You Again?

by Spalding, Nick

  The casualties will be horrendous.

  ‘Joel! Throw the bloody frisbee!’ Cara shouts at me – once again pulling me out of my strangely constructed, grand-scale military conflict between celebrity chefs.

  I don’t mean to go off there, you know. It’s not deliberate.

  I think my brain is just activating a self-defence mechanism every time I start to dwell too much on things it doesn’t want to think about.

  Good, brain. Well done, you.

  I do then indeed hurl the frisbee back at Cara, feeling a combination of guilt and smugness when it sails over her head, and she’s the one forced to go fetch.

  Then, in my peripheral vision, that fat woman with the blond hair moves slightly on her lounger and my heart climbs back into my throat again.

  Good bloody grief. I am a man on the edge.

  I’ll frankly be glad to get away from this supposedly relaxing, tropical island.

  What is it people say?

  You need a holiday to get over a holiday?

  Well, in my case, it’s that I need a holiday to get over the constant fear of rejection, self-analysis and a subconscious that’s preoccupied with celebrity-chef conflict.

  It doesn’t quite roll off the tongue the same way, but in my case it is one hundred per cent more accurate.

  Unlike Cara’s aim, which now sends the frisbee back out into the deep water again.

  I resist the urge to sigh. I think I’ve done quite enough of that for one morning.

  And I need to stop the constant picking at my neuroses too. It’s doing me no good whatsoever.

  I bet whatever Amy is up to right now, it doesn’t include this kind of thought process. She never doubted herself as much as I do. It just isn’t in her psychological make-up.

  No. Whatever she’s up to, you can guarantee it won’t involve feeling bad about herself. That’s just not in her DNA.

  Saturday

  AMY – THE BIG BANG

  Oh God.

  I am a monster.

  A heartless, shameless, morally bankrupt monster.

  As I sit here on the couch, staring down into the azure waters through the thick glass floor panel in front of me, my mind is full of recrimination and shame.

  It was a split second, woman.

  I know!

  But do you know how much can happen in a split second?

  A bloody shit load, that’s what!

  I looked it up on Google.

  For instance, in far less than a split second, our entire universe expanded hundreds of times, from the subatomic level to several light years in diameter. That sounds like quite a lot, wouldn’t you say? Quite the accomplishment for such a short period?

  By the time the universe reached the split-second mark, neutrinos had ceased interacting with baryonic matter, and leptons and antileptons had managed to remain in thermal equilibrium.

  I have no idea what any of that means, but it sounds jolly impressive, doesn’t it?

  The fact that the leptons and antileptons had remained in equilibrium must be testament to their staying power, if nothing else. You’d think with all the banging going on, that keeping your balance would be fucking impossible.

  I truly wish I was more like a lepton.

  In a split second last night, my equilibrium was thrown off completely . . . and shows no sign of returning any time soon.

  When Ray rolled over and gave me a very sweet kiss on the tip of my nose this morning, I wanted to cry. I honestly did. He then gave me a longer, deeper kiss that stirred other emotions in me. Emotions that got squashed almost immediately when I thought about what I did on the beach last night.

  How could I let Joel kiss me?

  How could I let him get away with that?

  I should have kneed him in the balls. That’s what I should have done.

  Instead I just stood there for the time it took the universe to expand to ten light years across, and let him do it.

  And now I am so wracked by guilt I can think of nothing else.

  A reef shark swims across my field of vision, and for an instant I wish I could swap places with him.

  I bet reef sharks don’t have to worry about this kind of stuff. I bet they don’t obsess over what they get up to during incredibly short periods of time, or look things up on Wikipedia while their other halves take showers – completely unaware of the universe-sized infidelity that their partners are guilty of.

  You need to tell him.

  What?

  You need to tell him what you did.

  No! No, I can’t do that!

  Yes, you can. You must.

  No. I can’t.

