I settle in and hang up the few clothes that are still clean in the wardrobe, rinse through the ones that aren’t, and hang them out to dry on my little raised balcony under the roof thatch. It is a perfect little home, just steps from the sand, and it’s all mine for the next few days. From my balcony, I look out across the vast expanse of beach, where the only other person in sight is a man throwing a stick for a little black dog.
The man sees me and he waves and I wave back. I realise then that I’ve stopped feeling invisible at last. I feel like a whole person again. I lie down on the bed, which feels so soft that it’s like floating on a cloud, and I allow a warm and rather decadent feeling of satisfaction to wash over me. I really feel like I’ve come through a storm and stepped into sunshine again.
I’m also feeling hungry. It’s late afternoon, so I go out barefoot to explore the beach and soon come across a charming place called Driftwood Bar. It looks like a hippy hideout, perched on a rock in a haphazard sort of way and, like its name suggests, it looks to be built entirely out of driftwood.
I climb the wooden steps and look about me to see a little black dog sleeping in the shade. Thinking the place is closed because there are no other customers, I hesitate at the bar for a moment, but then notice a young man working in the little kitchen tucked behind it.
‘Hello. Are you open?’ I ask him.
He pops his head round the door and flashes me an attractive smile.
‘Sure. Take a seat. I’ll be right over!’
I sit on a beanbag that has been arranged on top of what looks like a small prayer mat under the shade of a bamboo canopy. Once I get down there, the cushion is perfect for lounging back on and there is a little bamboo table designed to be sat at cross-legged and yogi-style for dining. The bar area is decorated with homemade chains of colourful paper lanterns and windchimes made of seashells and carved pieces of coconut shell that tinkle in the warm wafts of breeze. It is so peaceful and pretty and laidback here. I decide I love it.
I sit back and relax and wait to be served. A few moments later, both the man and the little black dog come over to me. I realise now that I saw them earlier on the beach from my hut.
‘An’ what can I getcha?’ the bartender asks me cheerily, as he steps out from the shade into bright sunshine to hand me a menu. In that moment, I actually hear my jaw click as it dropped open. This guy looks like he should be starring in a TV advert for a chocolate and coconut bar. He’s all toned abs and darkly tanned skin, chiselled jawline, and oh my goodness … the most beautiful and bluest eyes I’ve ever seen. They’re like sparkling deep blue swimming pools.
He smiles at me, showing the whitest and straightest of teeth.
I notice his eyes have a few fine smile lines spreading out from the corners, giving him even more appeal, and giving me the impression that he might not actually be as young as I’d first thought. Have I been duped by his incredibly good looks into thinking he’s in his late twenties when he might really be in his late thirties?
Or is that just wishful thinking on my part?
‘Erm, I’d like a cold beer please?’ I squeak.
‘Sure. D’ya need a minute to look at the menu?’
I want to say no – I need a few more minutes to look at him.
From his accent, I’m guessing he’s an American, perhaps from the southern states. He has a tall, athletic looking body and he’s wearing surf shorts and a tie-dye T-shirt. Along with his boyish casual good looks, he has rock star-length, shaggy, dark brown hair that could have once, many moons ago, been a short city-boy cut. His feet are bare and he has the sort of deep brown tan that says he’s spent not weeks, but months, if not years, ripening under the hot tropical sun.
My breathing has quickened and my heart feels like it’s doing a crazy drumroll in my chest.
And in my (surprisingly fertile) imagination – he looks exactly as I’d imagined a Chao Ley.
My mouth has gone dry. My pulse is palpitating. What the hell is happening here?
I glance briefly over the menu. ‘Erm, do you do Pad Thai?’
‘We do the best goddamn Pad Thai you’ve ever tasted,’ he tells me, quite seriously.
He points over to a driftwood sign nailed to a palm tree.
It reads: We make the best goddamn Pad Thai you’ve ever tasted!
I start to laugh. ‘Well, I’m quite a fan of Pad Thai, so shall I be the judge of that?’
He whoops at the challenge. ‘You’re on. Y’want shrimp with your Pad Thai?’
