I can safely say that I haven’t felt the tension leave my body like this in months. It’s just a crying shame that it has to be replaced by a kind of horrific sweet ache that now suffuses my entire being. I feel like I’ve been trampled by a cow that’s simultaneously force fed me a pound of cannabis. I’m completely exhausted by it all.
‘Are you okay, Mr Sinclair?’ Suha asks, as she relieves the pressure on my left buttock.
‘Blrrrrrmmm,’ I reply, unable to give her any more than that.
‘Okay, that’s good,’ she replies with a pleased tone to her voice.
She must be fluent in the language of The Massaged. Able to discern what people are saying to her through slack, squashed lips with practised ease.
I’m not one hundred per cent sure she’s translated my mutterings all that accurately, though. I’m not sure ‘blrrrrrmmm’ means ‘Why yes, Suha. I am having a most satisfactory and relaxing time. Pray continue to dig your thumb into my bodily person while I enjoy the plinky plonky.’
Maybe I should elucidate further on my ambivalence towards the treatment she’s currently administering. Possibly it might be a good idea to ask her to stop, before every single part of the back of my body is crying out.
‘Mrrrrrrrrble,’ I say, as Suha thumbs me right up both sides of my spine, running all over the bits she’s being poking and prodding. This wakes them all up again, and the ache returns to full on pain.
I can’t take any more. I must say something.
‘Hrrrrrrrgle.’
No. Something a little more lucid than that, you pillock!
And then Suha says something that’s guaranteed to keep me up at nights. ‘Now please flip on to your front.’
I shouldn’t do it. I should just thank her very much for everything she’s done, and get the hell out of here – but again my thoughts return to Cara. She wanted me to go through this massage, and I must trust her. Trust her that being meticulously thumbed by a psychopathic five-foot Maldivian woman is just the ticket. Just the thing to make Joel Sinclair a happier, calmer individual.
And so, I do as I am told, and Suha gets going on the front of my thighs and arms.
Now I’m on my back, and my face isn’t quite so smushed into the massage table, my speaking in the language of The Massaged has changed accent.
‘Heeeeeeee,’ I say to Suha, like a moped in the distance.
I realise that the plinky plonky has ended, and has turned into more of a ting tang tong. This is a slightly rarer form of calming spa music, employing the doubtful tones of what sounds like a small metal cup being whacked rhythmically with a spoon. It’s not as ‘relaxing’ as the plinky plonky, if I’m being honest, but it still does the job of taking my mind off where Suha’s thumbs are going.
The massage (or torture, depending on your point of view and pain-tolerance threshold) goes on for another ten minutes, all while the ting tang tong echoes around the room.
Suha eventually finishes up with having a good old poke around my neck. She cradles my head in both hands, and starts to work at the back of my skull with all of her fingers.
‘Haaaaaaaa,’ I say, indicating that the moped has acquired a couple of extra strokes to its engine.
So, now I am one giant ache from head to toe. It doesn’t feel like there’s a spot left on my body that doesn’t hurt.
This means that Suha is done for the day. And I should be grateful, but now I very probably have to move off this table, and I’m not convinced that’s going to be possible for me.
‘Please feel free to lie here for a while before dressing,’ Suha tells me. ‘I will return to the reception area and await you.’
‘Than’ you,’ I manage to say. Not sure what I’m thanking her for, mind you. Probably for stopping.
Suha departs, leaving me once again alone in the massage room. This time, though, I am one of The Massaged, as opposed to an ordinary, functioning human being – irrevocably altered by the experience I have just undergone.
I can’t move for a good five minutes – the prospect is just too horrifying to contemplate.
But eventually, as with all things, my time here must come to an end. I have to leave, before Suha returns and decides she hasn’t thumbed me enough for one day, and wants to have a go at my internal workings. I can only imagine what having my pancreas poked by Suha would feel like.
Taking what I hope is a deep enough breath, I lift my head and shoulders, marvelling at two things as I do. One is the fact that my entire back feels a lot more languid than it did half an hour ago, and two is because it feels like the fucking cow we spoke of earlier has trampled over me again, this time wearing hobnail boots and listening to The Sex Pistols.
