Even though she’s never admitted it, I know she’s had words with her grandfather about me. His attitude towards me has improved considerably since I started dating Cara. He dotes on that girl, and I think he’d do anything to make her happy.
My ego feels utterly pancaked by this notion, of course. I am a proud man (as evidenced by my idiotic desire to race a man far fitter than me around an island in a kayak) and I can’t pretend that having my arse saved by someone else isn’t something I hate. But I am deeply grateful for her intervention anyway.
I truly sometimes wonder if Cara is the reason I still have a job at Rowntree Land & Home. It certainly isn’t because of the fucking houseboat.
And how do I repay that support and kindness?
By kissing the woman who is responsible for my decline, that’s how. By locking lips with someone who did everything she could to destroy me in an acrimonious divorce that left me in dire financial straits.
Jesus Christ, what the hell is wrong with me?
I can’t find the right words to say to my girlfriend – that’s what’s wrong with me at the moment.
I stare at her shoulder blades and the back of her head for a second as I try to think of the right thing to say. The right words to make her feel better. To make me feel better.
‘The only thing I think of when I see Amy’s face is pain, Cara,’ I eventually say in a low voice.
This is good, though. This is most definitely the truth – and somebody very clever once said it will set me free, so I think I’ll keep up with it.
‘The last thing I’d want is to go back to her, and not be with you.’
Also very, very true.
‘She . . . she put me in a hole two years ago, and you pulled me back out again. I don’t know what else I can say.’
Cara slowly turns. As she does, she shakes her head. ‘That woman really messed you up, didn’t she?’
‘Yes,’ I say, shoulders sagging.
‘All because of one stupid appointment.’
‘Yes . . . no . . . I don’t know. It wasn’t just that, not by any means, but that was what blew everything up. And it’s been an explosion that’s been going on in my soul for years now. And the only thing that’s stopped it burning me to a crisp has been you.’
Aah . . .
There it is.
The gab.
The old Joel Sinclair gab, making a triumphant return at a time when it’s most needed.
Only, I don’t think it is really the gift of the gab. I think – no, I know – that I’m being one hundred per cent honest. I owe Cara so much for supporting me, and making my life a better place to be during the aftermath of my marriage breakdown. She doesn’t deserve a man who would repay that kindness with a moment of such weakness.
‘I can’t pretend that those six years with Amy didn’t happen,’ I continue. ‘But I can absolutely assure you that you are the only woman I want to be with, Cara.’
I suddenly feel exhausted. Probably with good reason. I’ve had no more than three hours’ sleep, and this argument started before breakfast, so I’m operating on fumes here.
I’m hoping and praying I’ve said enough for it to be over, because I don’t think I have the strength to say anything else. My mental reserve tank is empty.
‘Oh, Joel, what the hell am I going to do with you?’ Cara says, and hugs me.
I’m so astounded by the swift change to her demeanour that for a second I just stand there with my arms open, letting her do all the hugging – but then I reciprocate, wrapping my arms around her waist and squeezing her tight.
‘I don’t know, baby,’ I reply, voice thick with emotion. ‘You know what I’m like.’
‘Yes, I do. You are an incredibly wonderful man, who’s just been broken by the things that have happened to you,’ Cara tells me, sounding about as emotional as I feel. ‘But I’m here to fix you, Joel. That’s my job,’ she finishes, and hugs me even tighter.
I am incredibly lucky. Stupendously lucky. Far too lucky for an idiot like me, that’s for certain.
I’ve treated Cara horribly on this holiday, and I really don’t deserve her forgiveness – but I’m extremely happy to be getting it anyway.
The question is, what the hell am I going to do to make it all up to her?
Thankfully, Cara now comes up with one suggestion to get the ball rolling. ‘Can we please stay as far away from those people as possible, for the rest of this holiday?’ she says in a determined tone.
‘Yes! Of course we can!’ I reply.
