You Again?

by Spalding, Nick

  Wednesday

  JOEL – EXCRUCIATING

  ‘She’s definitely gone,’ Cara remarks, as I come out of the shower, rubbing my head with a towel.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yep. I heard a bit of a commotion, so I looked through the spyglass in the front door, and I could see a Chinese couple going in with their son. Amy and Ray have definitely moved away.’

  I smile with relief. ‘Fabulous. She must have made the poor bugger go and change bungalows. Amy can be a right harridan when she doesn’t get her own way.’

  ‘I still can’t believe they’re on the same island as us,’ Cara says, getting up from the bed and stretching her arms out wide. ‘Of all the bad luck.’

  ‘Yeah. Bad luck,’ I reply in a non-committal tone, before going back to the important business of drying my hair – which is already bone dry, if we’re being honest about it.

  I’m doing this because, of course, I’m still not being honest about why it’s not such an astounding coincidence that Amy and Ray have chosen this island.

  ‘I’ll get dressed and we’ll go over for breakfast,’ I tell Cara, as I head back to the wardrobes, so she’s out of sight.

  Coward.

  When I emerge back into the main room, Cara is standing, looking out of the glass double doors at the horizon. She looks absolutely adorable in her jean shorts and flip flops. Her long chestnut hair is tied up in a ponytail, and I have to once again wonder how I managed to find myself in a relationship with someone like her.

  You’re far too old for her, I tell myself for the millionth time. And for the millionth time I ignore myself.

  ‘You look lovely,’ I tell Cara, as I move over to hug her from behind.

  ‘Thank you,’ she replies and turns her head to give me a kiss. Her face then turns a little quizzical. ‘You look . . . different.’

  ‘Really? How?’

  She tilts her head. ‘I don’t know. Maybe a little less . . . tight? Around the eyes?’

  I look out on to the horizon. ‘It’s probably that,’ I venture. ‘Views like that have a habit of making your eyeballs relax a bit.’

  Cara laughs. ‘Maybe, but maybe it’s just because we’re away from work.’

  I nod. ‘Quite possibly. It’s nice to be free and clear from somewhere you’ve been crashing and burning for so long.’

  Cara shakes her head and frowns. ‘Stop that. You’re brilliant at your job. I wouldn’t be half the saleswoman I am without everything you’ve shown me over the past eighteen months. It’s one of the main reasons why I’m with you.’ She grins. ‘That, and that cute smile of yours. You can’t help it if some people at work are arseholes, and things are . . . a bit dry for you at the moment.’

  ‘More than a bit,’ I say ruefully.

  Cara kisses me again. ‘Forget about it. We’re here now, and work doesn’t matter.’

  ‘Okay,’ I say, really trying my hardest to agree with her.

  ‘Good. Now, let’s go to breakfast, shall we? I’m famished,’ Cara says, patting her belly.

  ‘Yep. Me too. Let’s go.’

  Which we do, holding hands, and delighted to be out and about on such a beautiful day.

  There’s nothing quite like the first full morning of a holiday. You’ve had a decent wash and a good night’s sleep, and feel ready to take on the day.

  And by ‘take on the day’ I mean eat as much as is humanly possible and fart about for the rest of the day, doing nothing much at all. Day one of a holiday should always be spent this way. There’s plenty of time for all of those excursions and that entertainment business later. Day one should be all about indulging your inner sloth.

  Two things put a massive smile on my face when we reach the restaurant area, and the breakfast buffet. The first is that they are serving waffles. I adore waffles more than is healthy for a man in his late thirties. Especially when you add bacon and maple syrup into the equation.

  The second is that there is no sign of Amy or Ray. And because they’re not here, it means I’ll probably avoid them completely this morning. Amy is always an early riser on the first day of a holiday. I have no idea why, but it’s just the way she is. If they’re not in here now, then they’ll have been and gone already, given that it’s nearly ten o’clock.

