‘Aaargh!’ Ray cries out and immediately stops paddling. His left hand flies to his right bicep as he does this.
‘Ray! Sweetheart! Are you okay?!’
I’ve never heard Ray cry out in pain like that. All thoughts of the race are extinguished as something far more important has replaced it – instant worry over my fiancé’s health.
‘It’s my arm!’ he tells me, still nursing his bicep and wincing.
I barely notice as Joel and Cara go flying past us.
‘What’s happened?’ I ask Ray, my voice full of concern.
‘Think I’ve pulled something!’ he replies, breathing out heavily. ‘Not the first time. Did it windsurfing about seven years ago. Same place!’
‘Oh no!’
‘Probably shouldn’t have pushed myself so much!’
I am instantly consumed with guilt.
This is all my fault.
I’m the one who persuaded Ray into having this stupid race, all because I was mad at Joel. And I’m the one who’s constantly been pushing Ray to paddle harder to make up for my inadequacies.
All just to beat Joel . . .
Hang on a bloody minute! This isn’t my fault! It’s HIS! It’s bloody Joel’s! Again!
We wouldn’t be in this race at all if it wasn’t for him being such an arsehole. My poor Ray would be fine if it weren’t for him!
And just look at him now, would you?
Look at him gloat as he flies into the lead!
Look how he stares back at us, knowing that we’re done for!
Look how that snotty grimace has turned into a snotty grin of triumph!
Look how his head wobbles back and forth in the uncontained pleasure of the moment!
Look how he and Cara spear the kayak directly into one of the pylons holding the main wooden pier up, because Joel hasn’t been paying attention to where he’s going . . .
The kayak hits the wooden pole just off-centre to the right, scraping its entire side down it.
Both Joel and Cara lose their paddles, as they also clatter into the thick wooden pole.
Cara lets out a scream, as does Joel. It’s hard to tell which one is more high-pitched.
Their kayak, still being propelled forward by their previous frenzied paddling, steers itself off to the right, and back out into deeper water. I can see a large gash down the side of the fibreglass, and water beginning to pour into the kayak’s cockpit.
‘Jesus Christ!’ Joel screams, as he starts to ineffectually bail water out of the kayak with his cupped hands.
‘We have to help them!’ Ray says, painfully grabbing his paddle from the water beside him.
‘What?’ I exclaim. ‘No! You’re hurt! There’s nothing we can do!’
‘I’m fine!’ he tells me, though the fact his face has gone a pallid grey colour tells me he’s lying. ‘We have to stop them before they drift past the red buoys!’
‘The what?’
‘The red buoys Jarvis told us about! We’re not supposed to stray that far out into the sea at this point, because of the plane!’
‘The plane?’
‘Yes! That one!’
Ray points into the blue sky at a small black speck, barely visible at this distance.
‘Oh shit,’ I reply, understanding what he’s saying. Joel and Cara are drifting out into the lane that the plane the rich folk come to the island on uses to land, with no means of controlling their fast-sinking kayak.
‘Come on! Help me paddle!’ Ray commands, and starts to push our kayak towards where Joel and Cara are now both crying for help and bailing away at the influx of water.
Then, from somewhere unidentifiable, Bonnie Tyler starts to sing.
You know the one.
Do do do doooooo . . .
Do do do doooooo . . .
Do do do doooooo . . .
Do daaaaaaaah . . .
Do daaaaaaaaah . . .
I’m not sure where all the good men have gone, Bonnie, but I can point one out to you at least. He’s sat right in front of me, paddling for all his worth, over to my worthless ex.
I wouldn’t necessarily class Ray as a streetwise Hercules, but he’s definitely doing a great impression of a white knight right about now.
And it’s a good job he’s doing so, because Joel and Cara have indeed drifted past the red buoys, and are currently sinking slowly, right in the lane that the boat plane lands in.
