The whole thing is as glorious as it is undeniably fragile.
It’s enough to make me go home and throw out all of my single use plastic, buy a hemp shopping bag, and start buying my dinner from that Veganthropy Foods company that’s all over the place on the TV these days.
We spend a good twenty minutes in this shallower section of the reef before Harry turns to the left, and starts to take us out into deeper water.
Up until this point I have been enjoying this excursion through the forests of coral, but as we approach the edge of the reef’s shelf, I start to get a little panicky.
The drop off is . . . considerable.
One minute we’re about ten feet above the sea floor, and the next minute it drops precipitously off at a near right angle. I feel like I’ve flown out over the edge of the Grand Canyon, and my bowels don’t like it one little bit.
Thankfully, Harry does not take us much further out than a few metres past the edge, but it’s enough to allow an extreme sense of vertigo to overtake me. I have to stop for a second and lift my snorkel to catch a proper breath.
‘Are you okay?’ Cara asks, swimming up alongside me and treading water.
‘Yeah! It’s just a bit . . . a bit deep!’
‘I know what you mean! My heart jumped into my throat when we came over the edge!’
I can see the rest of the group getting ahead of us now . . . being ostensibly led by Harry, but actually being led by Ray, who has gone in front of our tour guide and is happily skirting along the edge of the coral like he was born to do it.
‘Trevor! Trevor!’ I hear Sandra scream from my right, and whip my head around to see that the plastic-surgery-altered singer of ‘I’ve Got You, Babe’ does not in fact have her babe at all, as he appears to have disappeared beneath the waves.
I look back to see that the rest of the group has got even further away from us. We’re the only ones anywhere near poor old Sandra and her submarining partner.
I should just call for help. I can’t possibly save Trevor myself. That would be a ridiculous thing to try to do. I just don’t have it in me.
Do I?
No. I should just scream at the top of my lungs for help, and hope that Ray or Harry get over here in time to save the sinking fat man from a watery grave.
Yes, that’s right. That’s what you should do. Maybe once upon a time you could have been the hero here, but that was back when you sold mansions and won at life. Now you sell tiny houseboats and lose at everything . . .
Fuck off.
I’m not having that.
Not for a second.
I swallow hard and look at Cara, pointing in the direction of the others. ‘Get their attention! I’ll swim over and see if I can help!’
Cara nods, turns to look at where Harry and Ray are still leading the group away, and starts to scream at the top of her voice, her fingers perched atop her head like she was shown in the safety briefing.
As she does this, I motor over to where Sandra is flailing around on her pool noodle for all she’s worth. Trevor’s noodle is drifting off into the distance, never to be seen again, until it washes up on another tropical beach somewhere across the other side of the planet.
‘Where is he?!’ I demand as I reach her.
‘Down there! He’s drowning! He’s drowning!’ she screams.
I plunge my head into the water and can indeed see the top of Trevor’s head as it dwindles into the darkness.
I then take the deepest breath I can, and frantically swim downwards.
Thankfully, Trevor is not too far under the water, so I am able to reach him before my breath gives out. He’s also happily conscious, and thrashing his fat little tattooed arms around as hard as possible. It’s not doing much good, because he’s also being pulled down by the weight of his rock-hard beer gut.
I get level with him and grab him under the armpits. Then I start to kick my legs as hard as I can, and we start to move back towards the surface again.
Good Lord, I don’t want to spoil it, but I do think I might be doing something quite heroic here . . .
I know!
I’m as amazed as you are.
Such is the upward momentum I’ve provided to the both of us with my heroic kicking that Trevor begins to rise away from me with a thrash of his pudgy little arms. This is something of a relief, because I think I’m right at the end of my energy reserves.
Still, I think my work here is done. I have done something I can actually be proud of.
Ha! Take that zemblanity!
You can stop me having a nice time on holiday, but you can’t stop me from—
Trevor’s foot smacks me on the top of my head as he hits the surface of the water, and bursts through it like a porpoise who’s had a few too many and got a Celtic tattoo put around its blowhole.