  And I don’t need to either. It was just a split second. That’s all. It doesn’t matter how many leptons and antileptons stayed in equilibrium, it was just a split fucking second.

  It didn’t mean anything.

  Then why are you sat here like this, wishing you were a bloody shark?

  It’s fine. It’s okay. I just . . . I just need to do something to prove to Ray how much I love him. I just need to . . . reconnect with him.

  What are you banging on about, woman?

  Yes. That’s right. Banging.

  Pardon?

  Banging. That’s a great idea, thank you.

  What?!

  I’ll seduce Ray . . . right here and right now. When he gets out of the shower. That’ll show him just how much I love him.

  You’ve gone fucking potty.

  No, I haven’t! It’s a great idea. I love Ray with all of my heart, and after that stupid split second last night, I need to show him that – I need to show myself that – and the best way I can think of doing it is by making love to him right here on this couch.

  So, not by a heartfelt conversation where you lay things out honestly to him and trust him to understand?

  Don’t be so stupid. Sex will do the trick. It always does. I can show Ray just how much he means to me by . . . by creating a second Big Bang.

  Oh dear Lord.

  Just shut up, will you? I’m upset, feeling guilty . . . and unfortunately I’m also horny. It’s an odd combination, and I need to do something with it.

  Go on, then. Just don’t say I didn’t warn you . . .

  Right.

  I have to make myself look sexy.

  This means changing from these sleep pants into something small and thongy. I could also do with removing this rather baggy white t-shirt, and putting on something nice and tight instead. And I have to do this all in the next minute or so, as I’m sure Ray will be out of the shower very soon.

  I’m sure the universe was probably creating all the elements needed to cook a sherry trifle by the time a minute had gone by, so I shouldn’t have any problem making myself look sexually appealing in the same time period.

  And indeed, once those sixty seconds have elapsed, I am back on the couch in a black thong, and a tight black vest top that may produce a fair degree of side boob, but also hugs my body in a way that feels good.

  I then spend another few moments putting myself in an alluring position. This generally consists of lying out on the couch, with one leg bent seductively and my back arched slightly. If I stay like this too long I’m likely to throw out a disc, but Ray will hopefully emerge before that happens.

  And indeed, Ray does not let me or my back down. Out he comes from the rear of the bungalow, with a towel wrapped around his waist, and nothing else.

  Oh yes.

  That’ll do.

  That’ll do nicely.

  Ray has the kind of physique that comes naturally to a man who’s spent his life on the water, doing lots of extremely active sports involving jibs and keels. You don’t get fat when you’re tacking and jibing all the bloody time, let me tell you that.

  There is nothing less sexy than referencing nautical terms, however, so I’ll move on to thinking about how much I love that his stomach is washboard flat, rather than the reasons for it being that way.

  ‘Hiya,’ I say to him, twirlin
g a few strands of hair in one finger, and trying to ignore the bloom of slight pain currently settling in nicely around my lower spine.

  ‘Hello,’ he replies, noticing both my positioning and my outfit with an upraised eyebrow.

  Ray looks a little surprised because I am not by nature, a ‘morning type’.

  Some people just love to have sex right after they’ve got up, but I can’t usually think of anything worse. If it’s not mug-shaped and containing tea, I don’t want my mouth anywhere near it for the first hour of my day.

  But this morning is very different, because I woke up feeling an abject guilt about a minor (universe-sized) indiscretion I committed last night, and want to do something to assuage my guilt.

  Ray doesn’t look to be complaining. In fact, I can see just how much he’s not complaining by what’s happening to that towel.

  ‘Wow. You look incredible,’ he tells me, coming to sit on the edge of the couch, and running one hand up and down my raised leg.

  Hnnnrrrrr.

  ‘Thanks,’ I reply. ‘You look pretty good yourself.’

  ‘What’s brought this on?’

  I kissed my ex-husband in the time it took the universe to form!