Neither of them appear to have noticed this latest dreadful turn of events, as they are clearly still trying to cope with the last one. Sadly, their efforts aren’t proving very useful, as no matter how much bailing out they’ve done, the kayak continues to sink at an alarming rate of knots. The whole front end is pretty much in the water now, and Joel is waist deep.
‘Help!’ he screeches, flailing his arms around like one of those things you see outside a used-car dealership. ‘We’re sinking!’
His grasp of the blindingly obvious is as firm as always, it seems.
Instead of panicking, Cara is just sat quietly behind Joel, staring up at the sky in a display of absolute resignation that you have to admire.
‘It’s okay, we’re here!’ Ray says in a soothing tone, as we get closer. ‘We can help get you out of the way.’
‘Out of the way?’ Joel wails, his face a mask of confusion. ‘Out of the way of what?’
I know I shouldn’t take such extreme satisfaction in my next move, but I just can’t help myself. After all, I’m in as much comparative danger as Joel is – being sat alongside him – but at least my kayak is in fine working shape, and being piloted by a man who can get me clear of the danger zone in no time at all, even with a pulled bicep muscle.
I point an arm up at the rapidly growing shape of the Wimbufushi Island Resort and Spa boat plane, full of posh people who would never deign to use something as lower class as a speedboat to reach their tropical getaway. ‘That, Joel. That,’ I explain. ‘There’s a plane coming right at you.’
The blood drains from his face in a most satisfying manner.
A bit like it did from my face when I realised I had to have a poo in public.
Ray pulls our kayak alongside theirs and tries to yank the front end out of the water with his good left arm. This doesn’t do much, given Joel’s bulk. ‘You’ll have to jump out, chap,’ Ray tells him, earning him a look of panicked bewilderment.
‘Get out of the fucking kayak, Joel,’ I repeat slowly and loudly.
When you’ve got a boat plane aimed at your face, you shouldn’t really talk slowly. It is a time most definitely reserved for speaking quickly – but the chance to really make my ex-husband feel as small as possible is too good to pass up – even if it does increase my chances of getting a propeller up the backside.
Joel stares at me for a second, before sliding out of the kayak, allowing Ray to try to lift the sinking end of the thing again. Unfortunately too much water has entered it now, so he’s got no chance.
‘You’ll have to both abandon the kayak,’ he tells them. ‘Swim away, and you’ll be fine!’
‘I’m . . . I’m too knackered to swim!’ Joel admits, barely keeping his head above water.
‘Okay,’ Ray replies. ‘Then hold on to our kayak and I’ll steer us out of the plane’s path.’
Cara immediately nods and tips herself out of the kayak, grabbing the back end of ours just behind me. There’s a small loop of white rope on the pointy bit that she can easily grab on to, answering the question of why it’s there in the first place, I suppose.
Joel splutters and slaps his way around the sinking form of his kayak, and brings himself alongside Ray. He then grabs hold of the side of our kayak, making it list heavily.
‘Careful!’ Ray warns, as he tries to compensate for the dead weight.
I know how you feel, sweetheart. I had to do it for years.
Given that Joel has parked himself on Ray’s left-hand side, my fiancé then has to start awkwardly and painfully paddling just on the right-hand side, which s
tarts to send us all around in a slow, pathetic circle.
I immediately try to lend a hand by doing a bit of paddling myself – being careful not to hit Cara over the head as I do so.
Don’t get me wrong, there’s probably a part of me that would like to clonk her on the head, but I resist the temptation like a proper adult.
Given how weak I feel, my paddling really doesn’t help matters much, and all we do is start to go around in a slightly larger pathetic circle.
Even I’m starting to feel a little panicked now. The plane is getting close enough to both see and hear properly, and isn’t making much effort to change its trajectory.
‘Oh God, the plane!’ Joel cries. ‘The plane! The plane!’
‘Yes, we can see the fucking plane!’ I shout at him, as I try to push us forward once more with my weak-wristed paddling.
