You Again?

by Spalding, Nick

  Do not rehash all of that again!

  I take a couple of deep breaths and attempt to centre myself.

  It doesn’t matter. None of it does. It’s all in the past – especially Amy. And very soon I will be flying away from all of it.

  Cara and I will be off to the Maldives to have fun and make new memories. Very soon, her face will be the one I think of when I picture those gorgeous white sands and sunny skies in my mind – not Amy Caddick’s!

  She can just bugger off to whatever destination it is she’s going to with her bloke – hopefully across the other side of the world from me.

  It never occurs to me for a second to think that Amy could be going to the same place as us.

  Why would it, though, eh?

  That would just be crazy unlucky, wouldn’t it?

  What kind of cosmic joke would have to be played on me for that to happen?

  Monday

  AMY – A COSMIC JOKE

  I wasn’t too sure about the Hawaiian shirt to start with, but it’s grown on me.

  When Ray appeared in the bedroom doorway this morning in it, posing for all he was worth like some kind of catalogue model, I couldn’t help but laugh.

  ‘You’re not actually going to wear that are you?’ I asked him.

  ‘I am indeed!’ he replied, starting to manfully flex his muscles in an utterly ridiculous way. ‘I think it makes me look rather sexy.’

  This sent me off into fits of giggles, which were only stifled when Ray came over to the bed and started to give me a lot of sublime morning kisses.

  It was a lovely way to start a day; a day that’s likely to be very tiring.

  Long-distance travel and I have never really got on with each other, but it’s been so long since I’ve been on holiday that I’m quite happy to bear with it on this occasion. More than happy.

  Because Wimbufushi awaits at the other end, and a week of sun, sea – and hopefully slightly less garish clothing on my fiancé.

  He insists on wearing it to travel in, though, which I just have to shake my head about and laugh. Ray’s usually such a well-dressed, well-thought-out and somewhat straight-laced individual. To see him loosen up a bit is something that I have to confess I very much enjoy seeing.

  I just wish the damn thing wasn’t quite so orange.

  I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything quite that orange in my life, to be honest. It’s quite disconcerting. And when you marry it with the brand new white jeans Ray is wearing, it’s like I’m walking around with an ambulatory traffic cone. It’s testament to Ray’s self confidence that he just about manages to keep the whole thing below the level of complete farce. You could almost believe from his body language that looking like a separated yoghurt is a perfectly sensible clothing choice.

  No. Not a separated yoghurt – a salmon sashimi. A six-foot-two piece of salmon sashimi, just like the one that I’m about to devour.

  ‘How’s the sushi?’ Ray asks, picking out a bit of chicken from his teriyaki soba and popping it in his mouth.

  ‘Great,’ I reply, chopsticking the salmon sashimi as best as I am able with my limited skills. ‘Thanks for letting me come here instead of that Gordon Ramsay place.’

  ‘Not a problem, sweetheart. I’m happy if you’re happy.’

  . . . which in many ways, could be Ray’s mantra, God bless him. I’m a very spoiled woman, and I know how lucky I am.

  Hence why I’m sat here in Heathrow, making my way through several bits of sushi, before getting on a plane to the most beautiful place I’ve ever been in my life. A place I’ve longed to revisit ever since I went there with . . . that other bloke.

  Ray didn’t even bat an eyelid when I saw the deal come up on Expedia, and confessed that I wanted to go back to the same island I spent my honeymoon on. He absolutely and completely believed me when I told him it was all about my memories of Wimbufushi itself, and not the man I was with at the time.

  And then he went and booked the week on the island in the time it took me to have a shower.

  ‘Oh Ray!’ I exclaimed, when he told me what he’d done. ‘Can we take that much time off work, though? With the business expanding the way it is?’

  He shrugged. ‘It’s my company. I can go on holiday whenever I want. And this deal is too good to pass up. Simon can handle things while we’re gone. It’ll be fine.’

