You Again?

by Spalding, Nick

  OTHER TITLES BY NICK SPALDING

  Going Green

  Logging Off

  Dumped Actually

  Dry Hard

  Checking Out

  Mad Love

  Bricking It

  Fat Chance

  Buzzing Easter Bunnies

  Blue Christmas Balls

  Love . . . Series

  Love . . . From Both Sides

  Love . . . And Sleepless Nights

  Love . . . Under Different Skies

  Love . . . Among the Stars

  Life . . . Series

  Life . . . On a High

  Life . . . With No Breaks

  Cornerstone Series

  The Cornerstone

  Wordsmith

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Text copyright © 2021 by Nick Spalding

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Lake Union Publishing, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Lake Union Publishing are are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781542032087

  ISBN-10: 1542032083

  Cover design and illustration by Ghost Design

  CONTENTS

  Monday JOEL – COINCIDENCE

  Monday AMY – A COSMIC JOKE

  Tuesday JOEL – ARRIVAL

  Tuesday AMY – THE HORROR NEXT DOOR

  Wednesday JOEL – EXCRUCIATING

  Wednesday AMY – REVENGE IS SAVOURY

  Thursday JOEL – ESCALATION

  Thursday AMY – THE BATTLE OF WIMBUFUSHI

  Friday JOEL – EMASCULATION

  Friday AMY – A SPLIT SECOND

  Saturday JOEL – INTROSPECTION

  Saturday AMY – THE BIG BANG

  Joel SUNDAY – ZEMBLANITY

  Sunday AMY – FRIENDS AND PARTNERS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Did you enjoy . . .

  Monday

  JOEL – COINCIDENCE

  There is a cocktail.

  A most magnificent cocktail.

  Let me tell you about it . . .

  It is called a Sin City, and is, for all intents and purposes, simply an espresso martini. It contains vodka, espresso, coffee liqueur and sugar syrup, and is made in bars and lounges the world over. But there is one place on Earth – a place that I have only visited once before – that makes a Sin City like nowhere else.

  None of the ingredients are any different. I know. I’ve checked.

  But the Sin City made in the Reef Bar, on the tiny Maldivian island of Wimbufushi, is the single greatest thing I’ve ever had in my mouth.

  For some reason, the bartender, whose name is Tarkan (it’s vitally important to remember the names of all the people in the world who bring such joy), mixes an espresso martini so glorious, I kept waiting for the angelic wings to spring out of his back as he handed it over to me.

  It has been six long years since I last had one of Tarkan’s Sin Cities. But this is a massive oversight I shall be rectifying in the next eighteen hours or so – once the two portly Germans in front of me sort their tickets out, that is.

  The self-service machines at Heathrow are supposed to cut the amount of time it takes you to check in your luggage by a considerable amount. This would be true, if it weren’t for the fact that said machines can be right pernickety little bastards to operate. The two portly German gentlemen are having severe issues getting the machine they are using to recognise their passports, while the machine next to them is currently surrounded by an Asian family comprised of three thousand children, and a very harassed-looking mother and father at the centre of the throng. They are trying their hardest not to suffer a mental breakdown as they attempt to print off multiple luggage labels.

  It’s a bloody good job Cara and I have got three hours before our flight leaves, otherwise my stress levels would probably be rising right about now. As it is, I’m more than content to wait as long as necessary for a machine to become available. I’m going on holiday to where the best Sin City is, you see. With a beautiful woman who I am very probably in love with. Nothing is going to shatter my happy mood.

  Absolutely nothing.

  ‘Should we give them a hand?’ Cara asks, as she looks on at the Germans and their struggle with Great British machinery.

  ‘Probably best to let the staff handle it,’ I reply. ‘There’s every chance I’ll be as useless at operating the damn thing as they are and will only make matters worse.’

  Cara rolls her eyes and gives me a playful punch on the arm. ‘You’re a lot more capable than you think, mister. Remember what we’ve talked about? You certainly sorted my iPad out for me, didn’t you?’

