You see what I mean?
Yes, alright. Point taken.
‘So, please do all follow me now,’ Azim bids us. ‘Our staff will be pleased to take your luggage straight to your accommodation.’
I look over at the reception again to see the men – in what must be traditional Maldivian clothes – taking instruction from a short and rather squat woman dressed in a white suit like Azim’s. Each one takes a ticket, and starts to head off towards the left or the right.
On the right, as you look down the island’s length, past the lush tropical greenery and a long golden beach, you can see a walkway jutting out into the water that leads to a series of dark-wood water bungalows on stilts. There is a similar arrangement on the other end of the island, but they are hidden from my view at the moment. If you looked down on it from above, Wimbufushi would resemble a crab, with the island itself as the shell, and the two long lines of water bungalows acting as the pincers.
To the left of where I’m standing, there is a long row of beachside bungalows, nestled in the island’s foliage enough to make them quite hard to see. These ring the outskirts of the whole island, giving my metaphorical crab a residential crown.
I spot my suitcase, along with Cara’s, as they are being moved towards the water bungalows, and immediately feel a small thrill of excitement wash over me.
I get to live here for the next week.
Ex-wives be damned – that’s a fucking great thing.
Azim starts to walk down the dock and we dutifully all follow. I maintain a quick pace to keep right up with him, making sure we’re well ahead of Amy and Ray Surfboards.
I finish off my cocktail as I do this, and immediately wish I had another one. It was extremely refreshing, and I need that right now, given that I’m still dressed in my travelling clothes. The pink shirt Cara bought me for my birthday last month is a little too thick for thirty degrees, as are the black jeans she bought me for Christmas.
I need to get into my board shorts and singlet as soon as is humanly possible.
Cara is looking a little overheated too, given that she’s in a pair of blue skinny jeans and a silver blouse. I bet she can’t wait to get into her holiday gear, either.
. . . and neither can I. I saw the clothes she packed in her suitcase last night. They were all tiny.
I blink a couple of times as the wooden pier gives way to warm Maldivian sand. It wasn’t last night though, was it? It was two nights ago. I’ve been on the go for so long now, I’ve forgotten what day it is.
It only takes a few moments to reach the reception area.
It’s the sandiest reception I’ve ever been in, that’s for sure. They simply haven’t bothered flooring the area. What would be the point in a place like this? It’s all open to the warm, tropical air, and doesn’t have walls on three sides, just thick columns of rich mahogany wood holding up the roof.
Azim stands in front of the enormous driftwood desk, on which is perched an incongruous desktop PC. Those two things really don’t belong together, unless you’re on a luxury tropical resort in the middle of the Indian Ocean.
The short woman joins Azim, a broad smile on her face. It’s in stark contrast to the serious, business-like expression she was wearing while she was dealing with the porters taking the luggage to our rooms. She holds a small box and a clipboard. Behind her on the reception desk are several gleaming white folders with the resort’s logo embossed on the front.
‘Well, everybody, thank you once again for choosing Wimbufushi Island Resort and Spa for your holiday,’ Azim says. ‘May I introduce you to Anju, who will be giving you your room key cards.’ Azim indicates the lady to his left, who broadens her smile and bows her head slightly. ‘She will call out your names, and if you would come forward to collect your keys and welcome pack from her, that would be most appreciated. We will begin with those of you staying in our water bungalows.’
My heart skips a beat. That’s us.
Oh my God . . . very soon I’ll be ensconced in a luxury water bungalow overlooking the most beautiful place on earth. I wonder if I can order a Tarkanian Sin City from room service?
Anju steps forward a little and calls the first name. A middle-aged, rather nondescript couple move forward to collect their welcome packs and keys. If he doesn’t play golf at least three times a week, and if she doesn’t drink a little too much prosecco with her girlfriends on a Thursday afternoon, I’d be amazed.