‘Oh fuck a duck,’ I say breathlessly, as I sit upright and try to move my legs over the side of the table to get off. Every movement is agony. Loose, flowing agony.
I manage to stand with the assistance of holding on to the table, and begin the complicated and long process of getting over to the changing area to put my board shorts and t-shirt back on again.
Picture, if you will, someone doing an impression of C3PO from Star Wars while comprehensively drunk.
That’s about right, I think.
I can’t help but let out a moan of pain as I step back into my shorts, followed by a wail of absolute distress as I put the t-shirt back on over my head.
I then shuffle my way over to the door to the massage room, and pause. I can’t go outside like this. I’ll look like I’ve aged sixty years in the space of thirty minutes. What will Cara think? I don’t want her to see that the massage she recommended for me has left me in this state. It would upset her greatly.
I have to shake it off a bit and pretend I’m extremely pleased about the treatment I’ve just undergone.
And it’s one thing to pretend you’re in a good mood to your ex-wife while strolling down the beach, but it’s quite another to pretend you are to your girlfriend, after Pat the Cow has moshed her way through ‘God Save The Queen’ across your entire body.
I spend a few moments arranging my face into one of relaxed contentment. I think I do a pretty good job, excepting maybe for the twitch coming from my left eye.
With this done, I open the door and step out on to the broad walkway that all of the spa’s huts are accessible from, and make my way gingerly back to the reception.
No! Not gingerly! Stride like you’ve just had the greatest experience of your life!
I attempt this, but it’s very hard to stride when you’re a ball of agony. It comes off looking more like I’m being puppeted along by someone with a healthy dose of Parkinson’s.
I spot Cara at the reception desk, chatting to the other Maldivian girl, who must have administered her hot stone treatment.
I have no idea what a hot stone treatment is, but if it’s anything on the level of what I’ve had done, it must have involved the insertion of said hot stones into many bodily orifices.
Cara doesn’t appear to look like she’s had a boiling pebble shoved up her bum, though, so I guess I’m the only one who’s been through torture this afternoon.
‘Joel! How did it go?’
‘Super! Lovely! Enjoyed every minute of it!’
Cara looks aghast. ‘Why are you talking like that?’
‘Talking like what?’
‘In that weird high-pitched voice?’
‘Am I?’
‘Yes! Didn’t the massage go well?’
Bloody hell, I’d better lower my voice an octave or two, or I’ll really give the game away.
‘Oh yes!’ I tell her, compensating for all I’m worth. ‘It was super! Smashing! Lovely! Great!’
‘Why are you talking like the Bullseye man?’
‘Pardon me?’
‘You’re talking like the Bullseye man. The guy who used to host that show Grandad always loved to watch when I was little.’
‘Jim Bowen?’
‘That’s the one. Why are you talking like Jim Bowen, the Bullseye man?’
I don’
t know, Cara. Why does anyone do anything these days?
‘The massage wasn’t good, was it?’ Cara says, looking anxious.
Oh, fuck it. I’ve messed up royally here. I haven’t convinced her at all.
Time to come clean, I think.
So you’re going to tell her that this island is where you came with Amy, then?
Fuck off, brain! You’re not helping! Go back to day dreaming about the plinky plonky music, or I’ll get Suha to give you the thumbing of your squishy life!
‘Joel? What happened?’
My face scrunches up. ‘It was the thumbs, Cara!’
‘You what?’
‘She thumbed me. She thumbed me all over!’
‘She thumbed you?’
‘Yes! The whole time! The levels of thumbage were completely off the charts!’
Cara’s brow furrows. ‘That’s not right, though. I just booked you in for a nice full body massage. It was supposed to be relaxing and gentle.’
I shake my head. ‘No, no. Not gentle. Not relaxing.’ I hold up both thumbs in front of her. ‘Thumbs, Cara. It was all thumbs.’ I wiggle them about a bit to underline my point.
