You Again?
Page 5
No. They’ll be off to whatever island they’re holidaying on, and I’ll never have to see him again. I breathe a sigh of relief at this prospect.
Only two more hours and this holiday can get back on track. And then I can forget all about Joel Sinclair, safe in the knowledge that he’s nowhere near me anymore.
It was a massive coincidence that they were booked on the same plane, and a bigger one that they were sat right next to us. But that’ll be the end of it.
This is the real world, and coincidences don’t just keep piling up on top of one another.
Yes indeed. This will be the end of the coincidences.
No doubt about it!
Tuesday
JOEL – ARRIVAL
‘Are you fucking kidding me?’ I blurt out.
Everyone waiting on the dock for the speedboat turns to look at me.
This can’t be happening. It just can’t.
Maybe I’m hallucinating.
Maybe the fact I’ve had no sleep in almost twenty-four hours has led my brain to create monstrous visions as punishment for keeping it going so long without rest.
I’ve heard of this type of thing before.
I seem to remember reading a news story about a guy who hallucinated carrots.
Just that.
Nothing else.
Carrots.
Over and over and over. Every day of his life. There were carrots everywhere. Nobody could get to the root cause of the problem. He’d never suffered any kind of carrot-related trauma in his life. But for some bizarre reason he just kept seeing non-existent carrots wherever he went. Big ones. Small ones. Carrots of all shapes and sizes.
The article ended with him moving to the country to grow carrots. He figured if he was going to see carrots everywhere for the rest of his life, he might as well make a bob or two out of it.
Very sensible thinking there.
I half thought about tracking him down to seek his wisdom. Anybody who can think like that is probably worth listening to.
Maybe that’s what I’m cursed with as well. Only instead of seeing carrots, I am plagued by five-foot-four blond women. One in particular.
‘Oh bloody hell,’ Cara says, as she sees what I’m staring at.
Well, that settles it then. I’m obviously not hallucinating. Judging from the fact Cara’s face has gone very white, I can tell that she’s seeing exactly the same thing as me.
I suppose this is a good thing. Hallucinations probably aren’t a sign that your brain is functioning all that well. I’m glad my brain remains healthy and hallucination free.
Or at least, it would be healthy, were it not being battered by the horror of what it’s directing my eyes to witness.
Amy is here.
Standing on the same dock, waiting for the same speedboat.
Standing right there with Ray Holland – who has changed into another Hawaiian shirt. This one is bright blue with surfboards on it.
This can’t be happening.
‘This can’t be happening!’ Amy says out loud.
Oh Christ, I think, she can read my mind!
She’s going to suck out my thoughts! She’s going to feed off my lifeforce, like a five-four blond psychic leech!
Aaaaarggh!
Get a fucking grip, man. That is just the sleep deprivation talking.
Well, you might think so, brain, but you also made me remember the story about the carrot-hallucination bloke, so I’m not entirely sure you’re the best source of advice right now!
‘Are you guys going to Wimbufushi too?’ Cara asks Amy and Ray in a stunned voice, as we walk on to the crowded, narrow wooden dock.
Other than my ex-wife and her partner, there are another ten people waiting for the speedboat as well.
‘Yes. We are!’ Ray replies, trying to sound positive about the whole thing – as if it were four long-lost friends who coincidentally turned up on the same dock, waiting for the same speedboat to take them to the same island. I’m sure that would be a lovely experience for all concerned.
This is far from that.
‘It’s a small world, isn’t it?’ he adds, maintaining the chipper tone of voice. From beside him Amy is trying her hardest not to rip off one of his arms and beat him to death with the wet end. I know that expression very well.
‘Yes, it is!’ Cara replies, also now talking like this is a perfectly happy little scene, enjoyed by all.
I don’t speak.
Neither does Amy.
We both know what’s going on here. We’ve both realised what’s bloody happened.
She’s decided to go back to Wimbufushi for another holiday, because it was such a lovely place, and I’ve done the same. All in the same week because of that bloody Expedia deal.
It’s not actually much of a coincidence that we’re both standing on this dock, waiting for the exact same speedboat that transported us there six years ago. Of course we’d both want to go back to the island again. It was such a wonderful place. It has Tarkan’s cocktails, wall to wall sunshine, and an atmosphere slightly more laid back than a drunk horizon.
Why would either of us want to go to any other of the thousand or so islands in the Maldivian archipelago?
No, the only real coincidence here is that we both decided to travel on the exact same fucking day. Everything after that was almost inevitable.
‘We must stop bumping into one another like this!’ Ray says, ending with a brittle laugh. He’s obviously been with Amy long enough to know the danger signs. He knows what the Frown Face of Amy Caddick entails.
I would feel sorry for him, but then I have to remember that I don’t know how long he and Amy have been together. They could have been carrying on behind my back, for all I know.
Mercifully, the resort’s speedboat then arrives, driven by what looks like a fourteen-year-old. I can see him smiling broadly at us all through the window of the boat’s enclosed cabin. The speedboat is pristine white, with a long sweeping blue line running down one side. The blue is the same glorious aquamarine colour as the sea under our feet.
