Lovestruck

by Bronwyn Sell

  ‘I had my dress picked out for the wedding.’

  ‘There was never going to be a wedding.’

  ‘She didn’t know that, did she?’

  ‘I didn’t know it either until we split up, but you just stick with your story, seeing as it brings you so much joy.’ He’d only figured out it was finally over when Rachel had blithely announced over breakfast one morning in their rented apartment in Canberra that island life was never going to be her jam after all and they should put a deposit on a house in the suburbs. Put down some roots here. He’d been days away from surprising her with a ring and renovation plans for the old homestead overlooking Juno Beach, which Nan had promised to her first grandchild to marry, along with the funds to restore it to its former glory. The last grandchild to succumb would get their grandfather’s redback-infested fishing shed overlooking the mangroves.

  Lena pointed the tabasco sauce bottle at Harry. ‘You can give the bride your rant about how you think you know someone is right up until the point you don’t.’

  ‘What rant? I don’t rant.’

  Lena drew to her full height, which was higher than most, lowered her voice and raised a thick black eyebrow. ‘I thought we were on the same wavelength but it turned out she was never going to be happy on an island and I wasn’t going to be happy in the city and there’s literally no halfway point between Canberra and the Whitsundays unless you want to live somewhere very dry, which is not so cool when you’re a marine biologist, so it was literally a relationship that was going nowhere.’

  Harry winced. ‘I might have said something like that—though I’d never use “literally” twice in the same sentence, and I can’t even do that with my eyebrows.’

  Nan shushed them. Geoff and Sanjay had walked up the steps from the beach for breakfast and were being seated on the deck. ‘Let’s not burst their bubble. At least not until after their wedding.’

  Lena ground pepper over the Virgin Mary, her attention back on the sand, where the soldiers were doing burpees. ‘I bet they’ll jump straight in the water to cool off. Or maybe we could invite them to use the pool.’

  Harry reached across the bar and pushed the pepper grinder away before the drink became less of a pick-me-up and more of an electric shock. Lena kept grinding, the pepper sprinkling the bar. Nan swiped the grinder from her hands.

  Coming to, Lena shoved a stick of celery in the drink, swished it, and placed the glass on a tray. ‘Order up, Hazza. Take your time delivering it. Comforting a jilted bride is the least you can do after squandering a poor woman’s best years.’

  He pushed off the bar stool. All right, there might be the tiniest stab of guilt there, but his only crime was wasting far too long seeing what he wanted to believe. He would drop off the drink, check for sharp implements, surreptitiously change the bride’s playlist, and get out.

  ‘Don’t spill it,’ Lena snapped as he reached for the tray.

  ‘I know how to carry a drink, Lena.’ They’d all been schooled in hospitality since they were toddlers. Though, come to think of it, this might be easier if he didn’t approach it as a regular staff member would. ‘Leenz, make one for me, too?’

  She gave a knowing smile, though what exactly she was knowing was a mystery. ‘Don’t make her fall in love with you and want to stay here forever.’

  ‘I’ll do my best.’

  ‘And what would be so bad about that?’ Nan asked. ‘She appears to be rich, and she’s beautiful, in her own way, from a certain angle.’

  Harry sighed. He’d lingered too long. ‘She’s a big-shot lawyer who lives in Sydney and has just been dumped.’

  ‘So she’s on the rebound! Perfect timing.’

  ‘Only you would say that, Nan,’ Harry said. ‘I bet you twenty bucks she doesn’t last the fortnight on holiday.’

  Lena wiped the bar and pulled out another highball. ‘I give her a week from today. A week to fall in love with you, declare she’s going to abandon her career and move here to be a gardener, have a panic attack, come to her senses and flee.’

  Nan stopped typing. ‘This has happened before, this falling-in-love-with-Harry thing?’

  ‘It’s what they all want, Nan.’ Lena started on the second drink. ‘They see Harry here saving the world one turtle at a time, and they think they’re in love with him when really they’re in love with the idea of running away to paradise and saving the turtles.’

  ‘First I’ve heard of it,’ Harry said.

  They now had Nan’s full attention, which was a dangerous thing. ‘How often does this happen?’

