You Again?

by Spalding, Nick

  Oh fuck.

  Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck.

  I’m going to shit myself in front of Cary Grant.

  ‘Are you okay, Amy?’ Ray asks, having finally pulled away from the romantic drama unfolding before his eyes, thanks to me moving around so much.

  ‘Yes. I think so. Just . . . just a little uncomfortable, thanks to my dress.’

  That seems like a decent excuse. It’s a half-truth, anyway. This dress is not the type of thing you want to be wearing in a beanbag. It’s also not the type of thing you want to be wearing when your bowels are becoming more and more distressed by the minute. Distressed bowels require loose, flowing clothes. If I move too fast in this damn thing, I’ll end up squeezing my stomach area, and forcing out another fart.

  I really do need to get up.

  ‘I think . . . I think I’m going to go and get changed,’ I tell Ray.

  ‘Aw . . . but you’ll miss the movie.’

  ‘That’s okay. This is a boring part anyway.’ It’s not a boring part at all. We’re just getting to the bit where Cary Grant bumps into Deborah Kerr again at the ballet. It’s a vital scene to the movie’s plot.

  I’m afraid all considerations for their love affair have gone out of the window, though. I’d like to see how they overcome the odds stacked against them, but the odds are fast stacking up for me as to whether I’m going to get out of here with my dignity intact.

  ‘Well, hurry back, then,’ Ray says, a little disappointed, and goes back to watching the film.

  God damn it, why has this happened to me?

  I never need a poo in the evening. Especially not one this immediate. In fact, the only time I ever remember having digestive issues like this is when I’ve—

  Oh, Christ. They must have cocked my meal order up and given me the beef !

  That explains it!

  I can’t tolerate beef. I’ve never been able to. It always gives me this kind of trouble.

  And I just ate a massive bowl of it, didn’t I? Under dim lighting that didn’t allow me to examine it too closely. No wonder it tasted so authentic. It bloody was authentic!

  I can’t believe the expert chefs of Wimbufushi could have got it so wrong, but they must have. That’s the only explanation for my current horrific situation.

  I have to get up. Right now.

  I try to sit forward once again, and once again my bowels tell me that this is a very bad idea. The dress constricts around my waist, and I feel things rumbling down there that I really don’t want to think about.

  Okay, so sitting forward is out.

  Maybe I can try gently rolling over, and pushing myself to my feet?

  That should keep the dress as loose as possible, shouldn’t it?

  Frrrrrrrgle.

  Oh fuck me, that’s the worst one yet! An Affair To Remember is going to become A Follow-Through to Remember and Cringe about for the Rest of my Life, if I don’t get out of here!

  Slowly, I start to roll myself over. Ray gives me a quizzical look.

  ‘Beanbags, eh?’ I say to him. ‘Always hard to get out of!’

  He nods, smiles and goes back to the film.

  I manage to get fully turned around, so my belly is against the orange beanbag material. Then I shift my bottom backwards, and start to lift myself off with my arms.

  My bowels roll again, and I immediately slam back on to the beanbag, because having my posterior raised is a sure-fire way of venting another accidental gaseous emission into the world.

  ‘Having problems?’ Ray asks. ‘I can help if you like.’

  ‘No, no. I’m fine! You just watch the movie!’ I tell him, not wanting him any closer to me right now than is strictly necessary.

  But now I am rather stuck, aren’t I?

  Whatever way I move, I am likely to fart once more. I can barely keep them in just lying here like a stranded turtle.

  Fucking hell!

  Why did they have to serve me beef?!

  I thought this bloody resort was five star! Mistakes like this are supposed to happen at a motorway restaurant somewhere along the M25, not at a luxury Maldivian retreat!

  When I do get out of this, I’m going to make a complaint. It really isn’t good enough that I’ve been served beef by accident. It really isn’t . . . good . . . enough . . . at . . . all . . .

  I’ve spotted Joel.

  He’s a couple of rows back from me, lying in a beanbag with Cara next to him.