  ‘Well, yes. But I did also need counselling for six weeks afterwards.’

  Cara chuckles, and goes back to watching the large gentlemen as they continue to grapple with the recalcitrant ticket machine. She also snakes an arm around my waist, standing a little closer to me as she does so.

  Given that every single one of the ten ticket machines is currently being used (this is what happens when you’re flying on a Monday morning), I elect to drop back into my idle Sin City fantasy, basking in the glorious memories of being sat at the Reef Bar, sipping my wonderful espresso martini.

  The daydream is somewhat ruined when I’m forced to recall my companion at the time, who was invariably sat next to me, sucking down her third Bellini in a row.

  Amy didn’t like the Sin City. She didn’t like it at all.

  ‘It’s too rich,’ she used to say, turning her nose up at Tarkan’s excellent efforts, before ordering yet another Bellini.

  I bet Cara will like the Sin City. I bet she will like it just fine.

  I look at my gorgeous girlfriend, which is a much happier thing to do than picture the wicked harpy in my mind’s eye. I’m very much looking forward to creating new memories with Cara on Wimbufushi – the first of which will involve that cocktail, and the second of which will hopefully involve the tiny bikini she bought on ASOS a week ago. It’s got these little twirly tassel things at the hips, and sequined bits right on top of her—

  AMY.

  The shock runs through my body, like one of the airport security guards has decided to try out their new taser on me. I feel my legs go weak, and my vision go wonky. My heart starts to pound.

  As the blood drains from my face, I blink rapidly, trying to unsee what I think I’ve just seen.

  It must be a hallucination.

  One triggered by all the recent stress I’ve been under at work.

  And I was just daydreaming about my Sin City, wasn’t I?

  Which made me think about Amy, didn’t it?

  Yes. That’s it. I didn’t really just see her walking towards passport control in a floaty blue dress, pushing a suitcase, alongside a tall man in a Hawaiian shirt – her hair up in that side ponytail she always liked to drape back over her left shoulder.

  For a moment, I’m convinced that I did hallucinate the whole thing, because Amy has disappeared. But then she re-emerges from behind a gaggle of excited tourists, and I can see that I’m not hallucinating at all.

  My ex-wife Amy is here at the airport. Right now.

  ‘Joel? Are you okay?’ Cara asks, putting her hand on my arm.

  I can’t let her know what I’ve seen.

  This is supposed to be a
happy, exciting day. I don’t want to ruin it for her by revealing that I’ve just seen my evil ex-wife, less than fifty yards away from us, heading airside with a man who also seems very familiar to me for some reason.

  ‘Yeah, yeah, I’m fine,’ I lie, trying my hardest to will the blood back into my cheeks. ‘Just feeling a bit tired, is all. Looking forward to getting away.’

  Cara nods and squeezes me tight. She knows how stressed I’ve been at work in the past few months. It’s more than believable I’d be a bit peaky.

  The portly German gentlemen appear to have sorted out their issues with the ticket machine and are moving on, giving Cara and me the chance to (hopefully) get our luggage labels printed out and stuck around our suitcase handles a lot quicker than them.

  As we trundle our suitcases over to it, I glance back at where I saw Amy. There’s no sign of her. And Heathrow is a very big airport. The chances of us running into one another while we’re here are probably pretty small, aren’t they?

  Yeah. I’m sure it’ll be fine. Absolutely sure.

  We don’t have anything like the issues with the luggage labels that the Germans did. There’s a tricky moment when I inadvertently stick mine briefly to my knee, but I manage to pull it off without removing too much leg hair, and get the label on to the suitcase without much more trouble.

  Having done that, Cara and I pull our suitcases over to the check-in desk, where we have to queue for another ten minutes, before finally getting rid of the heavy things.

  Normally, as I watch my suitcase disappear into the bowels of the airport via the conveyor belt, I feel a great sense of relief to have got shot of such a cumbersome object. Not today, though. Not when I know that somewhere ahead of me is my ex-wife and her Hawaiian-shirt-wearing partner.

