Wimbufushi’s Twilight Meal and Movie event has become something of a legend on TripAdvisor. I’ve read countless reviews of how wonderful it is over the past few months, and am incredibly eager to experience it for myself. It wasn’t something they did when I was here six years ago, and is one of the highlights of this holiday that I’ve been anticipating the most.
The set-up is simple: the island’s guests eat a prepared meal on the sands, under a beautiful twilight sky, before moving over to a lot of comfy beanbags when it gets completely dark, to plop themselves down in front of a temporarily erected movie screen for the main feature.
The film tonight is An Affair To Remember, which is a lovely old romance that I remember watching when I was an impressionable teenager. It may have just been the rampant hormones, but I recall it having quite an emotional effect on me, and I’m looking forward to seeing if it has a similar impact as an adult.
I’m not looking forward to Joel and Miss Rowntree being there – which they are bound to be, because of how popular the Twilight Meal and Movie is. Nobody comes to Wimbufushi these days without attending the event, and I know Joel is a bit of a sucker for old movies. Their presence is virtually guaranteed.
Unless he can’t move properly because of that massage you made him have.
‘I’m really looking forward to this,’ I say to Ray, ignoring my annoying conscience. It’s not going to do me any good to dwell further on my mistake from earlier.
‘Me too,’ he replies, and slips a hand into mine. ‘Shall we?’
‘Yes!’ I say, and give him a huge smile.
The prospect of snuggling up to Ray on a big beanbag, while a classic romance plays out in front of me, is one that makes my heart flutter with pleasure.
As does the sight that greets us, as we arrive at the long, broad expanse of sand that makes up almost the entire western side of Wimbufushi island.
The usual thatched wooden umbrellas that we lie under to stay out of the hot tropical sun have been removed to make way for about two dozen tables, each lit with their own bamboo torch. Further along from these are an equal number of beanbags, set out in four staggered lines in front of a large white screen and digital projector.
Above my head the sky is a fiery orange colour, as the sun disappears below the horizon. Very soon, the inky blues and blacks of the early night will replace the diminishing influence of the sun, and the stars will start to come out – tiny pinpricks of incandescent light in an ocean of silky darkness.
Yes . . . I have been fantasising about this moment for a long time now. So much so that I am able to describe it in such a lyrical fashion. I’m normally a very straightforward kind of woman, not prone to such flights of fancy, but give me half a chance and a decent run up, and I can be poetic. Even if it is done is a somewhat clichéd fashion.
From the pocket of his linen trousers, Ray produces a card, which was hand delivered in an envelope to us by one of the island’s staff earlier this afternoon. On it is our invitation to the Twilight Meal and Movie. Needless to say there’s a lot of gold embossing going on with the invitation. It wouldn’t be right without it.
‘We’re on table twenty-two,’ Ray says. He looks up and surveys the layout in front of us. ‘They’ve all got the numbers on those little bamboo signs. Let’s go find ours.’
I nod in agreement, and we make our way between the carefully laid-out tables and find ours quite close to the beanbags. As we sit down, I make a point of not looking for Joel Sinclair. A lot of the other guests are starting to sit down at their own tables, but I have no interest in seeing if any of them are my ex-husband and his young girlfriend. This is going to be a happy, fun evening for me. For me and Ray.
A waiter comes over to our table and pours us both water. He asks us what drinks we’d like, and I chose a margarita while Ray opts for a whiskey sour.
After the waiter has returned with them, Ray and I spend the next few minutes chatting and sipping our cocktails, as we wait for every guest to take their seat.
I don’t even let the smile falter on my face when I do see Joel arrive just over Ray’s left shoulder. He’s walking a bit awkwardly. Actually, he looks like he’s in a fair amount of pain. My grip on the margarita glass tightens ever so slightly, as I try to concentrate on what Ray is telling me – something about orders for the new Sunseeker yacht when it gets released next month. But I’m having trouble paying attention, as my heart has risen into my throat because I’ve realised that my little practical joke has definitely not been treated as such. Joel looks genuinely distressed.