  He has his hands laced behind his head and is staring right at me. There is a grin on his face. A smug, self-satisfied grin that instantly changes my entire perception of what’s happened to me.

  The chefs didn’t make a mistake.

  That bastard . . . that absolute hammering bastard . . . changed my bloody order.

  Joel knows all about my problems with cow-based products. He was there that Boxing Day when I stupidly ate his mother’s roast beef, so as not to appear rude. I spent most of that evening on the toilet.

  And he knows how much I love Italian food. It wouldn’t have taken a genius to figure out that I’d probably want to have the Bolognaise, but without the beef mince in it.

  And he got up and left his table, didn’t he? Right around the time the food orders were taken . . .

  I go wide-eyed and slack jawed. The bastard has turned the tables on me! He did to me exactly what I did to him with the massage!

  But I only did that to get back at him for ruining my sunset!

  Aaaarggh!

  Every facet of that smug smile he’s aiming at me tells me that I have the absolute right of it.

  This is all Joel’s fault!

  And now he gets to watch me struggle with bowels that want to empty themselves at the nearest given opportunity.

  To hell with that! I won’t give him the satisfaction!

  In my anger, I act too hastily and jerk myself backwards off the beanbag. My butt goes into the air as I thrust out my arms, and my delicate grip on my bottom goes out of the window.

  I fart directly into Cary Grant’s face. And this one isn’t slow, long and relatively quiet, either. It’s a fucking cheek smacker. Big, propulsive and proud – it’s the kind of fart that men working on docks will roar with laughter about, and probably award prizes.

  Ray stares at my backside like he’s just seen a rocket emerge from it. I stare at Ray like someone who’s just had a rocket fly out of their arse.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ I tell him. ‘My dinner didn’t agree with me.’

  I’d say at this point it’s less a disagreement and more like the prelude to all-out global warfare.

  Ray does not speak.

  What is there for him to say, honestly?

  Nothing he could say would make this situation any better.

  He could try, ‘Oh no, my darling. Have you had an accident?’ This would be heartfelt, but also incredibly cringeworthy. That’s the type of thing you say to a toddler, not your intended.

  He could also try, ‘Better out than in, eh?!’ but that would mean the engagement would come to a swift end as soon as we returned to the UK.

  Oh, what am I saying? Ray is probably not speaking because he’s trying to work out how quickly he can pawn his engagement ring. I’ve just let rip into the face of one of Hollywood’s golden stars. I wouldn’t want to be engaged to anything attached to my bottom anymore either, would you?

  Without trying to coax a response out of my soon-to-be-ex-fiancé, I get to my feet and turn in the direction of our water bungalow. My bowels roll once again in favour of this intent.

  I hurry off, not looking at any of the other guests as I do so. I don’t know if they heard (or felt) that fart, but I have no intention of finding out by looking at the expression on their faces.

  And I most certainly do not look at Joel Sinclair as I rush away. God fucking forbid.

  As I get past the last beanbag, though, I hear someone chuckle in the group behind me. An Affair To Remember is not a romantic comedy. It doesn’t usually elicit that kind of
response.

  I know who’s laughing and why . . .

  But now is not the time to dwell on my ex-husband’s machinations. Now is the time to hold my belly and hurry across the sand as fast as my little legs will carry me. I have to get back and get on to the toilet before disaster occurs.

  It’s only when I do reach the water bungalow that it occurs to me that I don’t have the key card to get back in.

  ‘Oh God in heaven,’ I say in a quiet, terrified voice.

  I gaze back over at the starlit cinema and contemplate hurrying back to ask Ray for the key. As I do, my bowels roll once more, this time with a sense of urgency that really should come with flashing blue lights and sirens.

  I won’t make it.

  But I have to poo.

  These two things are undeniable truths that I cannot avoid.

  But what the hell am I going to do? I’ll have to go back! I’ll have to chance it! I’m either going to be able to hold it long enough to grab the key, or I’m going to unload all over Cary Grant. There are no more options available to me.

