Protect me? Like a hero would in a romance novel. I can protect myself, but it’s nice to know if there was a shark, the offer is there. Is Xavier a romantic at heart? Or are these just apology gifts? Hard to tell.
30
I hit publish on the very first post for the Barefoot Bookshop social media pages.
Meet Turt Vonnegut!
This eighty-six-year-old Aldabra giant Tortoise has lived an interesting life if the tales are true…
It’s been hard to separate fact from fiction when it comes to Turt, so we’re going to share some of the colourful backstories about him over the course of the next little while…
A few years ago, Turt’s health was on the decline so it was decided that after treatment he’d be taken to the Aldabra atoll – where the Aldabra tortoises live and thrive with few natural threats. There are over one hundred and fifty thousand tortoises in the atoll, so they figured Turt would enjoy his twilight years with his own kind. But what they didn’t factor in was Turt’s friendship with a man named Gus. When Turt meandered back into the Barefoot Bookshop a few months later, no one could believe their eyes. His tag was checked and it was indeed Turt. But how? Aldabra giant tortoises can’t swim those distances. We’ll never know how Turt made his way back to his buddy Gus but we do know that nothing is impossible when you’ve got love in your heart…
Recollection shared by Xavier Bastille
Click the link in our bio to read about tortoise conservation on the islands of Seychelles, or better yet, come and visit the Barefoot Bookshop and we’ll help you arrange a tour.
31
By the following week, I’m almost back to regular programming and can walk on legs that no longer feel boneless. I’m not sure if that was caused by my faulty sea legs, or the Xavier effect. Since the boat ride I’ve fallen into these heady imaginings of his strong arms around me, the way he stared into my eyes like he had all the answers, or would at least protect me from black-tipped reef sharks.
On reflection, how exactly would he have done that if the boat did capsize? Switch out my leg for his from the shark’s jaws? Perhaps, like my experience with most men, I shouldn’t take Xavier at face value. Or at least, keep my boundaries in place and possibly be a little more honest about the ocean and the fact it’s a no-go zone for me unless it’s from the comfort of the shore.
I’m locking up the bookshop, and I see Xavier and his mum, heads bent as they power-walk along the beach towards the Cabana Bar, looking like they’re discussing something serious. Their faces are pinched, and Mrs Bastille shakes her head as if she doesn’t agree with whatever he’s saying. I watch them for a beat when Mariola appears. She shakes a bottle of wine that has rivers of condensation running down it from the humidity. ‘Can I pick up my book order?’
‘Sure.’ I unlock the door and dart in and grab her copy of the latest instalment of a romantasy series that’s sold bazillions and is likely getting a movie adaptation too. ‘I can’t wait to hear what you think of this one!’
I pass the book over. We chat back and forth about it, including the fact that book one ended on a cliffhanger. I don’t have the heart to tell Mariola every book in the series does, including book four, when currently the author hasn’t even begun writing book five yet. The sweet pain of bookworm problems.
‘Ready?’ I say, desperate to get out of the unrelenting sun.
‘Ready!The White Lotusseason two here we come!’
I’ve created a monster in the best way possible. Mariola takes our viewing parties seriously, as if The White Lotus Resort is a real place, and we’re watching it to compare resorts and take notes. Understandably, she was rather scandalised by the ending of season one but weren’t we all? It’s put the Last Chance Resort and its troubles into perspective for her. The renovations, the underbelly of secrets and even the power-walking, finger-clicking CEO with moody broody eyes doesn’t seem like such a big deal any more. To me or Mariola. It’s been a riot comparing the two resorts, and while The White Lotus may have had the Hollywood treatment, a lot of the petty staff squabbles and disputes are surprisingly accurate and ring true for what I’ve experienced here so far, but on a much more PG-rated scale.
Now we’re onto season two and I’m enjoying hanging out and watching Mariola’s eyes bulge as characters get themselves into all sorts of mostly avoidable bother. Some parts do also hold up a mirror to my own foibles, namely me jumping into other people’s skirmishes and coming out the other side a little worse for wear. Maybe that’s just the way I am, my cross to bear, if you will. And it’s not as if we’re talking life and death like in the movies.
‘Your suite?’ I ask. ‘Or Joji’s?’ We go between the two because Joji dips in and out depending on his mood and his fickle nature, where he’ll ditch us without a second thought if he gets a better offer, usually in the shape of a frisky guest. How the guy hasn’t been fired is beyond me. I’d hazard a guess it’s his boy-next-door charm and oodles of charisma that he turns on to get himself out of jams. That and Xavier doesn’t ever seem to hear about Joji’s shenanigans, due to said charm…
‘Joji’s. He’s got the snacks sorted.’
‘Cool.’
We ride bikes through the resort. I’m going to have legs of steel if this keeps up. But it’s much quicker to have the bicycle on hand than call for the golf cart and wait, or worse, risk Mariola’s erratic driving.
We wave to the expats as we go past the Cabana Bar. The three Lucys are playing Jenga around a table with Brian, who wears a look of extreme concentration as if there’s some money on the game – which, knowing them as I do now, is probably the case. Mrs Bastille has made her way there too, Xavier is nowhere in sight. She nurses a glass of wine and stares vacantly out at the ocean. Doris sits beside her, a supportive hand on her back.
‘What’s that about?’ I ask Mariola, motioning with my head to the duo.
Mariola grimaces at the sight of a forlorn Mrs Bastille. ‘Xavier’s pushing ahead with the idea of renovating the Cabana Bar, after the summer high season is finished. It makes sense to renovate during the wet season but it’s the one spot she didn’t want touched.’
I frown. ‘So why can’t he respect her wishes?’
‘It’s complicated.’
‘It bloody well isn’t. It’s one little bar, and yes, it’s a touch shabby compared to the rest of the resort, but they could give it a spruce up, replace the thatched roofing, give the wood panelling a lick of paint. It’s not like it’s an eyesore, it’s a tiki bar! It just needs a bit of TLC.’
A range of expressions flit across Mariola’s face as she struggles with confiding in me, just like always. ‘It’s not that simple.’