It’s no good, though. Ray is injured, I’m knackered, Joel is a dead weight and Cara appears to have gone to her happy place. We’re not going to get out of the way in time. I’m going to be the first person in history to die in a holiday plane crash, and not be in the sodding plane when it happens.
All four of us look up in terror as the boat plane gets closer and closer.
‘You fucking twat, Joel,’ I say to my ex-husband in a weary voice.
These are not the best final words a person has ever spoken, but they’ll just have to do.
Then, having finally seen the calamity unfolding beneath him, the pilot of the plane roars back up into the sky again, missing us by a good sixty or seventy feet.
‘Oh, thank God,’ Ray remarks, in a display of shocked relief that seems quite out of character for him. I guess this situation must have been pretty damn hairy then, for him to seem so relieved it’s over.
Gulp.
‘Bloody hellfire, that was close!’ Joel says, sounding equally relieved.
‘Yes, it fucking was,’ I add, trying my hardest not to whack him on the head with my paddle.
Cara remains silent behind me. I think she might have had some sort of nervous breakdown, but I can’t be a hundred per cent sure.
Then, on a day of non-stop humiliations, the final crowning indignity occurs, when I look up to see a small rubber dinghy coming towards us, with Wimbufushi’s congenial host Azim sat at the prow, an anxious look on his face.
It appears we are being rescued.
Oh joy.
‘Hello! Hello! Are you all well?’ Azim says in a concerned voice, as the guy driving the motor at the back of the dinghy slows it down and comes alongside us.
‘Yes!’ Ray tells him. ‘Although we would be grateful of some assistance getting back to shore!’
‘Yes, of course!’ Azim replies. ‘We have never had to do this before!’
No, I bet you haven’t, Azim. I bet that everybody else who visits Wimbufushi is quite capable of going out for a pleasant paddle in one of your excellent kayaks, without vomiting, nearly murdering an endangered species, and getting run over by a plane.
I’ve never been so embarrassed in all of my life.
. . . well, except when I turned up at Goblin Central five hours late for an important fucking meeting, of course.
Go on. Just smack him with the paddle once. It doesn’t have to be that hard.
Oh, but it is hard. So very, very hard to remain adult, and resist the temptation . . .
But then, I don’t want to give Joel any more ammunition to use against me. He knows me too well. Best I just take a deep breath, try to smile at Azim, and put this bizarre and awful conflict behind me.
It’s clearly not worth the bloody hassle, and will only result in more shared misery.
Nearly having your hair cut by a plane propeller should be all you need to tell you that keeping up a course of action is only going to end in very bad things.
I should never have let Joel rile me up. I should never have pushed Ray into this race.
I should have risen above Joel’s pettiness. That way, I wouldn’t be covered in my own vomit, and about to be rescued from the ocean by a man who can’t quite believe he’s dealing with such a moronic group of holidaymakers.
That’s it, though.
I’ve learned my bloody lesson.
As Azim tows Ray and I back to shore, with Joel and Cara in the dinghy with him, I resolve to not let my ex-husband negatively affect my holiday anymore. For the remaining three days, I will try my level best to ignore both him, and anything he attempts to get a rise out of me.
That way, I may just get out of here alive.
. . . which is not the kind of thing you’re supposed to wish for halfway through a luxury holiday in the Maldives, now is it?
Friday
JOEL – EMASCULATION
I think, all things considered, it’s probably about the right time to get absolutely fucking pissed.
There aren’t many occasions in life when this seems like the best course of action, but taking into account what’s happened to me recently, I can see no other possible avenue of pursuit that would be as effective.
When you’ve comprehensively been shown up in front of your girlfriend by another man – especially one in Tiny White Shorts – there’s very little else you can do to make yourself feel better than climb into a bottle.
Yesterday was a disaster. A five-star disaster, with sea views, a spa bath, and twenty-four-hour room service.
And to think that for a moment, I thought I’d actually won.
As Mr Tiny White Shorts stopped paddling and started cradling his injured arm, I felt a surge of triumph go through me.