‘Well, if that’s what makes it the goddamn best?’ I say, giggling and blushing and grinning like an idiot. ‘I’m Lori, by the way.’ I offer him my hand.
‘Good to meet ya, Lori. I’m Jack.’
He takes my hand and gives it a firm shake. His is so warm that I don’t want to let it go.
But he quickly pulls it away to bring me my beer and then he disappears into the kitchen.
His dog stays to keep me company, panting at me from under the shade of a palm tree. He looks like a mixed breed. Maybe one of his parents was a black Labrador and the other a wire-haired terrier of some sort. He has a sweet face and soft brown eyes. My mind wanders across the miles to think on Molly, my little dog back home, and a searing stab of pain goes straight through my heart as I imagine her sitting patiently at the door waiting for me to come home. I suddenly feel horribly guilty, as if I’d carelessly abandoned an innocent child.
I wonder if dogs, who have such a huge capacity for love, are capable of forgiveness.
When a few other people, mostly couples, come walking by and stop off to take in the laidback ambiance of Jack’s beanbags, he reappears behind the bar to serve everyone. Then once his customers are all happily lounging on cushions, chatting, drinking, and enjoying the views of the beach and the sea and all the tiny nearby islands and interesting rock formation, he disappears again, only to reappear moments later, with my steaming plate of Pad Thai and shrimp. It looks, smells, and tastes amazing. I savour my meal and sip my beer and admire the view – and I don’t mean the seemingly endless length of beach.
What on earth is going on with me today?
I haven’t even noticed another man in decades never mind lusted after one.
Does sunshine help the body to produce hormones like it helps it to produce vitamin D?
That’s the only explanation.
When I get up to pay my bill, Jack comes over for my verdict on the food.
‘Well?’ he says, folding his arms in a way that emphasises his bulging biceps.
‘Yes. I have to say, that was the best goddamn Pad Thai I ever tasted,’ I tell him honestly.
He laughs loudly. ‘I knew it. I just goddamn knew it!’
Ridiculously, my heart is thumping like that of a teenage fan at a boyband concert.
‘Your dog and I are now good friends,’ I tell him. ‘He’s very cute. What’s his name?’
‘He’s Hey Joe. Same as the Jimi Hendrix song. An’ like me, he appreciates a pretty woman.’
My face feels like a furnace as I hand over the money for my tab.
I’m melting. Am I suddenly menopausal? Is this my first hot flush?
I decide to ask Jack where I can find an accommodating dive school.
‘Erm, Jack. I’m guessing you know this area quite well, so where would you recommend I go to learn to scuba dive? Bearing in mind, I’m a complete beginner and a bit nervous.’
‘Sure. I’d recommend the Dive Shack. An’ lots of people start out nervous. It’s only natural, right?’ Then he gives me another smile and I feel like I’m drowning in his deep blue eyes. ‘It’s just down the beach there.’ And he points a long finger in its general direction. ‘If you tell them I sent you, you’ll get a discount on your gear.’
‘Okay. Thanks!’ I say, trying to recover enough so as not to fall down the steps to the beach.
‘Hey, Lori…’ he yells after me. The way he says my name almost makes my knees buckle.
I turn to him and smile.
‘Yes, Jack?’
‘Happy hour is between six and seven.’
I wave. ‘Thanks Jack. I guess I’ll see you later.’
And he waves back. ‘Cool. See ya’!’
I continue walking along the beach in the direction Jack had indicated, feeling a little lightheaded, and still asking myself what the hell just happened to me? I find the Dive Shack nearby. It has several flags outside flapping in the sea breeze and lots of dive posters on display showing happy smiling young people in wetsuits. The doors are wide open and inside I can hear a radio station playing Western pop music and I see tidy racks of dive equipment hanging up, wetsuits and facemasks, snorkels and fins and a wall of metal air tanks. I hover by the door.
Soon a sporty-looking woman with short, wet, slicked-back hair appears. She’s wearing a wetsuit and a welcoming smile. ‘Hi, can I help you?’