  ‘We’re on holiday, Ray. It’s warm and gloriously sunny. That always makes me feel . . .’

  Guilty! Horny!

  Both of the above!

  ‘ . . . good.’

  He smiles. ‘Well, okay, then. That’s great. That’s definitely something I can get behind.’

  My turn to smile. It’s the sexiest one I can conjure up, so I hope it’s good enough. ‘That’s great to hear. Why don’t you get behind me on this couch?’ I suggest, rolling on to my side and shifting towards the edge.

  Ray obliges and things then start to happen.

  Good things.

  Nice things.

  Things that make me feel so much better, in so many, many ways.

  I’m once again looking down through that glass floor panel into the cool, clear waters beneath me, but this time I’m doing it while my mind is entirely occupied with happy thoughts.

  This is much better.

  And because Ray is the grand physical specimen we spoke of earlier, he is quite willing and able to move me into different positions on the couch that I am more than happy for him to put me in.

  After a few minutes of that, though, I decide it’s time for me to take the lead, and I push Ray off the couch, on to the floor. I want to get . . . er . . . better purchase on him, you see, and I can’t really do that while we’re on that big squishy couch. I need a hard surface to . . . um . . . properly build up a head of steam.

  Ray gasps in surprise as his back meets the cool glass floor panel.

  ‘Too cold?’ I say, as I climb aboard his luxury yacht.

  ‘No, it’s fine. Feels kind of nice, actually.’

  This is just as well, as I’m at the point now where any pause to change position will not go down well with the complicated parts of me that are starting the long climb up the hill towards Orgasm Town.

  Oh yes, this is going marvellously well.

  So well, that I’m now sweating like a pig. The temperature in the water bungalow has got to be in the high twenties as the sun climbs into the morning sky, and this has been a very active session thus far, given how keen I am to rock Ray’s world this morning. My skin feels like a furnace.

  I pull off my vest, allowing Ray his first proper look at the girls, which seems to please him mightily.

  As he continues to please himself mightily, I have to slam both hands down on to the surface of the glass panel on either side of his head to steady myself.

  The glass feels wonderfully cool underneath my palms – Ray was absolutely right – and I am suddenly filled with a strange notion.

  What would that feel like on my boobs?

  Because they are extremely hot and sweaty now. Along with the rest of me.

  ‘I want to lie down on my front,’ I tell Ray in a breathless voice.

  He looks up at me, a little surprised. I’m sure he thought we were getting to the final act, and to have me pull a twist on him this close to the denouement is quite unexpected. ‘Okay,’ he says. ‘Back on to the couch?’

  ‘No. Right here.’

  I slide off and when he moves away, I lay myself down on a section of the glass panel that’s still lovely and cool to the touch. The panel isn’t large enough to accommodate my whole body – just the top half – but that’s more than enough for me. A thrill of pleasure suffuses my entire being as I do this. I was right. The glass really does feel quite wonderful again my bare skin – even if it does squeeze my boobs more than a fair bit. A price worth paying, I can assure you.

  Another pleasurable thrill immediately follows, as Ray climbs on board and starting jibbing and tacking for all he’s worth.

  I close my eyes and after only a few moments, I feel myself getting to the point of no return. This really is quite spectacular.

  I continue to lie there with my eyes closed as Ray does his thing, blissfully empty of coherent thought and complex emotion.

  I’ve often thought that one of the best things about sex is how simple it is.

  Simple is good. Simple is easy to cope with.

  But you know what isn’t easy to cope with?

  Opening your eyes and looking down on two children in rubber rings directly below you, that’s what.

  For a moment – a (ha!) split second – my brain refuses to comprehend what it’s witnessing.

  Don’t be bloody stupid, Amy.

  There’s no way two small children are looking up at my mashed tits and gormless pre-orgasm expression. That would be a horror show of such vast and all-encompassing embarrassment that it would make the size of the known universe seem tiny by comparison.