  I start back down the walkway leading to our water bungalow, and step back on to the main one. To my right is Ray and An Affair To Remember, but on my left . . .

  No.

  There’s nothing on my left.

  Absolutely nothing that will help my situation.

  That deserted, darkened pier at the end of the walkway, jutting out into the calm Indian Ocean, has nothing for me. There is simply not a damn thing about that secluded, empty pier, completely shrouded in the blanket of night, that can solve my current awful predicament in any way, shape or form.

  I start in the direction of my fiancé and the key to our bungalow, before slowing to a stop, as my bowels continue their blue-light run to the scene of the accident.

  Then I start to back up.

  I pass by our bungalow, a grimace of fear and horror on my face about what I’m contemplating.

  As I turn around, a small whimper escapes my lips.

  I can’t do this. I shouldn’t do this.

  This is the worst thing I will ever do in my life.

  When it flashes before me as I lie on my death bed, this will be the thing that makes me cringe the most, if I do it.

  And I went to a Steps concert once . . . and danced to every single song.

  The end of the pier is now only a few feet away.

  I start to pull my dress up over my thighs as I approach it.

  The tears of shame that prick at the corners of my eyes would be flowing down my cheeks, but even they can’t bring themselves to manifest on the body of a person that would do something like this.

  I reach the edge of the wooden walkway, which widens out considerably to accommodate more beanbags (and I will never, ever sit in one of them again after this, let me assure you of that) and turn around.

  I then pull my knickers down and . . . oh God . . . squat – my bottom just about hanging over the precipice, with the cool ocean waters just below.

  Look away.

  I beg you.

  Examine the cluster of stars in the sky. See how the graceful arc of the galaxy is easily visible? Look! You can pick out Mars, if you really look carefully, and concentrate very hard, blocking out everything else that may or may not be going on.

  Please just look at all of those tiny pinpricks of incandescent light in the ocean of silky darkness.

  And ignore the sounds. There are no sounds to be heard. None at all.

  There is only the glory of the universe. Only the majesty of the heavens. Only the delight of the cosmos.

  In this wonderous ballet, there is only room for the awe inspiring and incredible – such as the bloom of light from a far-off supernova. There is no room for the awful and horrible – such as the sight of a woman shitting on a fish.

  Rather inevitably, as things . . . ugh . . . come to a head, I see Joel Sinclair’s grinning face in my mind’s eye.

  . . . and to think, I actually felt bad about making him have that massage. I actually regretted my actions.

  Well, I’m certainly getting my comeuppance now, aren’t I?

  But this is a thousand times worse than what I did to him. The level of escalation here is intolerable. Joel knows how badly I react to beef (and now, so does the Indian Ocean) and yet he deliberately had my order changed to ensure that this would happen.

  Okay, I doubt he envisioned quite the scene I am making at this very moment, but he knew I would have severe problems.

  This cannot go unpunished.

  If Joel wants to escalate things, then that’s fine by me.

  He’s been the architect of the absolute worst moments in my life and he’s not going to get away with it.

  I heave a heavy, heavy sigh as things start to conclude downstairs. My bowels are relaxing, having served their only purpose in life, and the feeling of severe discomfort has thankfully passed.

  Oh God.

  At least it can get no worse.

  I have managed to avoid embarrassing myself any further in public. The only spectators to my downfall have been a few passing fish – who will probably regret the day they decided to have a night-time swim around Wimbufushi for the rest of their fishy little lives.

  But at least it’s done. At least it is over, and no one has seen me.

  Then, as if on cue, the lights go on in the water bungalow closest to me.

  I hate you, Joel.

  I hate you so very, very much.

  Thursday

  JOEL – ESCALATION

  I don’t like kayaking.

  Sorry, but I don’t.

  I once went on a scouting holiday when I was twelve, and was forced to kayak around Loch Lomond. It was mid-August – the height of summer – so the loch was of course freezing cold, and it rained constantly. I will never forget how uncomfortable it was to have cold loch water sloshing around my genitals, shrivelling them to a fifth of their normal size – which at the age of twelve was virtually invisible.