  Ray has slightly more faith in his second in command than I do – Simon can be a lazy bugger if he gets half a chance – but I can’t pretend that leaving work behind for a week won’t be a much-needed rest. The Boat Show in Birmingham really took it out of me last month, and with both Belgium and Helsinki on the horizon, I might collapse if I don’t get a chance to get away from it all for a while.

  ‘We’ll have to leave fairly soon,’ Ray says, looking at his watch. ‘The gate’s opening shortly.’

  I nod, munching my last piece of sushi. I feel the usual butterflies I get whenever I fly start to flutter around in my belly, making that last mouthful of salmon a difficult one. I’ve managed to keep them at bay all the way here in the car, through check-in and passport control, but now we’re just about to get on the plane, they are making their presence felt, as they always do.

  ‘Don’t worry, sweetheart, it’ll be fine,’ Ray says, instantly reading the expression on my face correctly. The other bloke never managed to do that. He always used to think I was angry at him. Even if I was just feeling a little bloated or tired, the other bloke thought it was because he had done something wrong. It was one of his worst character traits.

  Not Ray, though. Ray reads my emotions far better.

  ‘Thank you,’ I tell him, after swallowing the remnants of the sushi. ‘I know it’ll be okay, but you know how I get.’

  ‘I do . . . but just think about the island and that water bungalow you’ve been telling me all about. Picture it in your head, if you feel nervous.’

  ‘I will,’ I tell him, and I do indeed briefly visualise the view from the bungalow’s veranda – which comprises of nothing but the bluest sea you’ve ever seen, gently lapping up against the wooden stilts the bungalow sits upon. Along with a sky that, if anything, is ever bluer – punctuated only by the occasional wispy bit of white cloud.

  Ah, yes. That’s the stuff.

  I feel the butterflies start to settle a little, as I wash the sushi down with the last of my Sprite. ‘Shall we go then?’ I suggest to Ray, feeling up to the task now that my hunger and thirst have been taken care of.

  ‘Absolutely,’ he replies, rising from his seat and pulling the handle out of both my travel suitcase and his. He hands me mine and leans forward to give me a kiss.

  If you’d have told me two years ago that the best feeling in the world would be getting a kiss from a man in white jeans and an obnoxious orange Hawaiian shirt, I would have laughed in your face.

  Ray guides us towards the correct gate for our flight, and I’m honestly happy to let him take the lead for once. At work, he always lets me take control of client sales as much as I am able, and has no problem tasking me with difficult jobs. I don’t receive any favouritism whatsoever from him – and thank God for that.

  Holland Yachts only has a relatively small staff of twelve at the moment, and if I was treated any differently to anyone else, I’d be hated in seconds. If anything, I think Ray gives me more of the hard tasks to accomplish to compensate for the fact that we’re in a relationship. And I have no problem with this at all. While it increases my workload and stress levels more than I’d like, it’s totally worth it, as I’m not seen to be getting any favouritism from the boss just because I lie in the same bed as him.

  Today, though, I’m more than happy for Ray to be the one to shoulder the responsibility of organising our travel plans. My brain is very much enjoying the rest, and intends to wallow in it as much as possible.

  We arrive at the departure lounge to find it already chock-a-block with people. This is not a surprise. The Maldives has always been a very popular destination – no
w more than ever, given that climate change seems to be threatening their very existence. Everyone wants to experience the islands now, because you might go there in a few years and find yourself wading around in a permanent foot of salty water.

  That’s probably another reason why I suggested the holiday when I saw the flash deal come up. I loved Wimbufushi so much – despite the presence of the other bloke – and want to experience it again, while I still can.

  As Ray and I join the crowd gathered around the gate desk, I’m pleased to hear I don’t detect much in the way of crying babies.

  My ears are always hyper alert for them whenever I fly. There’s nothing worse than arriving at your gate and hearing the sound of a screaming baby – who you know will end up being seated right next to you. Ray managed to secure us the bulkhead seats I asked for, with the extra leg room, for the eleven hours it takes to get to the Maldives. This is wonderful, but does come with the high chance of a baby sat next to me in a bassinet the whole way.