Anju hands them both key card and welcome pack. As she does, one of the porters instantly appears at her side. They have this all down to a very fine art, it’s plain to see. Again, I don’t remember this level of service from my first time here, but I concede I may have been just as tired and out of sorts when we arrived on our honeymoon, and I’ve forgotten.
This train of thought makes me look over at where Amy and Ray are standing off to our right, slightly closer to Anju. I’ve tried my best to ignore them and concentrate on everything else around me, but my stupid brain has wandered over to them again.
I snap my eyes away from Amy, and concentrate hard on Anju, hoping to hear our names called out.
This doesn’t happen straight away. After the middle-aged couple are led away by one of the smiling porters, Anju then reads the names of another pair standing in the shade of the reception area. These are two young people, who really have no business being here. He looks about twenty-five, and if she’s more than twenty I’d be surprised.
This is awful. People of that age should not have access to this kind of holiday. It’s something you should have to strive towards for a good decade or two before you can afford it – and then only barely with Expedia concessions. But these two don’t look like they’ve done a day’s work in their lives. They must have rich parents. Or be YouTubers. That’s how young people get rich these days, isn’t it? They change their hairstyles, or throw themselves at plate glass windows on YouTube.
The young couple – of whom I am sickeningly jealous, if we’re being completely honest about it – move forward to collect their welcome packs, and are also led away by another one of the porters.
‘Mr Holland and Ms Caddick,’ Anju then reads out.
So they’re not married then.
And she’s definitely gone back to her maiden name.
This shouldn’t bother or surprise me in the slightest, but it does. It really does.
The gruesome twosome step forward and collect the welcome pack from Anju. As they do I take great interest in the sand beneath my feet. Look how lovely and white it is, would you? I’m led to believe that at least some of it is made from fish poo.
I don’t know why this fact has squirrelled itself away in my brain, or even if it’s accurate, but it’s something I heard once and it has always stayed with me, just because it must take a mighty amount of fish to make enough poo to help create an island like this.
And are they small fish? Or big fish? Because big fish would be better, wouldn’t it? I’d imagine they poo a lot more than the little ones. But why doesn’t the poo float away before it gets the chance to become part of the island? Or is there a species of fish that has developed the ability to breathe air, and flops its way up on to the island for a crap?
They’ve gone, idiot. You can stop thinking about fish poo now.
I look up to see that my cantankerous brain tells the truth. Amy and Ray are now a good thirty feet away, being led across the white (possibly fish-poo laden) sand to the long walkway that extends out from the beach and towards the water bungalows.
‘Mr Sinclair and Miss Rowntree,’ Anju says, and Cara and I move forward.
‘Here you are, Mr Sinclair,’ Anju says, handing me the welcome pack and small envelope containing our key card. ‘Everything you need to know about the island is contained within our pack, but if you have any questions at all, I am here at reception, and you are welcome to call by pressing zero on your room phone, or visit any time you wish. Please follow Edward, who will take you to your bungalow.’
; Edward is a slight young man with an infectious smile, and insists on taking my rucksack, along with Cara’s. We say thank you and goodbye to Anju, and follow Edward as he starts to make in the same direction as where Amy and Ray have gone.
And boy is Edward keen to get us to our water bungalow as quickly as he can. He takes off so fast across the sand that it kicks up under his Maldivian skirt as his flip flops struggle for purchase on the powdery surface.
Divested of our heavy rucksacks, Cara and I are just about able to keep up with him, even though it’s starting to make me sweat quite profusely, as we march past several thatched beach umbrellas, under which sit a few lounging sunbathers. Wimbufushi is the kind of resort that never feels or looks overcrowded, simply because it only caters for a small number of guests.
Something occurs to me at this point that makes my blood run cold. Edward is motoring along the beach so fast that he’s catching up to the porter escorting Amy and Ray – who is much slower, fatter and older than our sprightly guide.
What was a thirty-foot gap has rapidly shrunk to below twenty. If Edward keeps this pace up, we’ll catch them before we reach the bungalows.