  And it hurts your arms. I couldn’t lift them the next day, after all that incessant paddling.

  Don’t even get me started on the chafing. There’s so much of it. On all parts of your body. Constantly.

  What made the whole thing even worse was that there were people on jet skis also using the loch at the same time as us. The comparison was not a happy one. They were propelled along by engines, and looked like they were having a blisteringly good time. I was propelled along by nothing other than my own upper body strength, and was covered in blisters.

  Now, clearly kayaking in the Maldives is a vastly different experience to doing it in Scotland, but that doesn’t mean I feel much keener about it. Yes, it’s hot and sunny here, and I’m not wearing enough clothes to cause much in the way of chafing, but it’s still the same thing when you get right down to it.

  No.

  I would much rather just carry on lying here on this sunbed, sipping my Sin City and reading my Kindle, with the gently lapping sea close by. It’s been a slice of purest heaven for the past two hours, and the kind of thing I came on this holiday for. There’s not a thing that makes me happier or more content than just lying with the sound of the ocean in my ears, a good book in my hand and my lovely girlfriend by my side.

  Nothing would give me greater pleasure than to remain in this place for as long as is humanly possible. I am a man finally content with his (temporary) world, right here on this sun bed.

  And that is precisely where I would have remained, were it not for the fact that I’ve just seen Ray and Amy out there in a bright yellow two-man kayak.

  I shouldn’t have looked up from my Tom Clancy. I should have just concentrated on the special forces men busting into the opium den, and ignored the outside world, but I stupidly looked up – and saw Ray manfully carrying the kayak down to the edge of the water while Amy followed him with the paddles.

  And Ray – let’s be brutally honest about this – is a very fine figure of a man. Those biceps are enormous, for starters.
He seems to have no problem carting that kayak down to the shoreline at all.

  And then there’s the tiny white shorts.

  Fully grown men should not be able to pull off tiny white shorts – and for the vast majority of us, this is indeed the case. If you tried to stick me in a pair, I’d look like the booby prize at a gay rodeo. People would point and take photos of me. Travelling freak shows wouldn’t put me on their stage for fear of turning away the audience.

  But Ray Holland somehow manages to carry off the tiny white shorts with huge amounts of aplomb. Maybe it’s the tanned physique, maybe it’s the natural self confidence that comes with being a massively successful yacht salesman (I looked up his company on Google and chewed on my own liver for half an hour). Whatever it is, Ray Holland has it.

  And I’m insanely jealous.

  I remember being envious of him when I met him at work, but I met a lot of rich, successful people back then, before Goblin Central and when Amy ruined everything. Ray was just one in a parade of clients I didn’t measure up to.

  Now though, he’s got my ex-wife on his arm, and even though I wish I was nowhere near the evil harridan, I can’t pretend I like to see her parading around with another man like that. She used to parade around with me – and even though I know I couldn’t have pulled off the tiny white shorts when she was next to me, there was probably a part of me that thought I could have. Amy was a great confidence booster.

  But now she’s on Ray’s arm and I don’t like it one bit. He looks so much . . . more than I am.

  In short, my alpha male switch has just turned itself on and demands satisfaction.

  If Ray bloody Holland can take Amy out kayaking, then I can sure as hell do the same with Cara!

  I turn my head to look at her. My brain freezes for a moment, as it always does when I look at her in a bikini. Cara Rowntree in a bikini is the best thing that’s ever happened to me. It’s also scary as hell, because it makes me realise and contemplate my own shortcomings. Someone with a body like that should really be with a body like Ray’s. Cara could pull off tiny white shorts with ease.

  ‘Cara? Do you fancy a bit of kayaking?’

  She looks at me from under her large dark sunglasses, and appears to contemplate my suggestion for a moment. From the expression on what little I can see of her face, I’m not detecting much enthusiasm.