Page 110 of That Island Feeling

She really is. Pearl Island may not have been crowned Holibob’s best island, but they ended up doing a brilliant write-up: ‘The Magical Island Ostreaphiles Forgot’.

Sure, they took some creative liberties, but the double-page spread worked like magic, drawing hordes of tourists – even if they were pity tourists – to the island. It’s been a fortnight since the article was published, and there’s no sign of things slowing down yet.

‘By the way, I sold one of your jewellery dishes earlier. She definitely wanted to keep your heart in it,’ he chuckles, and I glance at the shelves where the BESTSELLERS sign has been replaced with one that reads: MADE BY THE HOT OYSTER GUY.

The Holibob piece turning me into some kind of holiday heartthrob had not been on my bowlo club bingo card. The journalist had a field day peppering the story with plenty of unsubtle hints about aphrodisiacs, alongside a clip from the documentary – old footage of me shucking oysters. Footage that has now somehow gone viral in a completely different way to our oysters.

‘Thanks, mate,’ I say. ‘I’m so glad you’ve been able to profit off my body.’

‘She left a message for you.’ Charlie pulls a Post-it from the top of the register, mimes pushing glasses up his nose and clears his throat. ‘It says, “Shuck me?”,’ he reads. ‘And look, here’s her phone number too.’

‘Amazing,’ I say, rolling my eyes, taking the Post-it and promptly crumpling it into a tiny ball. I take a sip of my cappuccino.

‘Has that cheered you up any?’

‘I don’t need cheering up,’ I insist.

Charlie snorts. ‘Mate, pull the other one. You’ve been moping around here since she left.’

‘Since who left?’ I ask, though I know Charlie can see right through my act.

Honestly, I’ve been so busy, it’s almost been easy to stop my mind from wandering and thinking about how she’s doing.

Keith left to go back up north, and I’ve settled into a happy routine with Mum – a dawn swim, followed by bread-making. Initially she wasn’t too keen on her new parasite flatmate, but it didn’t take long for her to become accustomed to scrambled eggs served on fresh sourdough. Even Izzie has adapted to our new lifestyle, content basking on the verandah of our temporary residence.

Then it’s on to the activities of the day – cleaning, or managing check-ins and check-outs at Moorings and at Keith’s place. It’s been a revolving door – I’ve never seen it this busy. Taylor and Mitch relocated to Keith’s for a week after their stay at Clam Cove, seemingly completely loved-up on check-out. Once I’d heard that Andie’s dad had been found safe and well, I refrained from pressing Taylor for further details. I’m also still helping Charlie out with the river boat so he can spend time with his new baby boy, Rocky, and I’ve been pulling a few shifts here during the morning rush hour. With all these responsibilities, I haven’t had a moment to worry about my future. Clara keeps pestering me to visit, and Tom reckons there’s a job at The Oyster House’s farm if I want it, but I’ve been avoiding both.

‘Alright. I’m about to head out,’ Charlie announces as he starts gathering his things. ‘Don’t forget to check orders on the app, too.’

I bite my tongue, since I’m the one who set up said app. Instead, I flash him a double thumbs-up. ‘Got it!’ I say cheerily, hopping off my bar stool and slinking around to the other side of the counter.

‘Thanks again for lending me Clara’s picnic set. Lena’s going to love what I have planned. This old sea dog has some tricks left in him yet!’

‘You’re welcome. I popped a fresh loaf in the basket for you too.’

‘Gah, you’re too much, mate. The whole internet has fallen in love with you, and they don’t even know the half of it.’

Bleep!

I’ve been run off my feet all afternoon, with no time to eat lunch other than a quick fistful of hot chips. I’m about to flip the sign to ‘Closed’ and start balancing the till when a final order comes in: two caps and two bacon-and-egg baps.

6 p.m. coffees? That’s brave – obviously mainlanders.

I get to work preparing the food, then make the coffees. When they’re done I set the order on the counter, ready for pick-up, and begin mopping the floor.

Ten minutes later the floor looks spotless, and the final order is still sitting there, untouched.

Seriously, when did pick-up turn into delivery? I think as I grab the greasy paper package and hot drinks and push open the shop door.

A small crowd is clustered along the riverbank, facing the water. What’s everyone looking at? I can’t handle Alec and his jet-ski antics today. Then I catch a glimpse of Brad’s ice-cream boat bobbing near the shore. Ah, my customers must have been distracted by dessert on the way.

‘Caps! Baps!’ I shout, perhaps louder than necessary. Thank goodness Charlie isn’t here to witness this. He’s all about ‘customer service’ now.

I walk towards where everyone is gathered, and that’s when I see her – perched on Clara’s peach picnic rug, a few metres from the throng of people.

Her poodle hair is wild with humidity, and she’s wearing the same adorable check dress from our first encounter at Charlie Farleys, just a few metres from where we are right now.

‘Hey, Cap,’ she says, grinning up at me like we’re mid-conversation, dripping wet on the lily pad, and it hasn’t been exactly five hundred and sixteen hours since I last laid eyes on her.

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