  . . . who I’m sure I’ve seen before somewhere. I’m sure of it.

  ‘Okay, Joel?’ Cara says, snapping me out of my worried reverie.

  ‘Yes!’ I reply, a little too loudly.

  ‘Great. Let’s get through security then. I really need a coffee.’

  ‘Okay,’ I agree, feeling my heart race. On the other side of security is Amy, and I’ve never felt less secure in my life.

  I am made to feel slightly better when Cara slides her hand into mine as we walk away from the check-in desk. She has a habit of performing these small, surprising acts of intimacy that I’m really not used to. It gives me a strange, but wholly marvellous feeling of security. And she’s been doing it ever since we got together a few months ago. I feel like I’ve been saved.

  As we follow the giant glowing yellow signs pointing us in the direction of the customs and passport check, I begin to get myself under control.

  Even if we did bump into Amy, it wouldn’t be the end of the world. I haven’t seen her now for nearly two years, and there would been no reason to do anything other than give her a curt nod if we met, and move on with my life.

  My excellent life with Cara.

  Oh God.

  What if Cara sees her? What will she do? Will she want to say hello? They do know each other – even though they probably only met a handful of times at the agency. It’d probably upset Cara, though, I know that. She knows all about what Amy did to me after we split.

  Blast.

  Maybe I should have just fessed up and told Cara I saw Amy earlier? Then she’d have a warning. But I can’t do that now, otherwise Cara might wonder why I chose to keep it a secret.

  Aaargh!

  I pull the toiletries out of my rucksack and place them in a see-through bag, and I curse myself for not being more forthright.

  While I empty out my pockets into the grey plastic tray and pull out my iPad, I can’t help but picture a scenario where we bump into Amy and her bloke in the most awkward of situations. In the queue at Costa, for instance. Would Amy try to spark up a conversation in such a circumstance? Would Cara? I know I bloody wouldn’t. What would I have to say? ‘Oh hi, Amy. Are you going to be paying for your coffee with all the money you bled out of me in the divorce?’

  Aaargh!

  ‘These things are always nerve wracking to go through, aren’t they?’ Cara says, as she sticks her rucksack into another one of the battered plastic trays. She’s misinterpreted the reason why I look so perturbed. She thinks I’m nervous about security – but I don’t have the headspace to be stressed about that, because Amy is in here . . . somewhere.

  Damn it. I should have bloody said something!

  I send my belongings off to be x-rayed and look around to see if the metal detector is free to walk through. The distressed look on my face must be quite obvious, as the security guy takes one look at me and indicates that I should come over to be checked out in the full body scanner.

  Oh joy. I hate these things. You feel like a right pillock standing there with your arms up, as the whole thing whirs around you, getting a really good image of your penis for the staff to all laugh at.

  I wonder if Amy had to go through this thing as well . . .

  She could have stood right where I am mere minutes ago. Or maybe her Hawaiian-shirted partner had to do it, with his arms up, and the machine getting a picture of his penis with its x-rays.

  Rays.

  Ray.

  His name is Ray!

  Ray Holland.

  He was . . . he was a bloody client of ours, wasn’t he?

  Yes, that’s bloody right!

  Back when Amy and I were the power couple at Rowntree Land & Home, we sold Ray Holland a rather elegant five-bedroom place in Sevenoaks.

  Bloody hell! She’s now with a guy she met while we were still together.

  ‘Fuck me!’ I blurt out with sudden rage, within the confines of the scanner.

  ‘Are you alright, sir?’ the security guy asks, looking suspicious all of a sudden.

  Oh, shit.

  I’ve just displayed a random act of aggression while going through security. I’d better assure this guy I’m not a psychopath, before he takes me away for a full-cavity search.

  But can I do that? Can I assure him?

  Once upon a time I would have handled this situation magnificently. The old Joel Sinclair would have had no problems smoothing things over with a complete stranger.

