You Again?

by Spalding, Nick

  Apparently, Lord Ponsonbollocks – sorry, Viscount Long – was in line to the throne in some capacity, but I never found out how close. Not that close, I would surmise. The whole royal family and its offshoots would probably have to die in a nuclear war before good old Alastair got the chance to sling on the ermine and crown.

  If we had attended the meeting, I’m sure Joel and I would have secured the contract to sell the house (which was actually called De Ponsonby Manor). We’d already met with Viscount Long’s people, and had spoken to him on the phone. This was to be the big sales pitch meeting that would guarantee him as a client.

  The meeting never happened.

  Because Joel is a fucking idiot.

  A disorganised idiot, who got the time of the meeting completely wrong. We were supposed to be there at 1 p.m., and we didn’t turn up until 6 p.m. – a whole five hours late for the meeting, and two hours after Viscount Long had agreed to let Bishop & Rose arrange the sale. The Bishop & Rose Estate Agency were our chief competition at the time, and were a constant source of annoyance to Roland. He wanted to beat them, and beat them hard. You can imagine how delighted he was to find out we’d fucked up our opportunity to put one over on them – or rather that Joel had fucked up our opportunity to get one over on them.

  It was my fault, though. My own stupid, stupid fault.

  A couple of weeks before the Goblin Central meeting, Joel and I had a huge argument (again) about his lax approach to our combined admin work, after I discovered that he forgot to put another expenses claim in on time. This was a small, petty thing that should have been a minor source of irritation, but those cracks we talked about magnified everything out of all proportion.

  Biblical proportions to be more accurate. That’s how big the argument was.

  At the end of it, Joel promised me he’d do better. He’d be more careful with the details. And I stupidly believed him – to the point that I allowed him to be the one to arrange our incredibly important meeting with Viscount Long. As a test of his commitment, if you will.

  What a fucking idiot I was to do that.

  Because – of course – Joel screwed up the appointment time. I couldn’t even rely on him to get that fucking right!

  He denied it. Repeatedly. Until the spit was flying out of his mouth. He was adamant he’d put the right time down after his phone call with the viscount.

  But I’m not an idiot. And I know what kind of man he is. The kind of man who will do a slapdash job of anything that bores him, and make stupid mistakes, even when the stakes are so high. Five-hour stupid mistakes that cost us the biggest sale of our lives.

  Can you believe he even tried to say that I must have gone into our work calendar and accidentally changed the time of the meeting? As if I’m the one who doesn’t know what she’s doing? I kept that bloody appointment calendar one hundred per cent right for four bloody years. The one time I let Joel have a go at it, he fucks it up completely!

  The next few weeks of my life were hell. Any trust left between us was gone. The faith in our working partnership was gone, as it was with our personal relationship. What love there was left between us was drained in that instant.

  Losing Goblin Central was a catalyst for some very nasty things to come out – now the cracks had turned into canyons. Things I won’t talk about now. It’s all too horrible to recall.

  But Goblin Central was definitely the straw that broke the camel’s back.

  We filed for divorce within three months.

  You can only imagine what it was like to go to work together.

  An absolute nightmare.

  The power couple had fallen apart completely, and were barely able to be in the same room as one another, let alone sell houses together.

  Everything, and everyone, suffered.

  And then, a mere two months after the divorce, with Joel on one side of our office and me on the other, the biggest injustice of the whole thing occurred: I was told to pack my bags and leave. I was essentially fired from the job I loved, simply because I’d fallen out with my husband.

  Oh, Roland Rowntree gave the excuse that my work standards had slipped dramatically since we lost Goblin Central, and he was right about that – but can you blame me? I was going through a bloody divorce! And he didn’t pin much of the blame on Joel, if any! No . . . it was all dumped on my shoulders.

  I have no actual proof, but I’m willing to bet Joel had a large part in getting me sacked. I can just picture him in my mind’s eye, sat at Roland’s desk, dripping poison about me into the old man’s ear for all those months . . .