‘Yes. I was just chatting to Jack, over at Driftwood Bar. He recommended I came here to learn how to scuba dive.’
‘Cool. I’m Carly, one of the instructors. Jack sent you to exactly the right place!’
‘I’m Lori,’ I say, shaking hands with enthusiastic Carly. ‘Although I have to confess I’m a bit nervous about doing it – diving, I mean – deep in the sea on an air tank.’
‘Can you swim?’ Carly asks, crinkling her brow and looking totally sympathetic.
I nod, wondered if yesterday’s snorkelling in four feet of water counts as swimming.
‘Then there’s no problem,’ says Carly. ‘How about taking a Discover Scuba Diving course?
Carly tells me it’s a one-day course and training starts in the pool in small groups.
‘Or we can offer you individual tuition if you prefer. All our instructors are highly trained and very experienced and we are used to clients being a bit nervous at first. Once you’ve mastered a few basic skills in the pool, you’ll come out with us on the boat to do a supervised shallow dive and to see some amazing corals and colourful fish. It’ll be just like Finding Nemo. How does that sound to you, Lori?’
She makes it sound wonderful and so easy. As I’d fully expected to be thrown out of a boat into the deep sea straightaway, training in a pool before a shallow dive sounds safe enough.
‘It sounds great. Okay, when can I do it?’
‘Tomorrow, if you like. We can do the paperwork now. Here are our course prices. If you find that you love Discover Scuba then you can go straight onto doing Open Water Diver – which will give you a dive qualification recognised all over the world.’
I fill in the form and Carly gives me another of her megawatt smiles and a high-five.
‘Okay, Lori. I’ll see you back here at 8 a.m. tomorrow morning.’
I’ve never been high-fived before in my whole life.
I got back to my hut to relax and sit on my porch reading The Beach, which I’d picked up in a second-hand book store next to the 7/11 on the main street here. But I can’t get past the first line of the story because I can’t stop thinking about Jack and how amazingly good-looking he is. I wonder, what the heck is going on with me? Just over a week ago, I’d been a dried-up old housewife with not a glimmer of a sex drive whatsoever, and now I’m practically a goddamn cougar.
Feeling embarrassed and even a little bit freaked out by my sudden and unexpected interest in A Man, I decide I can’t trust myself to go back to the Driftwood Bar for happy hour in the hope of ogling Jack again. I mean, what if, after a couple of cocktails, I make a complete and utter fool of myself?
I decide to go out for a relaxing massage instead. I have a knot of tension between my shoulders that needs to be worked on and I’ve already walked past at least ten massage parlours on the street between the 7/11 store and my hut. Back in the UK, it’s an expensive treat to have a massage. I usually got them as a birthday or anniversary or Christmas gift – as everyone knew I’d appreciate a spa treatment voucher – but here in Thailand I know I can afford to have a massage every single day if I want to. I head for a spa I spotted earlier because it had a glass door and a proper window – a feature not many of the others possess – which leads me to assume it also has air-conditioning. It’s so incredibly hot and steamy out here on the street that I’m already drenched in sweat and I can’t imagine myself feeling relaxed if I’m not feeling cool.
Standing outside the Pretty Lady Spa, touting for customers, is a tiny young Thai girl.
‘Pretty lady! Massage!’ She trills at me like a little songbird. She has such a sweet smile and a clean spa outfit and a frangipani flower in her hair, so my first impressions are good.
I smile and nod, and she bows and invites me inside.
I leave my flip flops at the door and follow her into the inner sanctum in the anticipation of an hour of pampering and bliss. Inside, it is clean with soft music and fragrant candles.
I’m asked to sit in a comfortable chair and I have my feet gently washed and patted lightly dry by this gentle girl. I’m now fully expecting to be guided by her into a private room for a gentle massage, when another, much older woman, appears from behind a beaded curtain.