This lasted for precisely twelve seconds, before we hit that fucking pole and everything went to shit.
Twelve seconds.
Twelve seconds of triumph, surrounded by abject defeat.
That’ll be what I’ll call my autobiography, if I ever get the chance to write it.
And that abject defeat came to a conclusion when I had to be rescued by Azim – another competent, well-put-together man who makes me look like a towering idiot.
At least he isn’t having sex with my ex-wife, I suppose.
Azim was very gracious about the destroyed kayak. I tried to say I was sorry about the damage, but he just waved my apologies away with a laugh. There was a brittleness around the edges of that laugh though, showing that even someone as well trained in the arts of hospitality as Azim cannot entirely conceal his true feelings all of the time.
I was frankly glad to say goodbye to him and trudge back to the water bungalow. I was even more glad that Ray and Amy went in the other direction. If they’d have been going to the same place as us, there’s every chance I would have suggested to Ray that we race to see who got there first. One last opportunity to prove that I am not the single most beta male that has ever walked the face of the planet.
Mind you, I could have beaten him by a hundred yards and it still wouldn’t make up for the fact that ten minutes prior to that I was hanging on to him for dear life and screaming like a little girl.
Good bloody grief.
Cara’s been quiet ever since we got back to the bungalow. I suppose I can’t blame her. I forced her into a stupid race she wanted no part of, and nearly got her killed – first by drowning, and then by plane attack. No wonder she hasn’t wanted to talk to me much. She’s probably re-evaluating our entire relationship – and wondering how she managed to get stuck with a man in his late thirties with a slight paunch and extremely fragile ego, when she could easily find a man in tiny white shorts, if she so desired.
. . . okay, I’m obsessed. I realise that now. It’s funny how nearly having a boat plane embedded in your skull can really help you get to grips with your own neuroses.
I’d have to have no self-awareness at all to not appreciate how jealous I am of Ray Holland. I look at him and see everything I’m not.
He’s taller, better looking, better built and better mannered.
He’s also managed to make a relationship work with Amy Caddick, which is no mean feat.
Certainly one I was not capable of.
The question of when that relationship started still plays on my mind, though, I can tell you that.
From what I remember, Ray Holland became a client of Rowntree Land & Home a good three or four months prior to the disaster of Goblin Central. And did Amy have a lot more contact with him than I did?
Why, yes, she absolutely did. At the time I thought nothing of it – I was just glad that we’d landed a good sale, given how much commission it paid us. But all these years later, knowing what I know now . . . I have to wonder what was going on between them, right under my bloody nose.
I have no proof of any shenanigans, of course. But can I rule out that shenanigans might well have happened? Can I say for certain that my already problematic marriage wasn’t made much worse the day Ray Holland walked into our offices, and asked Amy and I for help in buying his next home?
No, I cannot.
And here he is, in what seems like a very comfortable, happy relationship with Amy – while I flounder around in the depths with Cara, with a rapidly sinking feeling that makes the one I felt in the kayak seem inconsequential by comparison.
I used to be like Ray. I used to be the confident one. I used to be the one in control of his life. Right up until Goblin Central happened. Ever since then and the subsequent divorce, it’s been an uphill battle. All because of Amy. All because of what she took away from me . . .
Throughout the whole of today, I’ve tried to put all of this stupidity out of my head, and just relax. I’ve failed at this spectacularly.
We’re now into the second half of this holiday, and so far – other than a very pleasant few hours on the sun beds yesterday morning – it’s been about as relaxing as a Red-Bull-soaked rollercoaster ride. I’m well aware that it’s my actions that have caused this, so I’ve done all I can today to make sure Cara is as happy as possible. This is all well and good for her, but it’s left me stressed out and tense. I’m so desperate to make up for yesterday that I’m doing everything in my power to see that Cara is well taken care of, and that’s not conducive to my own sense of well-being.
You Again? Page 16