‘Here.’
She looked up to see Trip holding out a leather sketchbook and pencil.
‘You’re looking for your sketchbook, right? Because I saw this in the stationery shop and got it for you. I meant to give it to you at the bookshop,’ he said. ‘In case you did want to have a go at drawing Fox Bay.’
‘Oh.’ Ivy felt herself going pink. ‘That’s really … thoughtful of you. Thanks.’
Trip turned back to look out at the sea.
Her cheeks still hot, Ivy opened the sketchbook. Her pencil moved almost instinctively, capturing Brooke’s windswept profile and excited gaze, her pointing finger, Trip’s eyes crinkled in laughter, the glistening water and the shimmer of movement beneath it.
She flipped the page and drew their feet in the bottom of the boat, her battered, paint-spattered DM boots, Kate’s trainers, Trip’s brown leather Chelsea boots and Brooke’s expensive-looking hiking shoes. When she turned the sketchbook page again, this time she focused on Trip and Brooke, heads close together as they looked out at the seals clustered on the rocks, talking quietly.
She hadn’t drawn like this in weeks, with the same ease and fluidity. Maybe longer. She leaned closer as she drew, trying to capture the siblings – and caught snatches of their conversation.
‘Another place Gran would have loved,’ Brooke was saying quietly.
‘Yeah,’ Trip said, voice barely audible above the gentle lapping sound of the water. ‘She really would. She wanted to see seals one last time, didn’t she? I had that trip planned to La Jolla, but …’
Ivy paused, pencil mid-line, struck by the expression on his face as she caught him in profile. The unexpected sadness. She couldn’t resist drawing it. The frown between Trip’s eyes, the way his mouth was set in a tight line, the way his hair fell over his forehead. She glanced away and slipped the sketchbook back in her coat, feeling like she had just seen and captured something she shouldn’t have. The boat bobbed quietly for a moment.
‘I need to get back,’ Kate called over at last. ‘My first tour’s about to start.’ She cricked her neck. ‘Ugh, I’ve managed to pull a muscle,’ she said. ‘Today’s going to be fun.’
‘I can get us back,’ said Trip. ‘If you want a break.’
‘Really?’ said Kate gratefully. ‘I wouldn’t mind. If you’re up to it.’
‘Sure thing,’ he said. ‘I’ve been around boats since I was little.’
‘You sail?’ said Ivy, rolling her eyes. ‘Sailing, theatre camp. Did you really have the perfect All-American childhood?’
‘Um,’ said Trip, avoiding her eye as he swapped places with Kate. ‘Sort of.’
They began to sail back, Trip handling the boat with ease.‘You know what you’re doing,’ said Kate, impressed. ‘Can you take over the rest of the tours today?’
Brooke snorted. ‘Don’t ask him, because he will.’
Trip shrugged. ‘I wouldn’t mind.’
‘Trip needs to learn to say no,’ Brooke said. ‘I’m trying to train him.’
‘There’s one more sight to see on the way,’ said Kate. She grinned. ‘Only you can’t actuallyseeit, I’m afraid.’ She squinted and pointed just behind Seal Island. ‘Over there should be Mystery Island.’
‘What’s Mystery Island?’ asked Trip.
‘Old Bill claims there’s a secret island near Seal Island, that only emerges during a full moon. Says that smugglers used to hide rum there, pirates would hide from the law – all sorts of tall tales. I’ve never found anything myself, but then again I’ve never looked that hard. I like the mystery aspect.’
‘Mystery Island,’ Trip said, his ready smile starting. ‘I like that too.’
‘Very Famous Five,’ Ivy said. ‘But it doesn’t exist. Old Bill made it up, obviously.’
Trip grinned. ‘Be cool if it did though, wouldn’t it?’
All the way back, Ivy found herself watching Trip’s hands on the oars and ropes, the flex of his muscles under his T-shirt as she listened to the hush of the sea between them.
With Trip at the helm, Erin, Mei and Callum on backstage crew and the committee put firmly in their places, the show kicked into gear. And, with less than two weeks to go and the script finally nailed down, rehearsals started in earnest.
As preparations ramped up, Ivy was so busy she barely had time to breathe. Her waking hours blurred into a carousel of bookshop shifts, ambitious papier-mâché projects, and emergency glue runs. She dashed between the shop and the town hall, hauling bags of shredded newspaper, swathes of material and whatever cardboard she could lay her hands on. She found that she was enjoying it more than she expected. With a proper brief to follow, it was a satisfying challenge conjuring scenery out of old boxes and egg cartons. After months of feeling insecure and anxious about her work, the chance to let her imagination run wild, via the recycling bin and the school’s rapidly depleting art supplies, was unexpectedly freeing.