  The fact I can’t hear or see any small babies in the crowd gives me hope for a quiet flight. I always go for the bulkhead seats if I can, figuring that the risks of getting a baby next to me are quite worth it if it means I can stretch my legs out properly, instead of getting arthritis of the knees from several hours of having them all bent up because of the seat in front of me.

  Ray wheels his flight case towards the last two empty seats and I follow him over, still listening out for the tell-tale sound of a crying child. I still don’t hear one, but by concentrating on the sounds coming from our fellow passengers so much, I do hear the following, coming from somewhere to my left.

  ‘Oh God in heaven, no!’ a man’s voice cries out. There’s something very familiar about it.

  I swivel my head around to find out who is making such a ruckus, but all I see is a large pot plant next to one of the square columns that support Heathrow’s upper floors. The potted monstrosity – which I believe is some sort of cheese plant – is shaking.

  I’m assuming it wasn’t the cheese plant that just blasphemed across the departure lounge. I think more people would be looking at it, if it had been. Pot plants achieving sentience is the type of thing that would draw people’s attention, I would have thought. It would be a trifle hard to ignore.

  As it is, a few people are looking up at something or someone behind the cheese plant and the column, but none of them are sketching the sign of the cross or backing away in terror, so I can safely assume that it’s probably nothing to worry about.

  I park my butt down on the seat next to Ray and pull my phone out of my pocket. As I do, one of the ground staff talks over the tannoy to tell us that the flight will begin seating in five minutes. Excellent. Ray timed things to perfection, as always. He’s always so solidly dependable.

  I spend a little time tending to my farm in Stardew Valley while we wait to be called up to board the flight. Those with disabilities and parents with small children are called first. There are three of the former and only two of the latter, and all of the kids are at least toddler age.

  Phew.

  Then first class is called as I’m watering a small patch of cauliflowers on my farm, and by the time I’ve collected a few corals and shells from the tide pools on the beach, the back rows of the plane have also been called up.

  When the tannoy asks for people seated in rows sixty to eighty to come forward, both Ray and I stand, as we’re in seats 67D and 67E. As we begin to walk forward, towards the boarding desks, I hear a strangled cry – from my right-hand side this time.

  I look over to see that the pot plant is once again shaking for all it’s worth, as if someone has brushed hard up against it. What is going on over there?

  Walking between two rows of departure lounge seats, I have to resist the urge to look back over my shoulder as a commotion begins behind me. Someone is obviously playing silly buggers back there – but it’s really nothing to do with me, so I’m not going to trouble myself with it. I’m sure it’s probably just someone who’s afraid of flying – even more than I am.

  That reminds me of what I’m about to do, so I start to take some long, deep breaths, concentrating on being mindful as I approach the desk with my ticket and passport out for inspection.

  I don’t care what’s happening behind me. I just care about centring myself and keeping my nerves at bay.

  This starts to do the trick as the smiling BA flight attendant scans my ticket and hands it back. By the time I’m walking down the ramp to the tunnel that leads to the plane’s open doors, I am feeling a little better.

  ‘Okay, sweetheart?’ Ray asks me, noticing that I’m concentrating on my breathing.

  I offer him a weak smile. ‘Yeah. Just keeping myself calm. I’m sure I’ll be fine once we’ve got into our seats.’

  And indeed, even as I board the plane and start down the right-hand side towards my seat, I do feel a sense of calm wash over me. The breathing techniques I looked up on YouTube really are having an effect. When we have to pause in the aisle, as a woman struggles to get her luggage into the overhead compartment, I continue my breathing exercises, ignoring everything else going on around me.

  I’m only jerked out of my centred concentration when I hear a kerfuffle going on behind me again. This time I do look over, to see a man with thinning hair on top of his head, and wearing a pink shirt and black jeans, walking down the aisle opposite me . . . backwards. This is possibly the strangest thing I’ve ever seen.

  There’s something familiar about his awkward gait and the way his shoulders look tighter than a snare drum, but I can’t quite put my finger on why. I certainly don’t know any tall, skinny men with thinning hair who’d wear a pink shirt like that. None at all.

