Page 9 of That Island Feeling

‘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.