Page 86 of That Island Feeling

‘I was trying to impress you the other day by shucking oysters on the beach when, truthfully, pearl oysters pop open with a butter knife. This is more serious business,’ he says as he rolls up his sleeve.

Oh.

He slips the glove on his left hand and plucks one of the rock oysters from the pile, cradling it as he pulls a chopping board from another drawer. I watch as he cracks the end of the shell slightly to create a small opening, then inserts the tip of the knife and rocks it back and forth, just as he did at Pearl Cove, but with much more force.

If he was trying to impress me before, what the hell is he doing now? Heat rushes between my legs.

‘I’m cutting the adductor muscle,’ he says, eyes flicking up to me as he slides the knife along the shell. It breaks into two clean halves.

‘She’s a beauty.’ He whistles, looking down at the creamy insides. ‘Ready to taste?’ He plucks the oyster from the chopping board and guides the shell towards my mouth.

‘Wait. Does it need to be washed?’ I ask, retracting my head. It’s so strange to go from hearing nothing but how you can’t eat the oysters, to eating them now.

‘No way!’ Jack exclaims, like I’ve personally offended him. ‘Unrinsed is the only way to eat them. You need to get the full briny flavours.’

He lifts the oyster to my mouth and my tastebuds zing at the fresh, salty smell.

Fuck. This is sexy.

We’re alone in the kitchen of a fancy restaurant, who knows where – somewhere completely remote that only seems reachable by boat or sea plane – eating aphrodisiacs foraged from the landscape. I’m ridiculously turned on.

I tilt my head back as he brings the oyster to my lips and the mollusc slides into my mouth. I bite into the flesh, a burst of ocean and minerally creaminess dancing across my tongue. I savour the flavours before swallowing, and Jack leans in to seal it with a kiss.

‘What did you think?’ he asks.

‘Mm,’ I moan, the taste of oyster and Jack mingling together.

‘That good, hey?’ he chuckles, eyes sparkling. Jack reaches for another oyster. ‘I’m going to finish shucking these quickly so we can get to enjoying them. Why don’t you head into the dining room and pick somewhere for us to sit?’

Reluctantly leaving him to it in the kitchen, I opt for the sweetheart table nearest to the window. Darkness has settled outside; the window offers glimpses of the glistening river illuminated by the moonlight and the twinkle of lights from boats in the distance. I switch on the lamp and locate some matches to light the tapered candles in the middle of the table. I’m admiring my handiwork when Jack emerges, holding a platter piled high with shucked oysters. He makes a few trips back and forth from the kitchen, setting various dishes of condiments on the table, before returning for a final time carrying a bottle of sparkling wine.

‘Is there anything better than oysters and wine?’ he asks, popping the cork and pouring the fizz into a pair of flutes.

‘Nothing,’ I murmur, a magical thrill rippling through me. This might be the most romantic moment of my life. In fact, I know it is.

Jack remains standing as we clink glasses, then sweeps a linen napkin across my lap before taking a seat and arranging his own napkin over his smart khaki shorts, a surprising departure from his usual boardies.

‘Now, pick your poison. I have pink finger lime pearls, a coriander and sweet chilli mignonette, umami mayonnaise, black garlic and saltbush . . .’ He trails off as he gestures to the tiny dishes in front of us.

‘What’s your recommendation, Cap?’ I purr, and take a swill of wine.

‘Well, I think they’re best served naked. Maybe with a squeeze of lemon – but that’s it,’ he says, flashing eyes meeting mine with wicked subtext: he wants to put his lips on me.

‘I might have some of the mayonnaise,’ I say. Why is he playing with fire? He’s already made it clear that Tom won’t be impressed if we break anything in here.

‘Suit yourself. These oysters would have taken three years to grow. I like to take a second to think about the effort behind their creation. From their crucial role as filter feeders in the river, to the meticulous care of the farmers who handle them at least sixteen times before they end up on our plate. Eating an oyster is about as quick and easy as it gets – a massive contrast to what it takes to grow them.’

‘Gosh, I’ve never thought about that before,’ I admit, wondering how it escaped me given Dad’s background as a marine biologist.

‘Don’t worry, most people don’t.’

‘You’re super knowledgeable about this stuff.’

‘Well, growing up on Pearl, you learn a thing or two about oysters,’ he replies, leaving me curious for more. But there’s something in his tone that suggests he’s not keen on elaborating. ‘You can pop your empties here,’ he says, nudging a plate towards me.

‘Taking them home for art supplies?’ I ask.

‘Nah. I only use pearl shells. I’ll pour this lot into some of the island potholes. After a few wheelbarrows bump over them, they’ll be crushed into limestone.’

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