  So that was that. I was done. Strung up like a fucking kipper. Thrown out with yesterday’s rubbish. Fired from a job I adored, all because my ex-husband was too stupid and feckless to book a damned appointment correctly!

  ‘Thank God you were there for me, Ray,’ I say to him, fighting back the tears of rage that threaten to overwhelm me every time I talk about what happened two years ago. ‘If you hadn’t been, I don’t know . . .’

  I trail off, looking down at my feet as they swirl around in the chilly pool water.

  ‘Well, I’m very glad I was,’ Ray replies. ‘I may not have stayed in the place in Sevenoaks for long in the end, but coming to your old agency to look for a new house was entirely worth it. Best decision I ever made.’

  ‘And the best decision I ever made was letting you talk me into coming and working for you,’ I tell him. ‘I could have easily just gone to another estate agency, but it wouldn’t have been the same. I needed a change, and you gave me it.’

  Ray then takes my hand in his. ‘My pleasure, sweetheart. And thank you for telling me everything now. It means a great deal. I can totally understand why having Joel here this week is making you so mad.’ Ray’s face darkens. ‘I quite fancy giving him a smack across the chops myself.’

  I feel a thrill run down my back. It’s incredibly regressive of me to say this, but I can’t pretend it doesn’t give me a feeling of pure pleasure at the prospect of this wonderful man going and giving Joel a clout. Ray loves me in ways Joel never did or could.

  ‘You don’t have to do that,’ I tell him. ‘Just . . . just understand it if I can’t let it all go and just enjoy myself. Especially with him and Cara Rowntree next door.’

  ‘Cara Rowntree?’

  ‘Oh yes. I forgot to mention that bit. Joel’s new girlfriend is Roland Rowntree’s granddaughter. I believe she went to work at the company sometime after I left. She obviously got her hooks into my ex-husband at some point. From the look of the way he fawns over her, I’d guess it’s a new relationship, though.’

  ‘Bloody hell.’

  ‘Yeah.’ I give him a bitter smile. ‘It’s just delightful to have them both a few feet away from me.’

  Ray’s eyes squint for a moment in thought. Then his jaw clenches. ‘There’s something we can do about that, I think.’ He pulls his legs out of the pool, climbs to his feet, and holds out a hand. ‘Come on, let’s go have a word with that Azim chap.’

  I take his hand and get to my feet as well. ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘I’m going to get us another water bungalow. One far away from the two of them. I’ll not have your holiday ruined because they are here.’

  Oh my. I think I’ve gone a bit gooey.

  I’m so very, very sorry about that.

  Going gooey is not a thing that I do.

  I didn’t even do it when Joel and I were looking for a house for Gareth Gates. And this was a person I had a serious crush on when I was a teenager. The lisp was adorable. But I was all business the entire time we had dealings with him. If anything, Joel was weirder around Gareth than I ever was, and he was a Metallica fan. Joel never did do well around celebrities. We bumped into Kelly Brook at a party once, and he insisted on calling her Melanie, for some reason. Even after she told him her name was Kelly, he still did it. About three or four more times. The poor girl eventually walked away in disgust. That was a potential client we lost that day as well
.

  Anyway . . . regardless of celebrity encounters that happened firmly in the past (I don’t like to think about my old job too much these days) I am definitely feeling pretty gooey right now, at Ray’s insistence we change water bungalows. He’s such a take charge kind of man, and I love that.

  Even though I’m betraying the sisterhood by admitting it, it’s still true.

  I love it, I love it, I love it.

  We head off to reception, where we are greeted once again by Anju, who is more than happy to call for Azim when Ray explains the situation. He doesn’t go into that much detail with Anju, but definitely gets it across that we’d very much like to change bungalows, due to being next to unwanted travel companions.

  Azim then appears from out of the jungle.