This knocks any sense I might have had out of me, along with my breath.
I slowly start to sink back down into the deep again, with what must be the second concussion I’ve incurred in the past few days.
Ah, zemblanity . . . you just couldn’t let me have this one, could you?
I should probably make some sort of effort at this point to not drown.
That is what any sensible, right-thinking individual would do.
But I recently kissed my ex-wife – a woman I’m supposed to hate – because I’ve completely lost my way in life, so I’m not sure I qualify as someone either sensible or right thinking.
Maybe, just maybe, this is . . . easier?
If I don’t try to claw my way back to the surface, I’ll never have to hear anyone call me Captain Pugwash under their breath again as I pass their desk. I’ll never have to feel like I’m out of my depth in a job I used to be completely on top of. I’ll never have to look down at my paunch, and wish I could pull off a pair of tiny white shorts. I’ll never have to think that I’m far too old and weird to be dating a girl like Cara.
I’ll never . . .
I’ll never . . .
I’ll never . . .
. . .
. . .
And then, he’s there.
Like a Greek god. Like a caped superhero. Like the last warrior on the battlefield. Like the Saviour on the mount. Like David Hasselhoff in tiny red shorts, instead of white ones.
Ray spears down through the water with his arms outstretched and grabs me in a rough, manly bearhug. He then kicks his legs a couple of times and we’re rising. Rising to the surface, and all those things I’ll have to keep coping with, whether I like it or not.
Ray is powering me back to a life I’m not sure I want anymore.
I think, on reflection, it’s probably a good time for me to lose consciousness . . .
Fear not, I am only out for a few seconds.
By the time I have broken the surface of the water to find myself surrounded by flailing tourists, an anxious Cara, a very anxious Amy and an extremely anxious Harry, I have more or less come back around again. My brain is all over the shop, though. I can’t really form a coherent thought or sentence thanks to the minor oxygen deprivation.
Ray continues to hold me in a gentle but firm embrace while we wait for the catamaran to make its way over to us. It is in this moment that I can appreciate why Amy is marrying him. It really is an embrace that makes you feel like nothing in the world could ever hurt you again.
And then, after I’ve been hauled up on to the boat, and for the second time on this luxury, relaxing holiday to the Maldives, I receive emergency medical treatment. This time sat in a seat on the catamaran, administered by the captain and watched over by about twenty people. This medical treatment largely consists of being gently slapped in the face and given a drink of water, while Harry checks my pulse and asks me if I can breathe okay.
I tell him I can – which is the truth. I don’t think I swallowed much sea water. I just feel extremely tired from all the effort of not drowning.
Trevor’s fucking fine, by the way.
He laughed off his brush with
a watery grave, and is currently smoking a fag with his wife on the other side of the boat. He did slap me on the back and call me a cracking bloke, though. He also offered me a good price on a used car if I’m ever in Cheam, which was nice of him.
Cara is sitting by my side, holding my hand, with a look of concern on her face that is likely to freeze in place if she has to adopt it around me many more times.
My lord and saviour, Sir Ray of Holland, stands upright with his arms folded, looking down on me and watching Harry’s ministrations, with an expression on his face that suggests a job well done. It’s the same expression a gardener would have when seeing how well his potatoes are growing. Amy is hanging back just behind him, trying to look everywhere but at me.
However, when I am overcome by an unexpected coughing fit, she moves forward and sits on the other seat by my side.
Even with the discomfort of hacking my lungs up, I can feel the cringingly awful sensation of having my girlfriend on one side of me and my ex-wife on the other.
‘Have another drink,’ Amy suggests, and picks up the glass of water from where I’d put it down on the deck.
‘Okay,’ I reply. ‘Thanks.’
‘No problem.’ Amy looks me in the eyes properly for the first time. ‘What you did was . . . very brave,’ she eventually says.
‘Pfft. What Ray did was brave. What I did was stupid.’