  ‘There’s a reason we don’t usually let him near the guests,’ Lena said. ‘Cody and Luka? Women just want to have a good time with them and leave with happy holiday memories, and that’s all good with everyone. But biggest brother here? They want to run away with him—with the idea of him. It’s a problem.’

  ‘Is this true?’ Nan said. ‘And if it is, I’m officially switching your job with Cody. I want you tourist-facing in a jumpsuit twenty-four-seven.’

  ‘It’s not true, and I can’t fly a helicopter, and Cody doesn’t wear a jumpsuit.’

  Okay, so it could be a little true, but no way was Harry about to tell Nan that. And it had happened with maybe three women in the last six years. Like with Rachel, the problem was always the same. There was no world in which they both fit and nothing could change that. And long-distance relationships didn’t work, no matter what kind—lovers, friends, fathers and sons. His next relationship would be with a woman who called the Whitsundays home and wanted to keep it that way.

  Like who? Cody had said when Harry had made the mistake of sharing that particular life goal. We know every woman who lives within a hundred-kilometre radius—well, I do, and trust me, there’s no one there for you. You gotta import. So what if it gets messy? Or just go ahead and stay a nun forever. Your call.

  ‘Swap with Luka, then,’ said Nan, ‘when he finishes his master’s. You can be activities and tours manager—teach paddleboarding, play beach volleyball, take kayak tours, be the scuba instructor. Just until you’re gainfully married to someone who will stay this time. Then you can go back to saving the world one whatever at a time.’

  Someone who will stay. That was always the sticking point. ‘Two words, Nan—Eco. Tours. In the meantime, plucking marauding starfish off one reef is enough for me. Speaking of,’ he said, hauling himself up. ‘Bye, Nan. Try not to marry anyone off while I’m gone, especially not me. And try to get some work done today, Leenz, even with the military firepower.’

  Lena added celery to the second glass and arranged it on the tray. ‘I should probably introduce myself at the base. If I’m not back by nightfall, don’t send out a search party.’

  ‘It’s the Australian Navy. Pretty sure they’ll have their security and logistics under control.’

  Nan crossed her arms. ‘Don’t you go enlisting now, my love. It’s a big bad nasty world out there.’

  ‘Good luck coaxing the jilted bride out of her champagne bubble,’ Lena said, as Harry picked up the tray. ‘And remember, it’s the idea of you she’ll fall in love with. It’s not you.’

  Harry headed for reception. ‘No one is falling in love with anyone.’

  Nan called after him. ‘And that’s the blimmin’ problem!’

  Trip Review: Curlew Bay

  Rating:

  Review: Waves too loud. Couldn’t sleep.

  5

  Sophia

  Sophia came to with a start. What was with the knocking? And was someone shouting or was that in her head?

  ‘Mrs … uh … Ms Harrison?’

  Oh yes. Room service. Her liquid breakfast order. She must have dozed off. ‘One sec!’ She rolled out of bed, slipped into the bathrobe and checked her reflection in the en suite mirror. ‘Hell’s bells,’ she whispered. Just looking into her droopy red eyes made them sting and water. Black remnants of last night’s makeup were embedded in the inner corners. She vaguely recalled patching herself up when she’d run ou
t of champagne and forcing herself out to the bar to redeem her welcome-drink vouchers, on principle. She’d paid a fortune for this honeymoon and she would damn well get her money’s worth. Champagne for two, massages for two, picnics in deserted coves for two, cruises for two, helicopter rides out over Heart Reef for two, candlelit dinners on the beach for two, desserts for eight … Everything but love and sex for two.

  She unscrewed her concealer and brought it to her face. After a second’s hesitation, she threw the wand blindly over her shoulder. It gave a satisfying clatter. Screw it. She wasn’t opening the door to the social pages today. Room service wouldn’t give a toss that she looked like a DUI mugshot, and concealer wouldn’t touch the sides.

  So far, Operation Get Your Shit Together, as devised on the flight up from Sydney, wasn’t going to plan. It was meant to be a one-day no-treats-barred pity party followed by a strict regime of yoga and vegetable juices and goal setting. But four days in and she’d barely made it past the daybed on her veranda.