  I know that sounds ridiculous, but that’s what happens. Somewhere back there, hidden from the sight of all the guests by that luxurious foliage, are the buildings where the island’s staff live, and where all the actual work gets done around here. Everything is artfully hidden away from us, though. All I can see at tree height are a few glimpses of buildings, coloured in a drab greyish brown that makes them disappear into the background.

  I recall that the last time I was here, I felt a little uncomfortable at the idea of all those Maldivians being trapped in the centre of the island like that, while we sun ourselves out here – and that feeling has now returned as we watch Azim come forward, out of the places we do not go. His disarming smile makes me feel a little bit better, but then I suppose the smile is designed to do just that, isn’t it?

  Ray then explains the situation in slightly more detail to Azim. He doesn’t mention my history with Joel, but makes it very clear to Azim that we would like to move away, in no uncertain terms.

  I’m afraid this makes me gooey again. It’s the firm tone of voice, you see. The only reaction you can possibly have to a tone of voice like that is to go a bit gooey. If you’re me, that is. Azim doesn’t look gooey, and neither does Anju. In fact, both look highly concerned, such is the effective job Ray is doing of laying out our grievance.

  ‘Let me see what I can do,’ Azim says. ‘Please head over to the Reef Bar and enjoy a refreshing cocktail from our bartender Tarkan while I see to this matter.’

  That’s a dismissal.

  It’s an incredibly polite one – including the promise of cocktails, but it’s a dismissal none the less. Azim obviously wants to get to work, and doesn’t want us to see how he operates. This is fine by me. I’ve never been one to want to know how the sausage is made.

  Anju escorts us across the island to where the Reef Bar sits slightly back in the waving palm trees, and not that far away from the infinity pool.

  Ray orders us both a Bellini while we wait. It still tastes quite fantastic.

  Some fifteen minutes pass before Azim arrives to tell us the good news. ‘Mr Holland, Ms Caddick, I’m pleased to say we have secured you our only free bungalow, on the other side of the island, over there.’ Azim points past us to the second set of water bungalows that poke out into the ocean on the western side of Wimbufushi.

  I feel a wave of relief wash over me. ‘Oh, thank you!’ I tell Azim, nearly spilling my drink.

  ‘It is my pleasure,’ he replies, that disarming smile being used to full effect. ‘If you would like to go back and pack your things, I will have our staff transport all of them to the new bungalow as soon as possible.’

  I want to hug him, I truly do. But as that would probably be a little over the top, I wait until he has left and give Ray a massive hug instead. ‘Thank you so much for this. I can enjoy our holiday again now, I think.’

  Ray smiles and kisses me. ‘Good. That’s exactly what I wanted. We’ll finish up our drinks, and head back. We’ll be in our new room within the hour – as far away from Joel and Cara as possible.’

  This deserves another hug, don’t you think? I may have gone a bit gooey, but that doesn’t mean I can’t hug the life out of this wonderful man for what he’s done for me.

  Luckily, I see no sign of Joel or Little Miss Rowntree as we go back to gather our things. I don’t hear anything of them either as I repack my suitcase. They must have gone out themselves, or are engaged in something inside their bungalow that I can’t hear and now I’m picturing things I don’t want to, so I’d better just go get my toothbrush and do my absolute level best to remove the image I now have in my head that will haunt my dreams for some time to come.

  Twenty minutes later, Ray and I are being let into our new accommodation, which looks exactly the same as the old one, except it’s half a mile away, jutting out into a completely different part of the coral-filled Indian Ocean.

  Sighs of relief all round.

  I might not be able to get away from my ex-husband completely, but at least I can sleep soundly on my veranda now, not having to hear his whiny little voice asking for the sun cream.

  We unpack all over again, which is made slightly more pleasant by the calming music Ray plays on the TV surround sound system as we do so. He’s doing all he can to improve my mood and get me to relax, and I love him for that about as much as I do for getting us this much needed move in the first place.

  His reaction to my story of woe was about as positive as I could have hoped for, and I have to wonder why I didn’t lay it all out for him in detail sooner. We’ve been together now for a year, and engaged for three months. I shouldn’t feel the need to keep anything from him.