Amy rolls her eyes. ‘Ray is half fish, Joel. He barely broke a sweat doing that. You once nearly drowned getting my hat out of a canal.’
Oh God. That’s right, isn’t it? I did nearly drown that time we were in Somerset and the wind blew Amy’s favourite cap in the canal we were walking beside. I fell in trying to get it back. Luckily it was shallow, and a very hot day.
I chuckle to myself with the memory of it. ‘You did get your cap back, though.’
‘Yes, and the fat bloke with the tattoos survived, so you did everything right.’
I look up and over at Trevor talking animatedly with some of the other guests, who have grown weary of the entertainment I’ve been providing them with.
‘He did, didn’t he? Free to butcher Sonny and Cher songs until the day he dies.’
This makes Amy laugh, and for the briefest of moments – for a mere split second – we’re just two people on a boat, sharing a laugh after the mildest of near drownings.
And then . . .
‘This is all your fault.’
I whip my head around to see that Cara is look at Amy like she wants to kill her.
‘I’m sorry?’ Amy replies, unconsciously shifting back and away.
‘I said . . . this is all your fucking fault! ’
‘Cara,’ I begin, cautiously. ‘Don’t do this now, I’m fine and—’
‘No, Joel! No! I’ve had enough of keeping quiet!’ Cara snaps at me, before returning a gaze comprised of the finest quality loathing back in Amy’s direction.
I wonder if anyone would mind if I jumped back into the ocean . . .
‘You’ve ruined this holiday!’ Cara spits at Amy. ‘This whole week has been a bloody nightmare because of you and Mr Fucking Perfect here!’
Ray unfolds his arms. ‘Now, I don’t think you need to—’
‘Shut up! Just shut up!’ Cara barks at him, which is a bit much. The guy did just save me and my paunch from an early grave. ‘I’m sick of being around you! I’m sick of the sight of you!’
Now the other guests, who had temporarily been diverted by whatever shenanigans Trevor was regaling them with, have turned back to the main event, curious about this latest development.
How exquisitely embarrassing.
Cara rises to her feet, as does Amy – who now looks almost as angry as Cara, given that she’s just seen her man insulted by the woman who’s with her old one.
‘Don’t you talk to Ray like that,’ Amy hisses.
Seriously, if I just push back with my legs, I should be able to slide over the side and into the briny deep, before this really gets going, and we all—
‘I’ll talk to him however I want, bitch!’
Oh, good Lord.
‘What did you call me?!’
‘A bitch, Amy! Because that’s what you are!’
‘Oh, am I, Cara?’
‘Yes! And you always have been! You ruined poor Joel’s life two years ago, and now you’ve nearly got him killed!’
Amy actually takes a step back at this. ‘I nearly got him killed?’
‘Yes! He’s only been acting weird all week because you’ve been here!’
‘Er, now hang on . . .’ I say, also getting to my feet. My attempted rescue of Trevor had nothing to do with Amy. I was attempting to do something a bit brave for once.
‘No, Joel!’ Cara nearly screams at me. ‘Stop making excuses, and stop trying to be so diplomatic! You know how badly she’s affected you! You know how pathetic she’s made you!’
My face flames even redder, if such a thing were possible. ‘It’s not been that bad,’ I protest. ‘I’m not that bad.’
‘Yes, it has! Yes, you are!’ Cara disagrees in no uncertain terms. ‘It’s been a fucking nightmare! We came here so you could chill out after all the shit you’ve had at work, and she’s ruined it! Just like she ruined your job in the first place!’
‘I ruined his job?’ Amy retorts with disbelief, before pointing a finger at me.
Oh joy. The finger pointing at me has started. It’s a wonder it took this long, frankly.
‘I got fucking fired, Cara! Your bastard grandfather fired me, not Joel!’
‘Yes! Yes, he did! Because you blamed poor Joel for getting that meeting wrong! Even though it could have been you!’
‘No, it couldn’t! It was Joel’s fault!’ Amy rages.
