Page 8 of That Island Feeling

‘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: CHARLIE FARLEYS.

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.’