  As Ray carries on doing something that is wholly inappropriate given the new reality we find ourselves in, I blink a couple of times in terror, wishing away the two stunned onlookers with the sheer force of my will.

  Nope. That didn’t work. They’re still there. And still bearing witness (or should that be baring witness) to my squished breasts.

  Thank Christ the glass panel only extends as far as my belly button – because can you only fucking imagine?

  Anyway, time to scream, I think.

  ‘Ray! Ray! Get off!’ I cry at the top of my voice. As I do this, I push back as violently as I can, causing my boobs to squeal painfully across the glass.

  Excellent. I set out to seduce my fiancé so that I’d feel better about a stupid mistake I made last night, and instead I’ve managed to turn my tits into do-it-yourself squeegees.

  This torrid day will now forever be linked with the sound of high-pitched squealing. I’ll never be able to look the window cleaner in the face again.

  ‘Bloody hell!’ Ray exclaims, as he’s rudely interrupted close to the conclusion of his activities.

  There’s nothing I can do about that, though. Two small children have witnessed my squeegee boobs and now I must die in a corner somewhere.

  ‘What’s the matter?!’ Ray says, watching as I frantically gather up my vest, covering my squeegees with it.

  I point down through the glass. ‘Children!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘There are children!’

  Ray leans his head back over the glass panel. ‘Jesus Christ!’ he wails, as he sees the little boy and girl, who are still paralysed with what I can only assume is abject fear. ‘Clear off!’ Ray demands, thrusting a finger out. I look down to see the boy go even more wide-eyed than he already was, and immediately start to paddle frantically away from us.

  ‘How the bloody hell did they get under there?’ Ray asks, peering down as he watches them go.

  ‘I don’t know!’ I wail, my voice one big tremor of embarrassment and shame.

  Ray sees the fraught expression on my face, and immediately shifts over to give me a hug. ‘It’s okay, Amy. Don’t worry. They didn’t . . . they didn’t see much.’

/>   ‘They saw my bloody squeegees, Ray!’ I reply, pushing him away.

  ‘Your what?’

  I stare at him for a moment before bursting into tears.

  These are not, I should hasten to add, tears brought on by the fact that two small children have just inadvertently been exposed to my chest. I am mortified at the idea of that, obviously, but it doesn’t really warrant such an explosive response. A flaming red face and a desire to only ever have sex again in the dark, possibly – but not the massive crying fit that’s just come over me all at once.

  No.

  I am obviously in this state because the shame I feel about what’s just happened pales into insignificance alongside the shame I feel about kissing Joel.

  Because that’s what I fucking did, friends and neighbours.

  I kissed my bloody ex-husband last night on a starlit beach, and there’s not a damn thing a black thong, a glass panel or squeegee boobs can do about it.

  I could slather my naked body in cocoa butter and slide down the side of the fucking Louvre Pyramid at the height of rush hour, and it wouldn’t be worse than that fucking split second.

  ‘Amy! What’s wrong?!’ Ray cries, trying to hug me again. But I push him away. He shouldn’t have to hug me. I don’t deserve to be hugged. I deserve to sit here half naked with tears rolling down my cheeks.

  I deserve to be thoroughly miserable and ashamed of myself, because I thought I could paper over such a colossal act of betrayal with sex.

  Told you so.

  Piss off!

  ‘Amy! Talk to me!’ Ray says, utterly shocked by my sudden and frightening change of demeanour.

  I take a deep, sobbing breath and look him square in the eyes. ‘I kissed Joel!’ I squeal, feeling every atom of my being wanting to separate itself from the rest of me all at once.

  ‘You did what?’

  ‘We were on the beach last night!’ I sob. ‘Talking about . . . everything. And he . . . and he kissed me! I don’t know why!’ I run a hand across the underside of a nose that is now primarily composed of runny snot and tears.

  ‘And you kissed him back?’ Ray is angry now.

  It’s the worst thing I’ve ever seen.