  She slid the glass door open in all her morning glory—and not the fun kind. ‘It’s Ms Wicks,’ she said. ‘Sophia, actually. Mrs Harrison doesn’t and will never exist.’ Except as her former mother-in-law to be, who’d probably already returned her mother-of-the-groom dress and successfully argued for a refund on the grounds that it wasn’t fit for purpose because there was no longer a purpose.

  ‘Ah.’ The guy on the veranda winced—the disturbingly attractive guy on the veranda. ‘Sorry. Your name is on the register as—’

  ‘I know.’ She’d booked the resort in their married names as a joke, though she hadn’t planned to legally take Jeremy’s name. She squinted into the sunlight bouncing off the water, which made her head hurt. The guy wore boardies and an open-necked shirt rather than the usual uniform of turquoise polo shirt and navy shorts. ‘You look familiar.’

  ‘We met last night. I was working the bar.’

  ‘Oh yes, of course.’ She must have been off her face not to remember a guy of this calibre. Broad shoulders, mussed-up hair a shade or two darker than his skin, a strip of dark freckles across his cheekbones and nose. Not that she was interested in a guy of any calibre at the moment, but you could appreciate quality even if you weren’t buying. ‘Did I … uh, behave?’

  ‘I had one of the staff give you a lift back to your room. Not that you did anything wild. You’d just had a little too much.’

  No husband, no pride. She took the glass from his tray. ‘Thank you.’ Her mouth was both watering and bone dry—how did that work? She rubbed the skin between her eyes, not that there was anything to smooth after the wedding Botox. ‘So that’s how I got back. I remember going there …’

  He pulled a tray of pills from a pocket. Paracetamol. Handsome and helpful. ‘Thought you could use some of these, too. If you need something stronger, my mum’s a GP. She’s usually at the spa.’

  Her temples pounded, as if the veins were about to pop through her skin like tentacles and suck up the medicine of their own volition. Painkillers hadn’t been on her packing list. But then, her packing list had covered a whole different set of circumstances. She took the pills. ‘Thanks,’ she said. After a pause, she added, ‘I’m not usually like this.’

  ‘Like what?’ He cracked a smile. A cute smile, with deep dimples either side. She pictured the discarded concealer, her curated travel wardrobe of flippant summer dresses on their hangers, the curling wand still in her suitcase.

  Like it wasn’t obvious. ‘Like any of it.’ Hungover. Pathetic. Snarky. Unhygienic.

  Somewhere along the beach, the cackle of resident kookaburras lost it—the laugh track to the tragicomedy that was her honeymoon. She nodded at the second drink. ‘Someone else is ordering one? Big Sunday night. Monday night? I have no idea what day it is.’

  ‘As it should be. And this one’s for me.’ He lowered the tray onto the little outdoor table, pulled out a chair for her—and sat on the other one.

  She scrutinised him for a few seconds, which wasn’t a hardship. ‘Does room service usually come with company?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t work at the resort.’

  ‘But you were working the bar last night and, well She gestured at the drinks. ‘Here you are.’

  ‘Favour for my cousin. She’s organising a family wedding, and, hey, the job descriptions up here are blurry.’ He took a sip. ‘It’s good stuff,’ he mumbled, ‘you should get some into you.’

  She sat. Her mouth was dribbling at the corners, and it wasn’t like she had anything more pressing to do. Granted, she did have two tickets for a snorkelling trip that she had no intention of redeeming. Drinking double the martinis and having double the massages was one thing but snorkelling alone? She shivered, earning a concerned side-eye. Oh, why couldn’t she have washed her face and put on a bra, as she’d done by this hour on every other day of her adult life? How ironic that she was in her best shape ever—wedding fit and preened and highlighted and plucked and waxed and dewrinkled—and here she sat in actual paradise, at her lowest point. All the little voices she’d thought maturity and love and confidence had silenced were back and making up for lost time. Maybe if you were less fussy. (Mum.) Maybe if you were less opinionated. (Granddad.) Maybe if you were shorter. (Her uni boyfriend.) Maybe if your inner thighs didn’t touch. (That one was all her own.)

  ‘Your cousin,’ she repeated, forcing herself to catch up. ‘You’re part of the family that owns the island?’