And then, after he’s sat down gingerly in his seat, he scans the tables around him, and his eyes momentarily lock with mine.
I instantly look down at my drink, feeling a flush of shame suffuse my face.
Don’t! Don’t do that. You made a silly mistake, but Joel doesn’t deserve to see you looking upset!
Ray is finishing his story about how the Sunseeker rep lost his shoe over the side of the catamaran last week, and when he stops talking and smiles, I look right at him and laugh, as if I’d heard even half of what he had to say.
Ray looks a little taken aback at the strength of my reaction. A man losing a shoe over the side of a moored catamaran is somewhat amusing, but hardly warrants the level of laughter I’m responding with.
Never mind. If Joel is still looking over, he’ll see me having a whale of a time. To back this up, I reach forward and take Ray’s hand in mine.
Look how romantic I’m being!
Look how in love I am!
Look how everything is right in my world!
I don’t look past Ray’s shoulder again to see if Joel is taking in my little pantomime, even though every fibre of my being wants me to.
The waiter returns and asks us what we want for our meal.
I glance at him with a fixed smile on my face and pick up the menu. I have no idea what I want to eat. I haven’t thought about it at all. Not when I’ve been concentrating so hard on not paying my ex-husband any attention, and looking like I’m having the time of my life.
I flip open the menu and scan down the page.
‘I’ll have the dover sole, please,’ Ray tells the waiter, closing his menu and handing it to him.
Shit. I really should have paid closer attention to what I wanted to eat.
‘I’ll have . . . I’ll have the . . . I’ll have the Bolognaise, thank you.’ It’s a boring choice, but it’s the only Italian thing on the menu, and I’m a sucker for Italian food. Always have been.
‘Of course, madam,’ the waiter replies with a smile.
‘Only, do you do a vegetarian option? Beef gives me digestive problems.’
Oh God!
Why did I tell him that?! He doesn’t have to know that!
My face flames red again, this time with embarrassment, but then I remember I’m trying to look like this is the best night of my life, so I grin at the waiter like he’s just told me I’ve won the lottery.
‘Of course, madam. We always have a vegetarian option.’
‘Thank you!’
Grin a bit wider, woman. We might not look convincing enough at the moment.
Now I’m gurning at the poor bloke like I’m about to jump up and fork his eyeballs out. No wonder he hurries away from the table as fast as his legs can carry him.
‘Are you okay, sweetheart?’ Ray asks, taking in my over-the-top performance.
‘Yes! Yes, I’m fine! Just happy to be here. Here with you. It’s lovely.’
And boy do I look happy. So very, very bloody HAPPY.
Yes, yes. Happy, happy, happy, happy.
I’m having the time of my bastard life, right here, right now.
My eyes flick up over Ray’s shoulder, and I can see that Joel is no longer sat in his seat. I’m acting like this for nothing.
I pick up my margarita and sling the rest of it down my neck.
‘Whoa! Go easy, Amy!’ Ray says with a chuckle. ‘You might want to wait for your food.’
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br /> He’s probably right, but the half glass of margarita is already working its magic as it warms by entire being. I give up trying to pretend I’m having the best time of my life, and instead try my hardest to just have a nice time. My audient has buggered off somewhere anyway, so no point in carrying on with this silly charade.
Over the next ten minutes, while we wait for our meals, I make a concerted effort not to pay Joel any attention whatsoever once he comes back to his seat – and I’m pleased to say I’m quite successful. It’s not the easiest thing in the world to ignore how much fun your ex appears to be having with his new girlfriend over a glass of wine, but I give it my best of British, and whip my brain until it disregards everything he’s doing.
I actually do such a good job of this that I’ve almost forgotten he’s even here by the time the waiter pops a large bowl of spaghetti Bolognaise under my nose.
It smells absolutely divine.
