I tilt my head. ‘He swam back?’
‘No, Aldabra tortoises can’t swim that far and he’d have been at risk of predators in the open ocean.’
‘So how? Oh, this is another Aldabra tortoise?’ Turt 2.0? I’m no expert on the species, but surely they all look the same in that wizened way like Turt?
Xavier grins. ‘No, it’s Turt, no two ways about it. He was tagged by the conservationists many moons ago, so we checked the tag and it was confirmed that it was indeed Turt Vonnegut. It’s a mystery that we’ll never solve. It was decided to leave him to his twilight years with his old pal and, like Gus suspected it would, Turt’s health soon improved.’
My heart expands at the thought of Turt mysteriously making his trek back to get close to Gus again and then breaks, knowing they’re now separated. ‘Will Gus still be able to visit Turt? Does he live close by?’
At that Xavier casts his gaze away. ‘He’s off the island at the moment, but I’m sure he’ll visit Turt when he returns.’
What if something happens to Turt while Gus is away? My chest squeezes with worry. ‘Do I need to do any special care for Turt?’
He shakes his head. ‘The conservation team monitor Turt and the care team do the rest. You should consider taking one of our boat tours around the island to learn about the marine life and conservation programmes though. It’s a fun tour and you can see some other tortoises and where they call home.’
‘I’d love that. But doesn’t it kill you not to know how Turt got back though? Did someone tortoise-nap him and return him to Gus? Did he get a tortoise mate to help him with directions? Did he hitch a ride on a surfboard? Like, how? I need answers!’
He laughs. ‘We’ll never know! It’s the magic of the island.’
‘What magic?’
He lifts a shoulder. ‘At the risk of sounding woo-woo, it’s believed that the island has the ability to heal whatever ails a person, in one way or another. All you need is… hope.Esperé.’
Ah, Hope Island. ‘Do you believe that?’
‘Of course not. It’s exaggerated talk around the Cabana Bar after too many half-price cocktails.’
‘I don’t believe you. You do think the island is magical but you’re worried I’ll label you as a tree-hugging hippy or something if you admit it.’ Or maybe he’s the opposite? I so badly want to ask him about the parcel of rainforest up for sale and what his part in it is but don’t want to get Michel in trouble for eavesdropping. It wouldn’t take a genius to figure out where the rumour started. No, it’s best to bide my time and see what other intel I pick up.
‘OK, I’ll confess, there are times, very rare times, when I stop and wonder if the island does have some strange power over us mere mortals. But it’s not literal magic, more that when you pause and take stock of where we live, paradise, that you realise all those worries that plague us are best left for another day. There’s sun to soak up, an ocean to swim in, coral reefs to explore… We’re living on island time, so why rush?’
‘What do you mean by island time?’
He quirks a brow. ‘It’s where you forget about rigid schedules and stop looking at the clock. Living at an unhurried pace. You’ll get there when you get there. A laid-back way of being.’
‘You? Laid-back?’
He flashes his teeth. ‘Sure, I can do island time. Strictly on Sundays.’
‘Ha!’
Island time, easing through each day as it comes, not rushing to and fro…
‘When I return to Esperé, it takes me a while to sink back into the rhythm of island time. The outside world is so fast, full of the hustle and bustle. In the real world, people are commuting back and forth, and are stuck in artificially lit offices; it’s a different energy entirely. If you hurried here in the humidity, the way they do in, say, London, you’d expire in the heat. I’ve always wanted to know why Brits run up the escalators the way they do. What’s the hurry when they literally move for you?’
I laugh. ‘It’s crazy, right? It’s an etiquette thing to keep the line moving. London is so fast-paced and hectic.’ I picture my old life, running to catch the Tube, running up the escalator to get back to ground level, the beeps, shrieks and cacophony of street traffic. Here, the only traffic noise is when Mariola runs the golf cart into something. It’s so wildly different that for a moment I feel a pang for my old life, but also a deep appreciation that I get to experience island time as a local. Is this why I’ve begun to relax into this life so easily? My own rhythms have changed. No longer do I have a phone glued to my hand, my mind spinning with content creation ideas, worrying about the stats of my Bookstagram page. The days are simpler here. Unhurried. And with that simplicity comes a relaxation right down to the soul. That’s why people come to Esperé and never want to leave.
We spend the next hour discussing marketing ideas. Continuing the pop-up bookshop by the lagoon. Hosting local author talks. Cocktails and canapes events including curating a book list for guests. A sundowner reading club. Display tables around the resort with a different theme each week.
Xavier nods at each idea. ‘Perfect, the only issue is you’ll be spreading yourself too thin and doing too many hours, if you add evening events.’
‘I don’t mind.’ Honestly, I don’t. Chatting about books is my thing and so far holidaymakers have been relaxed and happy to the point it doesn’t really feel like work.
‘You say that and then next minute I’ll have a demand letter for overdue overtime. No, it’s best if we look at someone to cover for you during the day, if you’re working an evening or on your day off.’
‘Who?’
‘That’s the issue. We’re tightening our belts, not expanding them…’ He gazes off into the distance, lost in thought. ‘Though actually, I suppose I could bring my laptop and work from here. How hard can it be, helping a few bookworms find a book?’