Cara turns and sees Suha at the back of the reception, arranging bottles of massage oil. ‘Excuse me?’ she says.
Suha turns and walks over with a practised smile on her face. ‘Yes? What can I do for you, Miss Rowntree?’
‘The massage you just gave my boyfriend . . . He says you . . . thumbed him a lot. That’s not usually part of a full body massage, is it?’
Suha looks confused. ‘No, madam. I gave Mr Sinclair the full acupressure remedial sports massage.’
Cara looks dumbfounded. ‘Why did you do that?’
Suha continues to look very confused. ‘Because your friend asked me to change it to that. She paid the extra money for it.’
‘What friend?’ Cara and I say in unison.
Now Suha looks a little terrified, as if coming to some sort of horrible realisation. ‘Your . . . your friend came up to me before the treatment, and told me you’d be happier with the remedial treatment.’ Suha looks at me. ‘She told me your name, your date of birth, and what bungalow you were in. She said you really wanted to have a proper remedial massage, but was afraid you couldn’t afford it, so she paid the extra.’ Suha smiles, trying to extricate herself from a situation that’s clearly getting away from her. ‘I thought it was a very nice gift for her to give you.’
My jaw – so recently loosened by Suha’s administrations – tightens enormously. ‘This . . . friend. Was she about this high, with blond hair and wearing white shorts?’ I say to her, hovering my hand at about Amy’s height.
Suha nods. ‘Why, yes.’ She looks scared to death. ‘Is she not your friend? Should I not have changed the massage?’
I can’t speak. My mouth has stopped working. The sheer, unbridled fucking cheek of my ex-wife has rendered me mute.
‘No, no. It’s not your fault,’ Cara tells the girl. ‘You’ve done nothing wrong. Thank you very much.’
‘Grrrrrrd,’ I say. This is not the language of The Massaged. This is the language of The Enraged. I doubt it’s a language poor Suha speaks. Her job is to make sure people don’t feel that way.
I turn towards the beach, not uttering another word, and begin to walk towards it, still wincing like a mad thing at all the pain in my body – which I now know has been caused by Amy Caddick and her never-ending supply of pure evil.
I should have known. I should have known that she’d do something like this. After all, this is the person who did all she could to ruin my reputation at Rowntree Land & Home after what happened with Goblin Central. She blamed me for the loss of that contract then (even though I did everything bloody right!), and now she has the barefaced cheek to deliberately change my massage from a nice, relaxing one, into something that will ensure I’ll be having nightmares about giant Maldivian thumbs coming at me for the rest of my life.
I hit the beach, staggering angrily away from the spa. All I want to do now is get back to the bungalow and soak in a nice hot bath, which will hopefully do something to take this hideous all-body ache away.
Any relaxation that my muscles may have undergone has been completely wiped away by my ex-wife’s audacity. They are as tense as they have ever been.
‘Fucking bloody fucking woman, and her fucking bloody fucking bloody cheek . . .’ I grumble to myself as I lurch along the beach.
‘Joel! Hang on!’ Cara says, trying to catch up with me. When she does, she puts an arm in mine and slows me down. ‘Are you okay?’
‘Okay?! No, Cara, I’m not okay!’
I instantly regret this outburst. None of this is my girlfriend’s fault. She’s not the one I should be mad at.
‘I’m so sorry, Cara,’ I say to her, trying to get my rage under control. ‘None of this is your fault.’
‘No. It’s that bitch’s.’
The venom in Cara’s voice is quite something. She’s usually such an upbeat person. This is a side of her I’ve never seen before, and I would be worried about it were it not for the fact that she’s angry at Amy.
Amy could make Gandhi homicidal, so I’m more than happy to give this dark turn in Cara’s demeanour a pass.
‘Why would she do something like that?’ Cara asks, eyes burning.
I shrug my shoulders. ‘That’s Amy for you. Vindictive, she is. You know what she was like after the marriage broke down, before she left the agency. Spent her entire time trying to convince everyone it was my fault we lost Goblin Central.’