Frankly, if she’d asked me to get Sonic the Hedgehog tattooed on both butt cheeks I’d probably have agreed. Steering clear of Amy and Ray will be a piece of piss. It’s something I want to do anyway. I don’t want to be around Amy. Not one bit.
Shit, I haven’t wanted to be around Amy for two years, but now I have even more of reason to avoid being in her vicinity. There are obviously . . . feelings still there I didn’t know I had – despite everything that’s happened and despite everything she’s done. It’s a very good idea to make sure those feelings stay exactly where they should: buried deep down under a ton of neuroses and doubt, rather than being exposed to the world.
Cara nods and smiles. There’s a vicious edge to it. ‘Okay, that’s great. I just want to punch that bitch every time I see her.’
Right then . . . so that’s another good reason to keep Cara away from Amy. There’s every chance it might result in some sort of cat fight between the two of them that I’d probably have to try to break up. And the state my nose is in, I don’t want to risk that.
‘Easy, tiger,’ I reply with a note of mock fear in my voice. ‘We don’t want to get you too riled up!’
Cara’s brow furrows. ‘I can’t help it. When I think about what she’s done. Blaming you for the appointment change, when it could just as easily have been her fault. Making your life a misery for so long afterwards. Being so horrible to you in the divorce . . .’
I nod. ‘Yeah, I know. I know.’
So why on fucking Earth did you think it was a good idea to kiss her, you pleb?
Both Cara’s anger and her words have hammered home what a fool I was to do that last night. How the hell could I even consider it? Amy is the bad guy here. She’s the bloody enemy.
You don’t kiss your enemies.
You never see Batman giving The Joker a nice, big, sloppy one, do you?
There isn’t newsreel footage of Churchill planting a lovely peck on Hitler’s cheek.
Mary Berry has never passionately embraced Ainsley Harriot.
. . . look, I don’t know for a fact that Mary Berry and Ainsley Harriot are sworn enemies, but at the same time I’m absolutely sure of it. Don’t ask me why, it’s just a hunch.
I’m also pretty sure that Paul Hollywood and Delia Smith can’t stand each other either, but then nobody likes Paul Hollywood. His name is Paul Hollywood, for crying out loud.
Basically, what I’m getting at here is that all of the celebrity cooks are at constant war with one another, in a never-ending conflict that will last down through the ages of man. Armageddon will come and go, and the survivors will have to decide whether they join the ranks of Antony Worrall Thompson’s standing army, or sign up to Prue Leith’s plucky band of resistance fighters.
You think Jamie Oliver is just a fat-lipped Essex boy, with a face only a mother could punch? When the day of judgement comes, you’ll see his true colours – as he’s storming Marco Pierre White’s last remaining bunker. He’ll emerge from the drifting clouds of self-raising flour, carrying his ceremonial ginsu knife, with a look of bloodlust in his eyes that can only be sated with the lifeblood of a Michelin-star chef – who sounds like he should be French, but is actually British.
That’s weird, isn’t it? Marco Pierre White. He sounds about as French as a baguette stick surrendering to the Germans, but apparently he’s from Leeds. What the actual fuck?
‘Joel? Are you okay?’
Yes, thank you, Cara, I am perfectly fi
ne. It’s just that I’d rather occupy my brain with a fanciful and entirely ridiculous war between celebrity chefs than continue to deal with the repercussions of kissing my hated ex-wife. It’s so much easier, a lot more fun, and far more visually stimulating.
Who wants to spend their entire time feeling a constant surge of guilt, shame and self-recrimination, when you can instead picture Heston Blumenthal engaged in bloody hand-to-hand combat with Rustie Lee over the last packet of organic couscous?
‘Joel!’
‘Yeah! Yeah! Sorry. I’m just happy that you’re not mad at me anymore. And a little stunned, if I’m honest.’
She shakes her head and rolls her eyes. ‘It’s hard to stay angry at you when you look so vulnerable, Joel. Your poor nose must be hurting so much. I’m sorry I flicked it.’
‘That’s okay. Probably deserved.’
‘I should go and flick Amy’s nose instead. And that boyfriend of hers.’