  But now?

  After what’s happened in my life recently?

  ‘I’m so sorry!’ I tell him in a panicked voice, as he beckons me out of the scanner. ‘I just remembered I think I’ve left my Hoover on at home!’

  ‘Pardon me?’

  Shit! I meant to say oven! Nobody leaves their bloody Hoover on at home!

  Oven! I meant oven!

  ‘Ah aha ha,’ I laugh in a tight, high pitch. ‘I . . . er . . . I . . .’

  Think of something, you bloody idiot, otherwise this guy is going to be knuckle deep in you in the next twenty minutes!

  ‘I . . . have a . . . have a Roomba! It’s a Roomba that I have!’

  He eyes me suspiciously. ‘A Roomba?’

  ‘Yeah! You know . . .’ For some reason I stick my elbows out and start to twist back and forth like a right Cockney geezer. ‘Roomba, Roomba, stick it up your jumpa.’

  Look, I’m panicking, okay?

  This is a tense, awful situation, and I’m trying to break the tension with a little light comedy relief.

  The security guard looks at me like I’ve just vomited all over the floor. ‘Are you alright, sir?’ he repeats.

  I deflate instantly. ‘Not really. I’ve been overworked and stressed for months in a job I’m getting worse at every day, am in desperate need of a holiday, and I’ve just seen my ex-wife for the first time in two years.’

  This garners me a look of actual pity. ‘Ah, I see. Been there, done that. Well, you have a nice holiday, sir,’ he says, and waves me on.

  I’m slightly stunned, but I don’t need telling twice.

  I hurry over to where my rucksack and its contents are still confined in trays at the end of the conveyor belt, and start to gather up my things.

  ‘What on Earth we
re you doing?’ Cara asks as she comes to stand next to me, having already secured all of her stuff.

  I look at her for a second. ‘I have absolutely no idea,’ I reply, with extreme honesty. The kind of honesty I should have exhibited earlier when I spotted Amy. ‘Shall we go and find that coffee?’ I suggest, zipping up the rucksack.

  ‘That’s a great idea.’ Cara beams and holds out her hand. I take it in mine, and we trot off into the environs of Terminal 5 like a couple of excited teenagers on their first date.

  And I am excited. I absolutely still am.

  The thought of this holiday in the Maldives has basically kept me going for the past few weeks, and I’m incredibly grateful to Cara’s grandfather for helping me pay for it. As bosses go, he’s not such a bad one. I just wish I was doing a better job in return for his generosity.

  Come on, man. Stop thinking about all of that. Just enjoy the time you’ve got away from the place!

  I swallow down my feelings of inadequacy for about the thousandth time, and return my attention to matters at hand – namely the acquisition of coffee and the avoidance of the woman who was instrumental in my slide into the very same inadequacy that plagues my life.

  And now that I remember who her partner is, I want to avoid him just as much. I can’t help but think he might have had something to do with—

  No. Just stop, Joel. What the hell’s the point? It’s been two years. Just let it go.

  I give myself an internal slap across the face, and take a deep breath.

  We head over to Costa and pick up a couple of flat whites. I’m grateful for the caffeine on this chilly spring morning, as I didn’t sleep all that well last night. I never do when I’m travelling. The coffee’s probably not going to help my skittish mood, but it’ll at least keep me awake.

  I try my very hardest not to scan everyone as they pass by while I sip the flat white at the table Cara managed to grab for us right next to the main concourse.

  ‘Are you people-watching?’ Cara asks, with a wry smile on her face.

  Obviously, I wasn’t trying hard enough . . .

  ‘Yeah,’ I admit, thinking that it’s better to be partially honest about what I’m up to. ‘You always get a right mix at the airport, don’t you?’

  Which is no word of a lie. The eclectic bunch of holidaymakers rushing by us is a sight to see and no mistake. People from all walks of life and ethnicities are crowded in here, offering a melting pot of humanity that I’m not normally used to seeing – living as I do in the rather dull south-east of the country.