  The man is scuttling along backwards, performing the world’s most clumsy moonwalk, with his head down and his shoulders hunched, like a crab who’s just been caught stealing the last bread stick.

  Ahead of me, I hear a loud thump as the woman finally gets her luggage into the overhead compartment, and my side of the aisle starts to move again.

  I proceed forward, now trying to ignore the strange man. Whatever issues he might be having are nothing to do with me. I have my own problems. I don’t intend to start this flight in a state of panic, so it’s very important for me to stay in my calm, centred place as we go through the worst part of the flight – take off.

  I make my way past the emergency exit, and turn to my left as I get to the next bulkhead. My seat is 67 E, the second one along, and I’m happy to see that the overhead compartment is empty. My carry-on suitcase is considerably lighter than that poor woman’s, so I have no trouble getting it secured, before moving forward to my seat.

  I pick up the little bag that contains my eye mask, toothbrush and toothpaste, along with the small pillow that I will pop behind my back later, to make sure I’m as comfortable as possible. As I do this I look up to see the man in the pink shirt emerge from behind the other side of the bulkhead.

  He looks absolutely terrified.

  As I lock eyes with him, it’s my turn to let out a strangled cry.

  JOEL.

  It’s fucking JOEL.

  The strength starts to drain out of my legs. I blink rapidly several times in a row. Whatever success I may have had calming my nerves is immediately and comprehensively undone. I could spend the rest of my natural life searching the never-ending backwaters of YouTube’s content looking for stress-relieving exercises, and I would still never find one that could help me with the situation I find myself in now.

  You could also inject me with a combination of Valium, Prozac, valerian root, chamomile and lavender essential oil, and it still wouldn’t slow my heartbeat, or stop my legs from shaking one fucking jot.

  In my absolute panic, my body completely overrides my brain and does the best thing it can to counteract the horror that’s just been placed in front of me. In a desperate act of self-preservation, it lobs my small pillow at Joel’s head. This will accomplish nothing, of co
urse. In no way will a ballistic British Airways pillow remove me from this horrifying situation. If only it could.

  The pillow bounces off Joel’s stunned forehead, and pinwheels across the cabin, to fall in the lap of an elderly woman, who is taking a sip from a bottle of water. Remarkably, she manages to spill not a drop as she squawks in surprise at the sudden arrival of the squishy oblong.

  ‘Oi! What did you do that for?!’ Joel exclaims, hand going to his forehead.

  ‘WHAT?!’ I bellow. No more words will form in my mouth. I’m just so incredibly poleaxed by this turn of events that proper language has deserted me.

  ‘WHAT?!’ Joel bellows back at me.

  ‘WHAT?!’ I repeat.

  ‘HOW?!’ Joel cries, deciding to mix up the vocabulary of our conversation a bit. With any luck we might proceed to sentences of more than one word at some point, before the flight attendants arrive to arrest me for using a British Airways pillow as an offensive weapon.

  ‘What are you doing here, Joel?!’ I eventually force out. ‘It is you, isn’t it?’

  You’d think that I’d have no problem recognising my husband of four years, but in the two years it’s been since I saw him last, he’s changed quite a lot. He looks a lot older, for starters. There are wrinkles on his face that I’ve never seen before, and his skin has a sallow complexion to it that ages him even further. The hairline’s receded a fair bit as well.

  He also looks tired. That’s the biggest difference. Joel always had a boyish charm about him, but with the extra two years of what I can only assume must have been a stressful life, he looks more like a man now than he ever did when we were married.

  Then there’s the pink shirt.

  There’s nothing wrong with it. It looks like an expensive, well-made shirt – and that’s kind of the problem. Joel is the type of man who is no stranger to wearing a crumpled t-shirt and a pair of old blue jeans that are probably at least a week past the date when they should have gone into the wash.

  He’s still wearing the jeans (sort of – these are clearly more expensive than the ones he used to wear), but the crisp pink shirt is the type of apparel I’d never have imagined seeing him in when we were together. I can’t quite consolidate it with the face that sits atop it. The two are just far too incongruous.