Review and Rating - The Island Club by Nicola Harrison
The Island Club
Nicola Harrison
Copyright 2026
290 Pages
We’re setting one of my favorite kinds of scenes here: rich people with “perfect” lives, which is code for this is about to unravel faster than a cheap hemline in a windstorm. Light the fuse, cue the fireworks, pass the popcorn.
Welcome to 1950s Balboa Island, California — land of sunshine, tennis whites, and secrets tucked neatly behind manicured hedges. Milly, our freshly arrived housewife and mother of two, slides into island life like she’s auditioning for The Donna Reed Show. She’s friendly, she’s polished, she’s got the casserole game on lock.
Sylvia: fellow housewife, neighbor, and owner of the Island Club — a place known for its pristine tennis courts, snooty members, and the kind of gossip that could power a small city. Naturally, Milly and Sylvia link up immediately. It’s girlhood, it’s alliance, it’s “we’re smiling politely while everything behind us is on fire.”
And oh, the husbands? Imploding spectacularly.
Sylvia’s husband has gambled away… well, everything. Their finances, their stability, their ownership of the Island Club — poof. Meanwhile Milly’s husband is out here suggesting separation like it’s a casual hobby and promptly loses his cushy television job. But Milly and Sylvia are 1950s housewives, which means they’re basically superheroes in pearls. They are not letting their lives go up in smoke without a fight.
Then we meet Adele — island resident, former world‑class tennis star, current keeper of Big Secrets. Scandal knocked her off the court years ago, but befriending Milly and Sylvia starts to thaw her out. Soon the three of them are teaming up like a vintage, tennis‑themed Avengers squad, determined to save each other and the Island Club.
The book itself is a breezy little jaunt through 1950s island life. Sure, the story feels familiar — rich people drama, hidden pasts, women quietly running the world — but it’s undeniably charming. My only gripe? The ending felt like someone tapped the author on the shoulder and whispered, “You have 50 pages left. Wrap it up, babe.” One minute we’re knee‑deep in crisis, the next everything is magically resolved. It was giving “speedrun mode activated.”
Overall, I’m landing at 3 stars. It’s a delightful weekend read — best enjoyed with a peach bellini, a floppy straw hat, and a pool chair you absolutely did not assemble correctly. Life gets chaotic, and books like this are perfect for when you want a quick escape without committing to a full emotional dissertation.
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