Cara then starts to flick the air beside her vigorously, pouting again for all she’s worth.
I guess her still being angry isn’t such a great thing, but the fact it’s now firmly aimed in another direction than at my person is something of a relief.
‘I think it’s better that we just steer clear of them, like we agreed,’ I say, blinking rapidly at the sight of her continuing air flickage.
Cara’s hand drops again, and she loops them both around my neck. ‘Agreed. No more Amy and Ray. From now on, for the last few days of this holiday, it’s just Joel and Cara.’
‘Absolutely.’
Cara then kisses me.
It’s not a kiss that suggests we’ll be leaving the water bungalow for breakfast any time soon.
And it’s a kiss that makes me forget all about the one I engaged in last night.
. . . for the time being at least.
I’d like to say that the rest of the day is spent in relaxed bliss with my girlfriend, but I’d be lying.
It’s easy to promise that you’ll steer clear of your ex-wife and her lover, but it’s not such an easy thing to actually do when you’re still trapped on a tiny tropical island with them.
I am in a constant state of cat-like readiness.
The second I so much as see a flash of blond hair and a pair of tiny white shorts, I will be up and running.
The problem with this is that people who look like Amy and Ray aren’t exactly in short supply around here.
Wimbufushi is absolutely busting at the gills – in as much as a tropical island known for its laidback luxury can be busting at the gills with anything – with middle-class white couples.
You only truly become aware of this when you have to concentrate on it, so you can avoid another run-in with people you don’t like, and another potential argument with someone you do.
Everywhere I look there are rich white people lounging around, while a lot of hard-working brown people do everything they can to keep them happy, well fed and writing good TripAdvisor reviews.
It’s . . . a little uncomfortable, if I’m honest.
What’s even more uncomfortable is that I’m painfully aware of the fact that I am one of those well-fed white people . . . who will most certainly be writing a glowing TripAdvisor review, if only to assuage some of the misplaced guilt I’m feeling.
‘Joel!’ Cara calls, breaking me out of my thoughts.
She’s had to do a lot of this recently. I am spending altogether too much time in my own head. This is quite a common failing of mine, but it’s supposed to be something that happens back at home, where I could do with the escape – not on holiday in the Maldives, which should be the place I’ve escaped to.
‘You going to catch this or what?’ Cara says, indicating the frisbee that we’ve been throwing back and forth to each other in the waist-deep ocean water.
I drag my eyes away from the beach, and my near constant scanning of its inhabitants for Amy and Ray, and put up both hands to indicate that I am ready to receive.
Cara lobs the frisbee, and does it with such gusto that it goes flying over my head, out into the deeper water. ‘Sorry!’ she exclaims, although she doesn’t actually look all that sorry.
While Cara seems to have forgiven me my trespasses of last night, I don’t think she’s going to forget about it for quite a while . . .
This was proved to me earlier when she slapped me on the arse during our frantic bout of morning love making. It’s the first time she’s ever done that, and I’m not entirely sure I approve. She definitely enjoyed it, though. I could tell from the flash of angry delight in her eyes as she did it. I let it go this one time, but if I’m about to descend into a relationship where I am – to use the popular parlance – going to be made ‘her bitch’, I may have to have words.
Cara is certainly showing me up at frisbee. This is third time the damn thing has gone sailing over my head, making me go fetch. This has two consequences. One, it makes me wish I’d never suggested a little light frisbee action, and two, it gives me more chance to scan the island in front of me for the two people in the world I want to see least, as I wade back to my place.
This time, Cara has flung the frisbee further out than ever, and it’s bobbing around a good thirty feet away from me. This will take a while to recover.
Still, this does mean that my back is turned to the beach, which stops me from searching it for a while.