‘Er, Edward?’ I ask, in as light and friendly a tone possible. ‘We don’t need to go so fast!’
Edward looks around at me with that beaming smile of his. ‘Go fast, sir? Okay!’
Oh fuck. He’s obviously misinterpreted what I said. Possibly a language-barrier thing, or maybe the fact he’s got our rucksacks hoiked so far up around his ears that he didn’t hear me properly.
Either way, he’s now battering along the beach at such a rate of knots, we’re guaranteed to come alongside Amy and Ray before we get to the bungalows.
I try to tell him to slow down again, but he’s so intent on fulfilling what he thinks are my wishes to go faster that he doesn’t appear to hear me at all this time. So to keep up, Cara and I are now stumbling across the white powdery sand like a couple of new-born foals, all awkward legs and audible grunting.
Oh God. He’s getting nearer!
Amy’s porter is a few feet before the wooden walkway now, and still proceeding at a much slower rate than we are.
Amy’s going to think I’m doing this deliberately! She’s going to think I’ve told Edward to move as fast as possible, to beat them to the bungalows!
I don’t want that! I want to amble slowly along, feeling the warm sun caress my face – not race along at the fastest pace imaginable, with the sand filling up my shoes!
Sure enough, just as Amy’s porter is just about to step on to the walkway, Edward comes barrelling past him like the outside chance at Aintree, and launches himself on to the wooden jetty. This only gives him an extra burst of speed now he’s on a more solid surface.
I come stumbling past the three of them with my head down, staring at the sand for all I’m worth. What the hell else can I do? Wave as I go past? Offer my heartfelt apologies? Give them the finger?
None of those seem like appropriate options, so I just motor past, trying not to make eye contact. Poor old Cara follows on behind, huffing and puffing for all she’s worth.
I’m not a hundred per cent sure, but I think I hear Amy tut as my feet hit the walkway.
Amy likes to tut. She can express more with a tut than some people can with an entire litany of swearwords.
Well, there’s bloody nothing I can do about it! It’s not my fault Edward is in training for the bloody Maldivian Olympic team, is it?
Is the hundred metres across sand carrying two North Face rucksacks an Olympic event? Because Edward here would be a fucking shoo-in.
We continue to hammer along the wooden jetty for a good fifty or so yards, until Edward banks towards the entrance of one of the water bungalows. Such has been his turn of speed that we’ve left Amy and Ray in the dust – or rather, sand.
The bungalows are arranged so that only two of them are accessible from the smaller walkways that break off from the main one – which has widened considerably since we got to the start of the two rows of bungalows on either side of it.
Edward powers his way to the water bungalow on the left-hand side of this specific walkway, and turns towards me expectantly, holding out his hand.
Oh fuck. Does he want a tip? I literally don’t have any spare change on me, and even if I did, it’d probably be a couple of pound coins – which would be about as much use to Edward as a chocolate teapot, unless he was planning a trip to see the glorious touristical wonders of England’s green and pleasant land.
‘Give him the key card, Joel,’ Cara says rather breathlessly from beside me. ‘He wants to let us into the bungalow.’
‘Oh, I see,’ I reply, feeling instantly stupid. I hand over the cardboard envelope and stand there politely as Edward takes out the key card and runs it over the entry scanner next to the solid wood door carved with rather lovely flowers.
The door clicks from somewhere in its internal workings, and Edward pushes it open.
I let Cara walk in before me, and then follow her. ‘Wow,’ I breathe, as I cross the threshold and see what’s inside.
‘Yeah,’ Cara agrees, taking in the rather lovely surroundings that will be our home for the next week.
The last time I came to Wimbufushi, I was accommodated in one of the beach bungalows – which was lovely enough. But this place is a whole order of magnitude more luxurious.