  They turned up after Cara and me at dinner last night. I caught sight of them over by the seafood buffet, while I was sipping my second Sin City of the night. Luckily, they didn’t sit anywhere near us, so I was able to just about digest my pad thai noodles okay and drink my cocktail, but I can’t pretend that the joy of my favourite Wimbufushi drink wasn’t somewhat marred by the knowledge that they were quite close by.

  My breakfast this morning is fantastic, and by the time half eleven rolls around, I am ready to roll out of this restaurant, and go for a nice bimble around the island. There’s a hammock slung between two palm trees on the western end I want to give a very close inspection.

  ‘Don’t forget we’re booked into the spa at midday,’ Cara says, sipping her coffee.

  I try my hardest not to grimace.

  I’d forgotten about that.

  Forgotten that Cara spent a good couple of hours last week booking us in on a lot of the island’s activities – which includes a visit to the luxury day spa.

  Spas conjure up images of mud and cucumbers in my head. Two things that have no business being thought of at the same time. Mud is something you encounter when at a music festival, or on a long hike. Cucumbers are strictly the province of afternoon tea and clumsy innuendo. They should never be put together, under any acceptable circumstances.

  I’m not sure I want to visit the Wimbufushi Spa, but I fear I may have no choice in the matter. Cara has made the bookings, you see, and has already paid the extra. I just want to work on my convincing impression of a stunned sloth for the rest of the day, but instead I will have to go to a building where people will come at me with mud and cucumbers.

  ‘What did you say I could have done?’ I ask Cara.

  What I mean is: what is the easiest spa treatment I can have? But I can’t say that, as I don’t want to sound unenthusiastic about the whole thing. This holiday has not got off to the best start with the whole Amy business, so I’m keen to make sure Cara gets what she wants today, with me along for the ride.

  ‘A relaxing massage, Joel. You need one. I don’t expect you to have the stones treatment like I’m having, but a massage will be really good for you. Help you relax a little.’

  She’s right about that. The last few years at RL&H have left me tighter than a snare drum. Struggling to find and maintain a client list when you’ve lost your mojo completely will do that to you.

  ‘Okay, that sounds fine to me.’ It doesn’t really, but I want to make Cara happy.

  ‘Great. Shall we head over there then? Make sure we’re on time?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  We both rise from our seats, and head off in the direction of the spa, which is housed within several small huts on stilts over the water, on the southern edge of Wimbufushi.

  This requires us to walk around the island, as there is no way to cut through the middle – that’s where all the staff live, and is strictly off limits to us gormless tourists.

  I’m thoroughly enjoying the stroll along the white sandy beach until . . .

  . . . yes, you’ve guessed it. Look who’s coming the other way, from out of the luxury spa we’re about to enter?

  ‘Oh shit,’ I say, slightly under my breath, as I watch them walk down on to the sand, and in our direction.

  ‘No. Don’t do that, Joel,’ Cara replies. ‘We’re here to enjoy ourselves, and we’re not going to let those two ruin that, are we?’

  I see the determination on her face, and it puts steel resolve in my spine. ‘No. You’re right. We’re not.’

  I take her hand and plaster on what I hope is a happy and relaxed expression.

  As we get closer to Amy and Ray, I can see that they too are doing their best to not seem bo
thered about running into us.

  Therefore, please enjoy four people who all look like they’ve just been told by the serial killer that he likes to keep people alive who look happy all the time.

  ‘Morning!’ Ray says in a cheery voice, as we all come within chatting distance. There isn’t a crackle of dark energy in the air, but you’d be forgiven for expecting one.

  ‘Hello!’ Cara replies, equally enthusiastically. I can feel the grip on my hand tighten.

  ‘Lovely, isn’t it!’ I crow, sounding ecstatic about the mere fact I’m alive.

  ‘Absolutely,’ Amy says, in what anyone else would assume is a calm and relaxed manner, but I know is the potential prelude to the serial killer getting a taste of his own medicine. ‘Are you . . . are you headed for the spa?’

  Translation: Die in the pits of hell, Joel.

  ‘Yes, that’s the plan!’ I reply.