I’m sure it looks fantastic as well, only it’s a bit hard to tell because the sun has gone completely down now, and our only illumination is the bamboo torch next to the table. This does not give off much light though, so it’s tremendously hard to actually see what my meal looks like.
Never mind. I guess you have to make some concessions when you’re eating under the starlight on a gorgeous beach. I don’t think I’d trade the glorious light show going on above my head for a better look at my spaghetti. The dark night sky is absolutely studded with stars. I can even pick out the banding of the Milky Way galaxy. Amazing.
What’s also amazing is the Bolognaise.
‘Bloody hell,’ I remark, after swallowing. ‘This is incredible.’
Ray picks up another piece of fish with his fork. ‘I can’t disagree. This is the best fish I’ve ever eaten.’
The quality of the food has reminded me how hungry I am, and I’m afraid to say I do not go about eating my meal in the most ladylike of fashions, though I am careful not to get sauce all down my dress.
Whatever soy or plant-based product they use as a replacement for the beef is extremely tasty. It’s almost impossible to tell the difference.
The Bolognaise – along with the three pieces of soft, fluffy garlic bread that accompanied it – are gone in less than fifteen minutes. I have to sit there sipping my second margarita while Ray finishes off his dover sole. I do this with more of an intense level of concentration than is entirely necessary, fearing that if I don’t, I might be tempted to look up and see what Joel is up to.
Aaargh.
Why can’t I just ignore him? Why does he sit in the forefront my mind like a fat, ugly frog that won’t just hop off somewhere else?
Having him constantly in my eyeline, laughing and joking with Cara, doesn’t help matters.
I shift a little in my seat as I continue to not look over Ray’s shoulder at all. My dress – which felt a little tight before I left the water bungalow – now starts to feel quite uncomfortable, given that I’m now full of vegetarian Bolognaise.
I can’t wait to get out of this upright chair and into a big, relaxing beanbag.
Also, the two margaritas are making my head swim a bit, so lying down on something big and squishy will be a godsend.
However, a further forty-five minutes elapse before our hosts bid us go over to the beanbags, if we have finished our meals. It’s taken them that long to get the projector set up for the film.
I grunt in relief as we’re told this.
I never knew how hard to it was to not look at something for forty-five minutes.
Try it sometime. Sit yourself in a room with a painting on the wall right in front of you, and look at everything other than it for three quarters of an hour. It’s a lot more difficult than you’d imagine.
I’ve been looking at Ray’s face, looking at his plate, looking at my plate, looking at the stars overhead, looking at the guys setting up the projector . . . in fact, looking at everything and anything except the thing that the stupid part of my brain actually wants to look at.
I’m very tired. And knee deep into the third margarita of the evening.
Oh, leave me alone. It gave me something else to look at.
With some considerable relief, I rise from the table and walk over to the beanbags. I want to get in position near the front as quickly as possible, before Joel gets there as well. If I get the front row locked down, he’ll sit further back, I just know it. Then I won’t have to play Don’t Look At Joel anymore tonight. It’s not a game I enjoy, and certainly one I don’t think I’m all that good at.
‘Wait up!’ Ray says, trying to keep up with me as I stumble over the silky sand, my head thrust forward in a determined manner.
Soz, Ray, but I want that front-row beanbag. The big orange one in the middle that looks the comfiest of the lot. Nothing will stop me getting it. We might be about to watch An Affair To Remember, but I’m more concerned right now with getting a beanbag to remember.
I snort a little laughter as I close in on my quarry.
The three margaritas have clearly gone to my head. I don’t normally find beanbags that funny.
There’s a tricky moment when a senior couple nearly gets to the orange beanbag ahead of me, but I’ve got a good thirty years on the pair of old codgers, so manage to nip in there just before they do.
Now.
If you recall, I’m wearing a tight Boden dress that makes my bottom look lovely.
What it doesn’t do is accommodate settling down into a beanbag very well.