My task of retrieving the frisbee is made somewhat easier when two small children come floating past on rubber rings. They are – in complete contradiction to my observations earlier about the island’s guests – both of Middle Eastern descent, and looking like everything in the world is exactly where it should be. The giggling is at such a high level, it’s a wonder they don’t pass out from lack of breath. The older of the two – a brother of about nine or ten – is frantically paddling both his rubber ring and the one his younger sister is sitting in, that’s tied to his, at a fair head of steam. He definitely looks like he’s got a grip on the fundamentals of how to paddle successfully better than I did the other day.
I feel as if I should warn him about passing dugongs, but then I’m a bit wary of calling out to random, passing children in swimsuits, for what should be blindingly obvious reasons.
He has absolutely no issues with communicating with me, though.
‘This your frisbee?’ he says, as he scoops it out of the water and waggles it in my general direction.
‘Yeah!’
He smiles, and tosses it back to me in a flat, perfect trajectory that flies straight into my hands like a fucking arrow from a bow. The kid then returns to paddling without breaking his stride or speed. It’s quite majestic.
I despise children.
‘Thank you!’ I tell him, as I watch them steam away from me, heading for the other end of the island. Hell, the pace he’s going, he could probably get home before his parents would have a chance to miss them both.
I turn back, and my heart jumps into my mouth when I see a flash of blond hair on the beach. It returns to its rightful place in my chest, though, when I see that the blond hair is attached to a woman in her fifties and a few pounds north of two hundred.
‘Well, throw it back, then!’ Cara says, arms outstretched and making beckoning signals with her hands. She really has taken to this frisbee stuff with some aplomb.
I wonder why this is, right up until she once again flings it back towards me, this time sending it a good thirty feet past me in the direction of the beach.
Sigh.
I guess I should just put up with it. It’s probably better than getting my arse slapped.
The frisbee is now dug in the sand, just where it meets the gently lapping water. At least this doesn’t require any more wading to reach. There’s something incredibly undignified about wading, especially for a man like me – in his late thirties and sporting a small paunch. The small paunch is ignorable most of the time, I’m happy to say, but there’s something unforgettable about it when it’s the thing thrust out in front of you
as you make your way through the water. When the paunch leads the way, the paunch is undeniable.
I heave another sigh as I bend over to pick the frisbee up.
I know what I’m doing here – engaging in my favourite pastime of You’re Too Old and Fat to be Dating This Woman. Whenever I’m not feeling sure about myself, or my relationship with Cara, this is what I tend to do. Regular as clockwork, every time we have even the mildest of disagreements, or if she seems unhappy about something to do with me in any way, shape or form, I will drop into this melancholic examination of my shortcomings.
I don’t think I’d realised the extent of this habit until we came on holiday.
Perhaps it’s the close proximity to a woman who is in the same age group as me that I’ve had sex with multiple times. Amy and I may be sworn(ish) enemies these days, but once upon a time we were an extremely compatible couple. On the surface, anyway. Only a few years apart in age, and with a similar world view, I never felt like I shouldn’t be in a relationship with her. That it was somehow . . . inappropriate.
Then compare that to the gorgeous, young and frisbee-chucking woman standing over there in the shallows. My relationship with her feels wholly inappropriate. The age gap. The fact she’s the granddaughter of my boss . . .
These things conspire to make me question myself at every available opportunity.
Cara may have saved me from tumbling into a deep depression, but she’s also made me feel quite insecure about myself.
It’s incredibly confusing.
Throw in the fact that she’s just about the only thing that’s kept me going throughout the pressure I’ve been under at work, and is it any wonder I do stupid things like kiss ex-wives when I’m drunk, half concussed from jumping into a TV, and fundamentally confused?
I bet Gino D’Acampo is never fundamentally confused.
I bet that little Italian powerhouse of culinary expertise is completely calm and collected, as he plans his midnight attack on Gordon Ramsay’s Heathrow Airport restaurant.
Those two have been at loggerheads for years now, I’m sure of it.
And one day, the cold war between them will spill into the hot zone, and then we will witness a battle the likes of which have not been seen since the hosts of Heaven stepped out on to the plains of Megiddo to face the hordes of the Fallen One.
You Again? Page 21