  Translation: You first.

  ‘It’s a great way to relax.’

  Translation: Oh no. Please. After you. I can kick you in the arsehole, to get you moving.

  ‘Yes. So I’ve heard. Very much looking forward to it.’

  Translation: Yes, I’d better go before you, just to warn them all that something far worse than them is about to appear.

  It may be thirty-two degrees today, but in this little patch of Maldivian beach it’s about twenty below.

  ‘Well, we’ll be off for our treatment, then. Don’t want to be late,’ Cara says, sensing that if she doesn’t get me away from this little conflab soon, my hastily constructed façade of holiday happiness will completely fall apart.

  ‘Yes. We’re off to do a bit of sunbathing,’ Ray tells her.

  ‘Well, enjoy that then.’

  I feel Cara pull at my hand, and I’m happy to be led away. There’s a final moment where Amy and I lock eyes again. Somewhere – far away, deep below us, and in a place even hotter than this beach – I hear a shrill scream of terror.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ I say explosively, as we continue our way down the beach and on to the boardwalk leading to the spa’s eight huts – the first of which is the small reception for the facility, being manned by two slight Maldivian women in identical white spa outfits, which have a touch of pyjamas about them, and more than a little medical scrubs.

  ‘Well done, you did very well,’ Cara tells me as we approach them. And I’m inclined to agree with her. Amy will not have the satisfaction of seeing me unhappy today.

  It’s a bloody good job she’s not standing next to me now then, as I am told what treatment I’m going to have to endure in this spa – a full body massage.

  I do not want a full body massage.

  ‘Full body’ implies that there will be attention paid to the bottom. And the bottom is a man’s own private kingdom. I do not want it assailed by a small Maldivian woman.

  But . . . I promised I would do everything I could to keep Cara happy, so I continue to affect my holiday-happy expression as I am led away into a nearby hut by one of the girls, who identifies herself as Suha – a pretty little woman who can’t be more than five feet tall.

  Suha bids me enter the small changing area in one corner of the hut – which is decorated exactly like our water bungalow, only with the addition of a large massage table and a variety of big glass pots full of some kind of oil. No idea what the oil is, but there’s an awful lot of it about. The massage room is open to the ocean, of course. Just like every other building here on the island.

  My masseuse tells me that she’s just going to pop out while I get myself comfortable, and will return very soon. She suggests I strip down to my underwear and lie on the massage table, covering myself with the towel that she’s placed on it.

  This is fine, as I don’t particularly want to get undressed with her in the room.

  After I’ve divested myself of my clothes, I nervously settle on to the table, and await Suha’s return.

  I really should try to relax and look forward to this. Cara is right – a nice massage will do me the world of good.

  But it’s very hard to get my muscles to unbunch, not least because I’ve just had another run-in with my ex-wife.

  And when I hear what I think is her voice again, coming from somewhere outside, they tighten even more. I prop myself up, breathless on the table, waiting to hear if I’m right – that the witch queen has returned to haunt me – but when I hear nothing more, I take a few deep breaths and lie flat again. I must have been mistaken. She’s probably long gone with Ray, off to torment the local sea creatures with her looks of disapproval, no doubt.

  A couple of minutes later Suha returns, carrying a basket of massage oils, seeming a tad out of sorts. There’s a slight look of confusion on her face for a few moments, but by the time she’s chosen which oil to use, and clipped it to her belt, the composed look has reappeared.

  ‘Okay, Mr Sinclair. Please just relax and let me get to work. Would you like some music on?’

  ‘Why not?’ I reply.

  ‘Alexa,’ Suha says, over to the white Echo on the table in one corner, ‘play album one.’

  The massage room is instantly filled with calm, plinky plonky music. I’m sure it has a proper name, but I always like to think of it as plinky plonky music. Okay, there’s some wumming going on as well, and not a little blanging here and there, but it’s mostly plinky plonky.