  But was that it? Maybe not.

  I don’t think I’ve been able to tell the whole sorry story to him previously just because it’s too damn painful to talk about.

  Ironically, even though the cause of my pain is only half a mile away, it’s still easier to divulge everything when you’re thousands of miles away from where it all actually happened. There’s a strange feeling of disconnection from the world when you get out here in the middle of the Indian Ocean, and I suppose that makes it easier to confront and deal with the sins of the past.

  I gaze over at the clock on the bedside cabinet to see that it’s not long until our first all-inclusive meal of the holiday. Excellent. I can hear my tummy rumbling like a mad thing. I can’t wait to gorge myself on the enormous buffet they provide here on Wimbufushi – all of it cooked by extremely talented people locked away in one of those grey buildings at the interior.

  But first, before we go to dinner, I think I’ll go and sit out on the veranda again to enjoy some late afternoon sun. My last attempt at doing this was rudely interrupted by Joel Sinclair and his search for sun cream – but there will be none of that this time around. Ray has taken care of that for me.

  I slide open the door to the veranda, and take my place on the sun lounger.

  When I look out on to the ocean, I am vaguely disappointed to see that the thing the lounger is built for is nowhere to be seen.

  ‘Where’s the sun?’ I say to myself out loud, looking out at a clear blue sky, just starting to darken at the edges as the day moves into evening.

  My mouth drops open as I realise why I can’t see the sun from my vantage point.

  We’ve moved.

  We’ve changed water bungalows.

  And that means our view has shifted.

  And it’s shifted so much that the sun is now going to set behind the bungalow. If I want to watch it go down, I’ll have to either stand at the front door, or go and invade the bungalow opposite. And I’m not sure the inhabitants will take too kindly to that.

  Don’t seethe, Amy. It’ll do you no good whatsoever.

  But I want to seethe.

  I want to seethe so much that it becomes a superpower with which I can fight crime on my return to the UK. Seethe Woman they will call me, and my costume will be bright red with a set of gritted teeth as my insignia.

  I’ve lost my sunset.

  My beautiful sunset.

  The thing I’ve dreamed about for weeks.

  All. Because. Of. Joel. Sinclair.

  Damn him!

  I’m
well aware of how entitled and brattish this might make me sound – I’m in the Maldives, in a water bungalow, and it’s thirty degrees in the shade – but I’ve dreamed about that sunset for six years now. At times of great stress I’ve used it as a visualisation to calm me down. Me, lying on a sun lounger just like this, with a drink in my hand, watching the sun gently set on the horizon . . .

  I even have it as my screensaver on my computer at work. A professionally taken version of it at least. I don’t use one of the cack-handed shots Joel took; I found a much better picture on the internet.

  And it’s been taken away from me.

  If I want to watch the sun go down now, I’ll have to go and sit on the end of the walkway our bungalow is on. That will be fine, I guess. But it won’t be private. It won’t be just for me.

  And I won’t be able to do it with my boobs out. Which, if I haven’t mentioned yet, is part of my little sunset fantasy. For what reason I know not – but I just liked the idea of doing it with my boobs on display to the slowly sinking orb of burning hydrogen. Let’s just call it a sub-conscious predilection I have no control over, and move on.

  No. There will be no half-naked sunset-watching for me. Joel Sinclair has seen to that.

  Damn him!

  ‘Everything okay, sweetheart?’ Ray says, as he comes out to join me on the veranda.

  ‘Yes! Of course!’ I reply in as bright a voice as I can manage.

  I can’t let him see I’m still upset about Joel’s actions – not after all he’s done to make this holiday as comfortable as possible for me.

  I’ll just have to suck up my disappointment about the lack of sunset and move on.

  Just like I had to move on from losing the job I loved two years ago.

  Ooh.

  You’re not going to get away with it, Joel.

  I’m going to make sure you bloody don’t . . .