Page 43 of That Island Feeling

With an authoritative click, she snaps the compact shut and places her make-up down on a sideboard, one of the room’s only remaining pieces of furniture. Then she turns and starts dragging a velvet settee with bowlegs into the middle of the space.

‘Can I help?’ I ask, feeling uncomfortable watching her move the heavy furniture on her own. She might rip that beautiful dress.

‘Nope, I have it sorted,’ she replies briskly. Right, I had momentarily forgotten that when I met her, she was up a lemon tree. ‘Although –’ she continues.

‘Yes?’ I ask eagerly.

‘Maybe you can help set up my tripod?’ She points to a contraption leaning against the wall in the corner of the room.

I follow her instructions, setting it up to face the settee and slotting the phone she hands me into the mount.

‘I wish I had one of those cameras that captures high-quality video,’ she says, taking a seat on the settee. ‘But this will have to do.’

Her comment stirs memories of my professional camera gear I sold on Facebook Marketplace when I dropped out of my master’s degree. It was a shame to part with it, but it would only have gathered dust. Even with Mum’s guidance, I didn’t have the ten thousand hours it takes to become an expert in anything, other than constant worry about my family.

‘Since you’re here, dear, would you mind hanging around for a bit to press record, and check that I don’t look like the arse-end of a donkey?’

I laugh. ‘Of course. I’d be happy to.’ The girls won’t miss me – they’re probably still napping. ‘Is this for your documentary?’

‘Yes.’ Hazel dabs at her face with an embroidered handkerchief. ‘How is it looking?’

I bring my eyes to the screen. Hazel has positioned the settee directly in front of the stained-glass door leading out to the porch, so light pours in behind her, darkening the frame.

‘Actually, can I make a quick adjustment?’

‘Here I was, thinking all my problems could be solved with a single haircut,’ Hazel huffs.

‘It’s definitely not you,’ I chuckle. ‘But I’m going to move you back against the other wall, so we have that natural light to highlight your lovely face.’

We rearrange the room, and I readjust the tripod to a forty-five-degree angle, ensuring the right amount of shadow falls on one side of Hazel’s face. I then switch off the overhead light and switch on the corner lamp instead, recalling some of the tricks we learned in our studio-based subject.

‘I’ve given you a bit of a cinematic touch,’ I tell her proudly.

‘Well, the right girl certainly wandered into my house now, didn’t she?’

I beam, thoroughly enjoying myself. ‘Shall I call action?’

‘Let’s do it!’

‘Action!’ I yell, while pressing the record button. Immediately, Hazel launches into a detailed explanation of the different birds inhabiting Pearl Island, delving into the minutiae of the community bird-spotting noticeboard and precisely how it’s run. Before long, I find my eyes glazing over.

‘Am I too shiny?’ Hazel stops to ask, dabbing at her face again.

‘No, you look great!’ I reassure her quickly.

‘So what’s this face about then? Is there something else you’d prefer to hear?’

‘Oh, not at all –’ I start, but she interrupts me.

‘Be honest, Andie-girl! I want this documentary to be the very best it can be.’

I consider Hazel’s question for a moment. ‘Okay, well, I’d love to hear some of your island stories. Maybe you can start with how you and Billy met?’ I suggest tentatively, not wanting to take over what she had planned.

‘Oh no, I don’t want to talk about that sort of thing. This documentary is supposed to be a tribute to the island, not my life. I’m not going anywhere just yet.’

‘You’d be surprised how much human stories can help colour factual content. People respond to things they can’t read in history books,’ I say, recalling the words of an old university lecturer. Or perhaps they were Mum’s? I wish I could remember clearly.

Her mouth downturns slightly, still appearing hesitant. So I’m surprised in the next moment when she agrees.

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