This other woman is short and wide and has the formidable look of a sumo wrestler about her. She holds out a muscly arm and with a grunt she points a wide finger to indicate that I should follow her behind the curtain. Dutifully, I do as I’m told and I find myself in a room with a row of mattresses on the floor. Each is covered with a clean white sheet and has a privacy curtain but they are all so close together and the curtains are so thin that it is possible to see the shadows and hear the sounds of other people – both men and women – being massaged behind them. I’m not sure I like the look of this, but I have a feeling it’s far too late to turn and run.
My muscled masseuse waits with crossed arms and a determined expression while I strip off my shirt and shorts and slide quickly under the sheet in just my scarlet lace thong.
Moments later, she has both her elbows pressed into the small of my back, pinning me into the mattress. I manage to let out a high-pitched squeal – so high that perhaps only a handful of dogs roaming outside might have heard it – before being smothered and crushed by her full weight. Then, with no air left in my lungs, I can’t make another sound.
After the smothering and the crushing comes the slapping and the stretching and the pummelling. I’m being beaten up and I know I’ll be horribly bruised afterwards, but if I try to move or raise a limb in protest she yells, ‘Relax! Lady! Relax!’
When I hear my back crack, I groan, and she says, ‘Very good. Now you loosen up!’
Then she climbs all over me, standing on my back, stamping on my spine with her short flat feet and with her short wide arms she bends my poor limbs into all sorts of strange positions.
And, in my excruciating embarrassment, I stupidly just let it all happen.
After exactly an hour of this torture, feeling bruised and humiliated, I practically crawl out of the shop having handed over not only the requested fee of four hundred baht but also a tip of one hundred baht. So much for feeling calm and relaxed.
I limp back to my hut to take a shower and to climb exhausted into bed.
Chapter 6
Koh Lanta (ii)
At 8.30 a.m. the following morning, I turn up at The Dive Shack nervously wearing a bikini under my shorts and T-shirt. I’m not quite sure what to wear for scuba diving training. I needn’t have worried though because as soon as I arrive, I’m met by a very enthusiastic Carly and given a shorty wetsuit to wear, which I immediately take into the changing room and squeeze myself into.
Catching sight of myself in the mirror, I actually think I look rather fetching.
The tight neoprene fabric forces up my boobs, squeezes my tummy flat, and lifts my bum.
I sashay into the equipment room, feeling like a Bond girl in my wetsuit and expecting to find Carly, but instead I walk slap bang into – Jack?
‘Hey Lori! Carly’s just told me I’m your instructor for Discover Scuba Diving today.’
‘You…? You’
re a dive instructor … here?’ I splutter.
Jack is wearing only half his wetsuit, as only a true merman can – with the bottom part of it balanced precariously on his narrow hips while the rest of it hangs low and open leaving him half-naked and bare-chested while standing right in front of me. I stare at his muscle-toned chest, his full set of rippling abdominals, flat stomach, and the soft line of dark hair that trails from his navel to lower down on his otherwise smooth and darkly-tanned skin.
I think I might have heard myself groan.
He laughs, flashing his perfect white teeth at me. ‘Yeah, I work here when I’m not needed at my bar. It’s a perfect life!’
Again, I find myself gazing into those blue eyes of his and not knowing what to say next.
‘It’s pool training this morning,’ he says, rubbing his hands together as if he’s warming them up for me. ‘We’ll run through a few scuba skills, so you feel comfortable in the water breathing through a regulator. Then, after lunch, we’ll go out in the boat. We’ll go divin’ in a shallow cove where you’ll see lots of colourful fish. It’ll be fantastic. Any questions, Lori?’
It does sound fantastic. He sounds both knowledgeable and encouraging.
I have no doubts about Jack’s competency as a dive instructor but how on earth am I going to cope with being with him alone all day long – in such close proximity – when I have such an excruciating crush on him? It feels like I’m drowning before I’m anywhere near water.
The swimming pool for dive training is in part of a large hotel complex behind the dive shop. At the bottom of that pool, wearing all the gear – which includes a very heavy air tank – I kneel in front of Jack and watch as he demonstrates to me how to purge water from my face mask by tipping it back with a forefinger and blowing air into it through my nose.
The Backpacking Housewife Page 7