  He reached across with his glass. ‘Harry Tova,’ he said. She hurriedly picked hers up and clinked. Not the toasting she’d had in mind for the current fortnight, but she’d take it.

  ‘Not that I’m stalking,’ she added. ‘I’ve had plenty of time to read the information folder in my room. I’ve had plenty of time for a whole lot of things I didn’t plan to have plenty of time for on this honeym—this holiday.’

  ‘I’m sorry about your wedding.’

  Rocks ground in her stomach—the rocks that had landed there with a triple thud when Jeremy had taken her aside after the entrée at the rehearsal dinner (a choice between roasted Tasmanian octopus bruschetta and Adelaide Hills porcini with polenta) and said he needed space to think and didn’t want to wait until the last minute to tell her. ‘How much do you know?’

  ‘Only enough to get why you’d want to shut yourself away.’

  He looked out at the beach. The sun had come up over the hill behind them, lighting the sand blond and the water turquoise. The best snorkelling spot on the island was right in front of her villa, apparently, where a reef blossomed out around the point. At the other end of the bay, around the jetty, the water was deeper and sandier.

  She knew a lot about the island in theory, from studying the resort website and reading every review and article on the internet before she’d booked, and flicking through the information folder in her room. Twenty beachside villas dotted around the northern arc of the crescent beach, each angled for privacy and views, with hers the most secluded (perfect for honeymooners). Behind the villas, thirty hotel-style apartments were tucked into the bush-clad hillside in two terraced rows. At the western end of the beach, near the jetty, sat the big glass-walled restaurant, lounge and bar—the ‘pavilion’, we call it.

  From there, you could (theoretically) stroll out onto the partially covered deck to the magnesium infinity pool (great for the skin and hair!) or take the steps down to the beach, or hang a right and visit the spa and wellness villa, tucked to one side. There was every non-motorised water sport you could name, an embarrassment of idyllic bays—some reachable only by boat (bliss for romantics!)—walking and cycling trails through regenerating native bush …

  Yep, all here as promised—only, she didn’t feel like she was here, in body or mind. She’d ordered room service for all her meals because who ate alone in a restaurant at a tropical resort? The few times she’d ventured out, she’d felt curious eyes on her and braced for bad meaty puns—No playing hide-the-sausage on that honeymoon!—even though logic slapped her a
round the ears: No one’s talking about you, and anyway, aren’t you supposed to have stopped caring about what other people think?

  ‘It’s nice out of doors, too,’ Harry said. She started, like he’d shaken her awake. Normally, she excelled at polite conversation. ‘There are great spots to be alone around here, if that’s what you want. Take a tinny around to one of the other bays, if you like. Or someone can drop you off. You’re paying a lot to basically sit in a hotel room.’

  ‘Honeymooners are supposed to stay indoors, aren’t they?’

  ‘I wouldn’t know.’

  Automatically, she looked at his left hand. No ring. ‘I’ve dreamed of coming here for years. I finally took some time off work and I wasn’t going to waste it, even if there wasn’t going to be a …’ Nope, she wasn’t ready to say it aloud. Her two sisters had rung up and cancelled all the wedding bookings because she couldn’t face it—and that was a lot of calls.

  ‘There are worse places to be broken-hearted,’ he said. Sympathy. Ugh. ‘But you are wasting it, shutting yourself away.’

  ‘Best for everyone if I’m alone right now.’

  ‘The snorkelling trip today must be on your itinerary? It’s usually is for …’ His eyes narrowed. They were kind eyes—deep brown and soft in the corners. Eyes to lose your cares in.

  ‘For honeymooners,’ she finished. ‘It’s all right, you can say the H-word. The W-word, the B-word, the G-word. Just not the S-word.’

  His gaze flicked around the sky as he silently worked through her code, letter by letter, then he frowned. ‘The S-word?’

  ‘Snorkelling,’ she clarified. ‘I’m not going snorkelling.’

  ‘It’s incredible out there, especially on a day like today. Sunny but not uncomfortably hot. Good for the soul.’

  ‘It’ll also be couple city, and that’s not good for the soul when you’re on the outside looking in, not after the week or two I’ve had.’

  ‘It shouldn’t be just couples. We’re hosting a wedding this weekend and a lot of the guests have come early—a bunch of them will be going out.’