Page 15 of That Island Feeling

Whichever clueless male started the rumour buried deep in a Reddit thread that the larger the fish, the bigger and more impressive women would assume their cock is, should be arrested.

‘Maybe you can get a new pic too, Ands?’

Taylor’s flippant question hits me square in the gut. She knows I’ve sworn off dating for the foreseeable future. Believing that anyone would want to endure the dreary doldrums of my day-to-day existence is like believing in Santa Claus. I’ve come to terms with the fact that my life right now is light on joy, and that the only person I can truly count on is myself.

‘Right!’ I say brightly, brushing off her question and pushing back my chair. ‘Who’s up for the first shower?’ I glance around at the girls.

Richie pulls a face. ‘Can you ladies try to lay off the toiletries a bit? Your tampons and shit have taken over the vanity.’

‘It’s like we want to lose you guys in ten minutes,’ I mutter through gritted teeth. Grace almost chokes on her laughter.

‘I’m going to check in with Rob and speak to the twins, so I’m happy to go last,’ Lizzie offers.

‘I’ll head up now then,’ I declare, moving towards the stairs. I push past Richie, who’s blocking the doorway. ‘Let’s hope none of my hair ends up in the shower drain,’ I say, my tone saccharine.

After what feels like hours standing on the beach with not a single bite to be had, we finally call it quits. It was evident from the moment Richie cast his borrowed fishing line into the reeds in the shallows that he had no idea what he was doing.

At 1 p.m. we return to Moorings empty-handed. The boys take quick showers, and disappointingly, no one mentions the clogged drain or the toiletries I’ve ensured have multiplied. They then head out for some makeshift axe-throwing activity. Fortunately, I don’t have to talk Taylor out of wanting to participate; her preference for keeping all of her fingers and toes intact does the trick.

We’re all hungry after our light brunch so Lizzie tries to spark the barbecue, declaring that she’s accompanied Rob on so many Bunnings trips that she’s absorbed how to ‘(wo) man the grill’ by osmosis. It’s not long before Grace takes over, countering that ‘lesbians know how to do everything – including barbecue – best’. But it fails to get hot enough to give the halloumi even a slight char. I’m relieved the boys aren’t here to gloat.

We end up grazing on a trio of dips and a platter of cheese and crackers instead. With no substantial food lining our bellies I’m grateful no one suggests opening a bottle of something. We’re still recovering from last night.

We don’t make it back outside, instead preferring to lie on the lounge on our phones with the air conditioning blasting. Our mysterious host, Clara, is paying the electricity bill after all.

It’s a group effort to clean up Taylor’s Instagram profile. We scroll back to 2015 and archive all the pictures of Mitch, then update her bio to Collecting experiences, not things – we all agree that it’s the perfect blend of whimsy and intrigue to let Mitch know she’s moved on, but with none of the details.

Around 3 p.m., Taylor confirms she still wants to eat at the bowling club as planned, so I slip upstairs, away from the endless stream of noisy TikToks, to call them for a reservation. There’s been no sign of the bucks’ group, but apparently Ben has contacted Taylor to let her know they’ll meet us at the club.

A minefield of balled-up damp towels greet me on the hallway floor – oh, this really is war!

I kick the one lurking outside my bedroom door out of the way, my heartbeat quickening as memories flood back. My ex-boyfriend, Luke, used to constantly toss his wet towel next to the laundry basket instead of in it. It felt like I was always picking up after him at home, and then after a teenage Toby at my parents’ house, as well as helping Mum with Dad.

The phone keeps ringing out. Island time is obviously a real thing.

I’m about to give up when a gruff-sounding man answers.

‘Booking?’ he repeats. ‘You won’t be needing one of those.’

I was expecting the island to be busier – although we haven’t ventured very far yet so the crowds could be hiding at some locals’ gem.

I book a table anyway – just for us girls – for 7 p.m., and ask if they have gluten-free options. I take the throaty grunt as an affirmative response. I’m half tempted to enquire if Richie has a booking and cancel it but figure they wouldn’t be that organised. Besides, I should keep it civil-ish if we still need to live together for the forseeable future.

I’ve barely ended the call when my phone lights up with a message.

I hear you lot are booked into the bowlo tonight?

I grin. There’s only one person that could be. Sure enough, above the message is a photo I received earlier of a fuzzy-looking parrot. It’s so low-quality, I didn’t even bother saving it to my phone.

And how did you hear that? I reply.

It’s a small island. Word travels fast.

Oh yes, you have those carrier parrots, don’t you?

I wanted to check that you have appropriate footwear.

I glance down at my sandal-clad feet. Surely an island bowling club, where answering the phone is optional, doesn’t have a strict dress code.

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