tiny piranhas.

Wrapping a towel around my body, I shuffle inside, making a beeline for the stack of plastic cups on the kitchen bench. I work slowly, one hand needed to keep my towel in place, as I fill four cups. Just as I finish, there’s a loud knock at the door.

I freeze, hoping whoever is there will disappear, when they knock again. It’s only 8 p.m., so surely it’s not a noise complaint.

Moving cautiously, I approach the door and open it a crack.

‘Oh, hey,’ I breathe, my shoulders relaxing as I recognise the set of sea-green eyes staring back at me and swing the door all the way open.

‘Hey.’ The captain’s voice is rough and gravelly and bumps over me like a tractor on a ploughed field, causing my stomach to do this weird seesawing thing. ‘You left this on board,’ he says, nodding to the karaoke box in his muscular arms.