  Suha does indeed get to work, by rubbing massage oil into my back, and starting to run her fingers over my muscles in a way that I find both disconcerting and quite pleasurable. It feels like she’s lightly probing me for signs of tension and pain, which she has no problem finding, given that I am basically one giant ball of tension these days.

  But what she’s doing feels quite marvellous, so I relax a little more on to the table, enjoying both the plinky plonky music and her probey wobey fingers.

  Boy, Cara was on to a winner here. I don’t know why I ever doubted her. A man could get used to this kind of treatm—

  Meeaaaargh!

  What the hell is she doing?

  I can feel Suha’s thumb digging into what is clearly a large knot just below my right shoulder blade. This sends a bolt of pain through me.

  ‘Just relax and take a nice deep breath,’ she says, continuing to apply pressure.

  Jesus Christ. Relax? With her thumb digging right in and—

  . . . oh.

  Actually, I do feel the pain going away. And a weird sense of ‘loosening’ around the area the knot is in.

  After a moment, Suha relaxes and takes her thumb away, leaving me with an ache in the area she prodded that is not altogether unpleasant.

  Let’s hope that’s the only knot like that she finds, because I—

  Uuuurrrgggh!

  Nope, there’s another one! This time on the left side, close to my neck. The pain from this is worse than the first. It’s like somebody has decided to stick a ball point pen in me. But again, Suha commands me take a deep breath. And I do so, feeling that odd loosening sensation once more.

  This is obviously what her ministrations are meant to accomplish, but I’m not so sure the benefit is worth all the pai—

  Bleeerrghhh!

  This one’s on the lower left of my back, right where my kidney is. Or, should I say, where my kidney was, because I’m sure the hideous pressure she’s applying must have dislodged it.

  I can’t stand this. It’s just too much. I thought I was getting a nice, gentle massage, but instead I’m being stabbed repeatedly by thumbs that must be constructed of titanium. I should just get up and leave before she’s allowed to do any more damage.

  But then Cara’s face swims into view, and I know I have to endure this massage until it’s over. She’s paid for me to have this, to help me with my tension problems, so I should see it through. And what Suha’s doing is relieving tension, even if that comes with a large degree of agon—

  Vluuurrrggh!

  Suha thumbs me in the neck on the right-hand side this time, so at least the resultant dull aches
will feel more balanced up.

  How is she doing this?

  Suha is barely tall enough to go on rides at Chessington, and is skinnier than the latte I have to drink these days to keep my cholesterol levels low. How is she able to summon up such force?

  I take another couple of deep breaths as she continues to work on me, willing this massage to end, but knowing it has really only just begun.

  I have to trust Cara though. I have to trust that she knows what’s best for me. This will help me. It may feel like I’m being ramrodded by a sentient jackhammer, but the results must be worth it.

  Listen to the plinky plonky, Joel.

  Concentrate on the plinky plonky.

  Feel the warm Maldivian sea breeze caress your skin, and lose yourself in the plinky plonky. That’s the only way you’re going to get through this.

  Yes.

  The plinky plonky.

  Ignore the stabby wabby, and the agony wagony, and just listen to the plinky plonky.

  . . .

  This does help.

  Marginally.

  With it, I am able to endure the next ten minutes of Suha continuing to target every knot and cramp in both my back and my legs.

  And then, she moves on to my bottom.

  We have already discussed how a man’s bottom is his own private kingdom, and should be respected as such, but the invading force of little Suha is not taking any prisoners. The Kingdom of the Sinclair Rear is getting the blitzkrieg treatment, and there’s nothing I can do about it, if I don’t want to upset Cara.

  Remember the plinky plonky.

  It will save you.

  But all the relaxing spa music in the world cannot possibly hope to take your mind off having a small Maldivian woman thumbing your arse. I doubt there is anything in the world that could do that – save for maybe having another small Maldivian woman thumbing your balls.

  Suha isn’t actually getting into any places she shouldn’t – her thumb is working at the outside of my buttocks, close to my hip – but I still feel violated, nonetheless. Even if every time she relaxes her thumb, I feel that intense sense of loosening going on in the muscles she’s working at.