‘Yeah, I remember you saying.’ Cara looks indignant. ‘I can’t believe she did that. You did put the right time in that calendar.’
‘I did!’
‘And there’s every chance she could have accidentally altered it herself in the weeks leading up to the meeting.’
‘Exactly!’ I reply, nodding enthusiastically.
‘And then to take so much from you in the divorce settlement. To be so vindictive about it all . . .’
‘I know!’
‘Anyone who’d do that . . . well, it’s no surprise she’d play such a horrible trick on you.’ Cara then hugs me in a manner full of both sympathy and understanding. It’s rather lovely.
I am once again reminded of how great she’s been in the last few months since we started dating, and how none of what’s going on here now is her responsibility. She’s just got caught up with a very nasty individual, who I was once stupid enough to marry.
What if Amy had changed Cara’s treatment, and not mine?
The mere thought of this makes my blood boil even more.
Oh . . . you’re not going to get away with this, Amy. I don’t know how I’m going to get you back for this, but I will. I promise you that.
Revenge is coming, Amy Caddick. And there will come a time when it will be served on you for the things you’ve done today. You mark my words!
Big, serious, long words!
Not plinky plonky! Not ting tang tong!
No!
Revenge!
It will be mine, and it will be sweet!
Wednesday
AMY – REVENGE IS SAVOURY
Okay.
I probably shouldn’t have done it.
I should have just walked away from the spa, let Joel have his massage, and got on with my holiday.
But . . .
It was such a perfect opportunity, wasn’t it?
And it was only a practical joke. Nothing too nasty. Just a little dig in Joel’s ribs, to help make me feel better about losing my sunset.
I told Ray I needed to pop back to the spa because I’d forgotten my sunglasses (which I had, by the way! I’d left them on the counter at the reception) and when I got back there, I saw Joel’s name on a ledger in front of Fareeda, the lovely girl who’d done my shiatsu.
And then . . . I don’t know. The devil got into me, I guess. A devil created by the past few days of having Joel Sinclair close to me again, and all the bad memories t
hat his presence has dredged up.
It was simplicity itself to tell Fareeda and the girl working on Joel that he really wanted the remedial massage instead. They took me at my word, once I’d convinced them I knew Joel well.
And I do know him well!
. . . well enough to know that getting such a hardcore massage would be the last thing he’d want.
But the devil spoke in my ear, and I did what I did – and then I ran away giggling to myself.
Actually, properly giggling. Like a bloody schoolgirl.
It all seemed like such a jolly jape at the time. But now – as I sit here on the edge of the bed, chewing a fingernail and staring out past the veranda at the sun not setting – I’m forced to conclude that it probably wasn’t such a good idea after all.
And I know this because I haven’t told Ray about it. Which means I’m feeling guilt and shame about my actions, and don’t want him to look at me with disappointment. Because that’s what he would do, I just know it. He wouldn’t approve of me stooping to such a childish act – and I’m pretty sure I actually agree with him on that one.
There’s nothing I can do about it now, though. What’s done is done.
I’m sure Joel didn’t mind a harder massage than he was expecting, anyway. It probably did him some good. He looked incredibly tense this morning as we passed them both on the beach.
Yes.
Yes, that’s right. I didn’t do anything wrong, really.
It’s not like I cocked up an appointment and pushed my ex-wife out of a job, is it?
That steels my resolve again.
No.
Everything is fine. There’s nothing to worry about.
‘Are you ready to go?’ Ray asks me, as he comes out from behind the wall our bed is against, dressed in a rather fetching set of white linen trousers and shirt.
‘Yes, I think so,’ I reply, getting up from the bed. This is made a little awkward by the fact I’m wearing my brand-new yellow Boden dress, which I probably should have bought in a size larger, if I’m being honest with myself. It’s fine when I’m upright, but a little tight when I’m seated.
But it flatters my bottom to such a degree that I’m happy to put up with a little discomfort. It’s only for one evening . . . and this is a special evening, after all.
You Again? Page 10