Page 4 of That Island Feeling

‘Yes. Goldie Hawn!’ the blonde shrieks. ‘OMG, Andie. Should we?’

Andie.

Her name is Andie.

Andie laughs and shakes her head, her ringlets dancing in the breeze. A split second later the blonde has sprung out of her seat and is tugging Andie up with her. The move coincides with a Clam Cove Resort motor boat speeding past us at an illegal forty knots, sending a sizeable wave rippling towards us. As we rocket over the water, we get some air and the girls stumble as we crash back down.

The blonde is now hatless.

‘Sorry, I only go back for hats if there’s a body attached to them,’ I sing out cheerily.

I half consider channelling my reckless teenage self and making a sharp hairpin turn, but Charlie will kill me if I damage the motor doing a donut to impress a girl. Andie doesn’t look like the sort who’d be impressed by that kind of thing anyway.

At least she’s laughing. The women are doubled over, clutching their sides as their shoulders bounce up and down.

‘I’m sure there’s a gift shop on the island. We’ll get you another,’ Andie gasps between body heaves.

Now is not the time to break it to them that Charlie Farleys only stocks practical fluoro sun visors and not the kind of ridiculous hats that block UV rays and peripheral vision.

‘If you wanted to role-play Overboard, you should have just said,’ I tease. ‘I have a package for that.’

‘Really?’ The blonde is still looking wistfully out at the water as she comes to terms not only with her loss but with the restoration of her line of sight.

‘No, not really, Taylor,’ Andie says, amber eyes glinting cheerfully as she glances at me. ‘He’s obviously joking.’

I may have lost a passenger’s belongings, but Andie’s mournful expression has also been washed away. I’d call that a fair trade.

‘I’m not,’ I protest, enjoying the schtick too much to give it up yet. ‘Try diving off the back of the boat and I’ll return in an hour or so to pick you up. If we’re doing things properly, you’ll have to pretend not to know who I am – or who you are, for that matter.’

My eyes flick to Andie’s face, expecting to find it lit up, but her forehead is lined and she’s looking down at her feet.

‘That’s the whole point of the movie, isn’t it? Fancy heiress Goldie gets amnesia and starts a new life with a humble, blue-collar man?’

‘Mm, yes, I think so,’ Andie mumbles.

‘I’d offer a Titanic package too, if we weren’t in such tropical waters,’ I say, desperate to recover the lightness from moments before, but there’s no time to elaborate or gauge her reaction.

Oh, shit.

My hands grip the wheel tightly as we approach another set of waves. They’re even bigger than before.

‘Ladies, take your seats, we’re in for a hell of a ride here.’ I don’t want to risk actually sending them overboard.

Luckily they follow my directive, and as we momentarily sail through the air, all bums are firmly on seats.

‘Whooooo!’ they cry as a wash of frothy water sprays them.

Once we’re in calmer waters, Andie pulls a towel from her bag and offers it around. She dries her own limbs last, then stands to wipe down the empty benches closest to me.

‘Don’t worry about that. I’ll take care of it once we dock. Permanent wet T-shirt competitions are perks of the job, I’m afraid.’ I grin as I gesture to my shirt, which is now slicked to my chest like a cheap wetsuit. It’s another terry-cloth polo – a staple in vacation suitcases.

‘So that was an intentional move,’ she says, tugging at her own soaked dress. It’s yellow and adorned with tiny pearl buttons. I count twelve. Do the number of buttons on an item of clothing determine whether or not someone is out of your league? I wonder. I don’t own many shirts with buttons.

I can see the outline of her lacy bra.

Shit, eyes on the water, Jack. Not only do you sound like a perv, you’re starting to act like one too.

‘Where are you girls staying?’ I ask, gaze fixed on the river.