I have to put my hand up to cover my eyes as the hot Maldivian sun glints off the window, while the speedboat turns itself around to moor.
It’s a glorious day weather-wise, and I should be relaxing into the holiday very nicely right about now.
Instead, I’m tense, knackered and cursing my luck.
. . . so, pretty much the way I feel at home every day, then. I could have stayed there and saved myself all the bother.
Good grief.
Another fourteen-year-old puts out a metal gangway from the side of the speedboat to the dock, and walks over to join us. I’m all for giving the young a chance to earn a daily crust, but are we entirely sure it’s a good idea to put them in full control of a forty-foot-long speedboat?
I remember being greeted by two very similar young men six years ago.
They’d both be in their twenties by now, and judging by the early age they start working hard here in the Maldives, I surmise one of them is probably the president of the country by now.
The second fourteen-year-old (who is probably a lot older than that in reality, if I actually think about it sensibly for a moment. It’s just that the Maldives obviously has a habit of breeding people of a youthful disposition) bids us on to the speedboat with a warm smile that neatly echoes the ambient temperature. It may be early on Tuesday morning, but the tropical heat is already making itself very apparent. I can’t wait to get out of these clothes. The combination of plane dirt and sweat is getting a bit unbearable. Maybe I should have bought a blue surfboard shirt to change into.
There’s an unspoken agreement between Cara and me to hang back a bit to allow Amy and Ray to get on the boat ahead of us.
We’re literally the last to board, and therefore get the worst seats possible. The ones right next to the two kids – who both inexplicably have bare feet. Controlling a large speedboat full of sweaty tourists shouldn’t be a thing you can do with bare feet,
but these two seem to manage it with no problems whatsoever. That’s the confidence of youth, that is. About the only thing I can do in bare feet these days with any confidence is sleep. And even then I have to put socks on in the winter.
The boat pulls away from the dock and putters slowly out of the large harbour that sits alongside Male airport. They certainly do have this transport to the islands business set up very well. It took no time to get off the plane, through customs, and on to the boat – with several cool towels and refreshing cold drinks to be had while doing so. They’ve streamlined the process even more since I was here last.
As we move out into deeper water, the boat picks up speed and the teen driver points it to what I think is south, and revs the engine.
Off we go then. Off out into paradise.
If paradise can be had with your ex-wife in tow, that is.
For the next forty minutes, we are all jostled and jolted by the Maldivian waves. No sooner have we crested one then we’re hitting another, sending pain up through my backside, as it bounces off the hard plastic chair I’m sat on.
I can’t help but look at where Amy and Ray Surfboards are sitting back and enjoying the sun, while Cara and I are huddled under the cabin’s roof, trying not to look at the toe jam on the driver’s feet.
Amy always likes to be sat at the back. It’s a thing of hers. She did it last time, and nothing has changed for this trip.
Ugh. And I can’t believe I’m here to see how smug she is about it.
I feel Cara squeeze my leg and look around to see her giving me her best unspoken sympathy. Bless her. She can see how difficult this is.
I offer a weak smile in response, and try to avoid looking past her at where Amy and Ray are now giggling with another couple of people they’ve got talking to – a portly bloke (not German) covered in tattoos, and his dolled-up wife.
I remember Amy and I did that together six years ago, with two people from Leicester. Maureen and Roger, if I recall. Or was it Morag and Reginald? One of the two.
Oh God.
Is this what this holiday is going to be like now, because Amy is here? Am I going to spend the entire trip recalling my previous visit, just because my ex-wife is so close at bloody hand?
I expected a few things to throw up old memories, but it will surely be worse with her on the island with me, no matter how much I try to stay away from her.
My eyes go wide as a further thought occurs: I never actually told Cara that this is the exact same island I came to on honeymoon.
Why the hell would I need to?! She didn’t need to know something like that!
After all, it doesn’t matter, does it?
Or rather, it didn’t matter, right up to the point I stepped on to that dock and saw Amy and Ray Surfboards.
Oh Christ.
It’s bound to come up at some point, isn’t it?
Do I confess all to Cara at the first opportunity? Or do I hope I can get away with it for a while, until we’ve settled in?
Congratulations, Sinclair, you’ve kept important information about your ex-wife from your new girlfriend, not once, but twice now. Cracking job.
Shut up, brain. Go back to thinking about carrots, will you?
Cara leans right into me to be heard over the sound of the speedboat’s engine and speaks into my ear. ‘Smile, baby. It’s all going to be fine. Don’t let her ruin this for you. I’m not going to.’
I don’t know whether it’s the fatigue, the lack of sleep, or the discombobulated state of my brain, but her words make me well up. She’s so lovely to me.
And she’s absolutely right too.
I can’t let Amy ruin this holiday.
I won’t let Amy ruin this holiday.
Amy Caddick’s days of ruining my life ended two years ago, after we lost that stupid mansion house, and our marriage fell apart. What happened with Goblin Central was the worst thing that’s ever happened to me in my career as a real estate agent, and Amy tried to pin the blame on me for all of it! Even when I did everything right!