To the front of the bungalow is a wide-open room, with a massive super-king-sized bed against the wall, and a colossal comfy-looking couch in front of it. An equally large cream chaise longue sits along the left-hand wall, and there’s an enormous television on a wall bracket in the right-hand corner.
Beyond all of this is a set of windowed sliding doors that lead out into heaven.
A decked veranda has two gigantic loungers sat on it – and, yes, I am well aware of how many adjectives I’m using to define this water bungalow that all basically repeat the same description: everything in here is huge. Including that view.
Beyond the veranda is the horizon, an ocean of cool blue water and a blue sky only interrupted by a few scudding high-altitude clouds.
Cara and I walk over to it like a pair of zombies, while Edward quietly puts our rucksacks on the chaise longue. He’s probably seen this reaction from guests a thousand times before, and is well used to waiting while they dribble about the view in stunned amazement.
The beach bungalow had a lovely view of the ocean too, but it really didn’t have the same impact as standing on a water-bungalow veranda like we are now.
It feels like you’re floating in the view itself, with nothing between you and it. It’s an incredible sensation.
Cara takes my hand in hers as we both just stand there for a moment, gazing out into gorgeous infinity. I look around at her. ‘I’m really glad I’m here with you,’ I say to her.
‘Me too,’ she replies, and gives me a soft kiss on the cheek.
Cara and I then drift back into the bungalow, barely able to stop ourselves from turning to look at the horizon again as we do so. Edward starts to tell us about the amenities we have in the bungalow, including the free mini bar, multi-channel satellite TV, and tea- and coffee-making facilities, but I only hear half of what he has to say.
My attention is only really brought away from the view when Edward indicates down at our feet.
‘There’s a glass floor,’ I point out, going over to stand on it.
Slap bang in the middle of the lounge area, in front of the couch, is a square patch of floor that is see-through glass, instead of hardwood. Through it, I can gaze at colourful coral, and some equally colourful tiny fish. It’s quite hypnotic to watch them swimming about, as the sea level gently rises and falls with the waves.
I look back up at the transcendent view, then back down at the hypnotic floor glass. Back up, back down. Back up, back down.
There’s every chance I’m just going to spend this entire holiday switching between these two glorious views, unable to take my eyes off either of th
em.
Edward smiles, and says we should now follow him to the rear of the bungalow where he can show us the bathroom. I manage to pull myself away from the two visions of natural beauty laid out in front of me, and do as he says.
Edward takes us around the back of the wall the bed is up against to show us the bathroom and dressing area. On the other side of the wall is a long set of ornate, dark wooden wardrobes.
To the right of us is a closed-off toilet, and behind gorgeous wooden walls – also carved with flowers – is a beautiful freestanding bath and rain shower. There’s also a large double sink vanity against the back of the bungalow behind yet another wall, above which hangs an ornate mirror. The whole bungalow has a definite open-air feel to it, while still retaining the right amount of necessary privacy. It’s incredibly well laid out, and quite something.
‘Bloody hell,’ Cara says under her breath, as the tour concludes back at the open front door to the bungalow. ‘Thank you, Edward.’
He beams at her. ‘My pleasure, madam.’
No, Edward, this is entirely our pleasure . . . You’ve let us into heaven – and there will be a place in my will for you.
This water bungalow is incredible.
Completely perfect.
Absolutely—
‘Are you fucking kidding me?’ I hear Amy’s voice stab into my ears, breaking my happy little train of thought completely.
I turn and look out – to see Amy, Ray and their porter all stood at the threshold to the bungalow next door . . .
Tuesday
AMY – THE HORROR NEXT DOOR
Accidentally eating an entire tarantula.
Finding out your parents were war criminals.
Winning a lifetime supply of dog shit.
Contracting a disease that makes all of your teeth fall out, and renders you incapable of saying any word other than ‘bosom’.
All of these things – and many more besides – are both more likely to happen and infinitely preferable to what’s going on in my life right now.
The same flight. The same week. The same island. The bungalow next door . . .
You Again? Page 6