If I was sober, I’d probably spend a good few moments awkwardly lowering myself down into it. But as I’m three margaritas deep, I instead spin around to face the movie screen, fling my arms out wide, and fall back into the big soft bag with a squeal of delight.
Ray arrives to find me spread-eagled, and can’t help but laugh.
‘You’re drunk,’ he accuses.
‘I am not!’ I insist. ‘I’m just . . . just happy to be here.’ Which is the God’s honest truth. I think this is the happiest I’ve been since we arrived on the island, thanks to the alcohol and food.
Fuck Joel and his pre-pubescent girlfriend. I’m having a good time, and I’m about to watch a lovely romantic movie, with a lovely romantic man.
Super-duper.
Ray takes his place next to me and I immediately wrap myself around his left arm. Ray has marvellous biceps. I enjoy them at every opportunity that’s presented to me.
I stay in this position, talking with Ray about nothing in particular, while the rest of the island’s guests finish their meals and join us on the beanbags.
I am delighted to note that I have no idea where Joel and Cara have sat down. They’re certainly not in the front row.
Lovely stuff.
Azim – Wimbufushi’s main host, and wearer of all things white and pristine – stands in front of the screen, and introduces tonight’s film. We all give him a polite clap as he then exits stage left, and the screen goes from plain white to a very old school Twentieth Century Fox logo. The picture quality is much better than I expected it to be – we’re getting the full letterbox, widescreen experience here.
That ever-so-famous Fox fanfare plays, giving way to a snowy credits sequence and the film’s theme song, sung by a man who must have taken a thousand lessons in how to croon that effectively.
I snuggle down into the beanbag even more as the credits roll, losing myself in both the nostalgia unfolding on the screen in front of me, and the warm, comforting glow of alcohol.
I stay that way for the first part of the movie, watching Cary Grant and Deborah Kerr begin a friendship that will eventually blossom into love aboard the SS Constitution.
By the time they make their promises to one another to meet again atop the Empire State Building, I am struggling a little to keep my eyes open. This beanbag is comfy, the air is warm, and the gentle sea breeze is wonderful.
Only Deborah Kerr’s car accident shakes me out of my reverie a bit, but that only lasts for another few minutes or so before I
’m back feeling snoozy again.
I’m trying my hardest to concentrate on the movie, but it’s just so hard when you’re—
Prrrp.
Oh God.
I just farted.
I throw a glance at Ray to see if he noticed.
No . . .
Thank God. He’s wrapped up in what’s going on with poor old Deborah Kerr and her injuries.
I have never farted in front of Ray. Not audibly, anyway. And I don’t intend to start now.
Prrrrp.
Aaaargh! What the hell?!
Two unintended farts in a row?
That never happens to me.
Unintended farts that creep out whether you like it or not are supposed to only happen after you’ve passed the age of retirement. I’m far too young to be experiencing them!
Then I feel my stomach roll.
Any drowsiness I might have been feeling due to the comfortable beanbag and alcohol haze has instantly disappeared.
Grrrngle.
That was my stomach – or more accurately, my bowels.
I shift in the beanbag a little, so that I’m sat more or less upright. I can feel pain and discomfort starting to blossom in my bowelular area, and it is disconcerting to say the least.
Frrrrrrrrr.
Another fart – this one longer and more . . . er . . . generous. But it’s happily captured by the beanbag, and rendered silent by it.
I look at Ray again, who is still engrossed in the movie. That accident must have really had an effect on him.
I think I’m going to have an accident that will have a bloody effect on me too, if I’m not careful. Okay, it won’t be as bad as losing the use of my legs, like poor Deborah, but losing control of my bowels all over this beanbag won’t exactly be a fucking walk in the park either.
I need to get up and get back to the bungalow, for what is fast becoming the need for an urgent poo.
To begin this process, I sit up a little straighter in the beanbag, and shift my upper body forward.
This results in another bottom burp. One that would have ended with a prize, if I hadn’t immediately sat back down again and clenched my butt cheeks together.
You Again? Page 11