She didn’t believe me, though! Oh no. As far as she was concerned I screwed everything up, and she wouldn’t believe a word of what I had to say! Joel was the bad guy again . . . no matter how hard I tried to convince her that I fucking wasn’t!
Then she takes me to the cleaners in the divorce. As if Goblin Central was just the big excuse she’d been waiting for to screw me into the ground completely!
And now she dares to be sat at the back of this speedboat, laughing and giggling with her newest victims? She dares to think she can ruin my holiday, two years later . . . after all of that?!
No!
No, I say!
There will be no holidays ruined by Amy Caddick! Not today! Not this week!
In my mind, I start to see an image of Mel Gibson in his blue Braveheart face paint shouting directly into my face.
‘We will not allow it!’ Mel screams, turning his horse. ‘We will not give her the satisfaction! We will love every second of this holiday, whether she likes it or not!’
Damn right, Mel! You tell me!
‘She will not stop us from having fun! She will not stop us from loving life! She will not stop us from relaxing, forgetting about how awful work is for a while, and recharging our batteries!’
Yes! Yes!
‘Now! Sit back in your seat, breathe in that salty air, and enjoy your fucking holiday!’
‘Joel, are you okay?’ Cara asks, looking at the clenched fist I’m holding out in front of me. I don’t quite know when I subconsciously raised it. Probably around the time Mel was screaming about batteries.
I quickly drop it, and smile at Cara. ‘I’m fine, baby! I really am!’
And to show her how fine I really am, I give her the biggest kiss imaginable, not even breaking away when we thump into another cresting wave.
I don’t look past her face to see if Amy Caddick is watching what I’m doing, because I frankly don’t care. Mel Braveheart has told me I am going to enjoy myself and ignore her presence, and that is exactly what I plan on doing. Come hell or high water!
As I sit back from the kiss that has left Cara with a stunned-but-happy look on her face, the speedboat slows down, and I get my first view of Wimbufushi island in six years.
It looks incredible.
A shining cay of sand and tropical palms, small enough to walk right around in less than half an hour, and replete with some of the best accommodation and catering you could hope to come across in all your years on the planet.
Down here at the bottom end of the Southern Ari Atoll, the islands are spread out enough that you can’t see another one on the horizon. There’s literally nothing out here, other than the Wimbufushi resort, and about a million manta rays, coral reef sharks and the occasional dugong.
It’s paradise.
And I’m here for a whole week again.
. . . with the same fucking person.
No! Be quiet, brain! Listen to what Mel told us! We are here with Cara . . . and nothing else matters!
That seems to shut him up.
This is probably for the best, as Wimbufushi is the type of place where you’re supposed to shut your brain off completely. It’s good that he’s getting some practice in early.
The speedboat powers its way closer to the island, and eventually comes alongside another pier. This one is long, entirely on its own, and jutting out from the beach into the kind of azure blue ocean that the summer sky is insanely jealous of.
Once we’re docked, our friendly fourteen-year-old once again lays the gangway down to allow us to step off the boat and on to the pier – where we are greeted by a smiling Maldivian man in the most pristine white uniform I have ever seen, flanked by four petite Maldivian ladies in red dresses with thick gold trim. They are all holding trays, on which stand some exotic and extremely attractive looking drinks in tall glasses. I don’t remember being greeted with complimentary drinks first time I was here. They must have upped their hospitality game.
If Cara and I had to wait to board the boat last, then at least we get to climb off it first. This also means I get first pick of the lovely drinks on offer. There are two colours available: one an orangey yellow, and one a light green. I wait for Cara to choose hers, and then pick the orangey one – because you would, wouldn’t you?
As I take a sip of what turns out to be an extremely refreshing fruit cocktail of some description, the man in the white suit beams at us all happily.
‘Good morning, everybody!’ he says with a smooth, warm Indian accent. ‘Welcome to Wimbufushi Island Resort and Spa! My name is Azim, and I will be your chief host while you are on the island. If you would all like to refresh yourselves with a drink, I will escort you to our reception area, and we can show you to your rooms.’
Our two young escorts to the island are now joined by several men in white shirts and blue striped skirts (there’s probably a proper name for these, but I am an absolute philistine, so have no idea what it is) who busy themselves taking our suitcases from the back of the speedboat, and trundling them off down the pier. They are headed for a large, squat building made entirely of wood with a thatched roof that sits a good twenty or thirty yards back from the beach, just in front of the thick green foliage that lies in the centre of the island. Inside is a big desk that looks like it was hewn from a piece of very large driftwood. I vaguely remember this being the Wimbufushi resort reception.
The rest of the guests on the speedboat have now filed away, and are taking their choice of drinks. I am delighted to see that Amy and Ray are the last ones off, and so have to settle for two of the green drinks. Neither looks happy about it.
Super-duper.
You know, if you’re going to spend this entire holiday scoring cheap points against Amy, I’m just going to think about carrots all day long, my brain informs me.
I wonder if there’s carrot in this drink?