‘No, it bloody wasn’t!’ I shout back at her, instantly angered by the same accusation she’s flung at me so many times before.
‘Yes, it was!’ she screams, now incandescently angry.
Ray steps forward. ‘I think we all need to just calm down a little—’
‘Shut up, Ray!’ Amy, Cara and I all scream in unison.
Cara decides a bit of finger pointing is now in order as well, but thankfully aimed at Amy instead of me. ‘I believe Joel! I believe him when he says he got the time right! You must have come along and changed it! He sure as hell didn’t do it! He put it down in your work calendar as one p.m.! You must have fucking changed it!’
‘I did no such bloody thing!’ Amy insists.
‘You must have, Amy,’ I tell her. ‘I know I didn’t do it.’
‘Yes! Yes! It was you!’ Cara says to back me up. ‘You changed the appointment with Lord Ponsonbollocks, not Joel!’
‘I did not!’ Amy protests.
‘Yes, you did!’
I slowly raise a hand, with an outstretched finger that shakes slightly. ‘Hang on . . .’
Amy stabs her own finger into her chest. ‘I was very careful with all of our appointments! I let Joel do it once, and he fucked it up! He was never good with details, but I always am! Ray will tell you how careful I am with stuff like that, won’t you, Ray?’
‘Yes, you always are very careful, Amy.’
‘Er, just hang on a moment . . .’ I repeat.
‘Well, you must not have been that fucking careful back then!’ Cara snaps. ‘Because Joel did it right! You fucked up!’
‘Just wait a second . . .’ I say a little louder.
‘I never fucked anything up! Your boyfriend did all the fucking up, Miss Rowntree!’
‘No, he didn’t! He’d never do anything like that, and—’
‘Shut up, both of you!’ I cry, asserting myself properly for the first time.
Both Cara and Amy fall instantly silent.
Ray remains silent because he knows what’s good for him.
I look at Cara with a confused expression on my face. ‘How did you know I called him Lord Ponsonbollocks?’
She blinks a couple of times. ‘Sorry? What?’
‘How did y
ou know that’s what I called him? I only ever used that nickname with Amy. Nobody else. It was just between me and her. All of my nicknames for our clients were.’
Cara looks flustered. ‘Well . . . well, you must have told me it at some point, Joel. Obviously!’
I shake my head. ‘No. I never did. I know I never did, because it’ – I throw a quick look at Amy – ‘because it hurt too much to think about that type of thing. About the little secrets we had with each other.’
‘Well, you must have said it to me!’ Cara insists. ‘Otherwise, how would I have known it?!’
‘The appointment calendar,’ Amy says in a dull voice, looking from Cara to me. ‘You used to write your nicknames down in our appointment calendar.’
I shrug my shoulders. ‘Well, yes. Because it was private, and I knew I could get away with it because nobody else had access to it.’
Amy slowly turns back to look at Cara. ‘So how did she know you called him Lord Ponsonbollocks, if you never told her?’
‘Because she saw it in your fucking calendar!’ Trevor exclaims.
‘That’s right!’ Sandra adds. ‘She must have seen it!’
For the first time since this argument really got going, I look around to find that we have a rapt audience. Trevor and Sandra look like they’re watching a particularly juicy episode of EastEnders. Even Harry and the catamaran captain are fascinated by what’s going on, and I doubt they even get EastEnders out here.
Is there a Maldivian equivalent?
I can’t picture what the Maldivian version of the Queen Vic would look like, but they’d probably serve a lot more coconut-based beverages, wouldn’t they? They probably wouldn’t all looked like a slapped arse, either. It’s too sunny and nice out here for that.
Anyway, back to the argument . . .
‘It was you,’ Amy says, her voice now virtually dead. ‘You changed the appointment time, Cara.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous!’ Cara says, shrinking back a little. The towering anger that consumed her mere moments ago has been replaced by something even worse in my eyes: fear.
‘Yes. That’s it. There’s no way you could have known Joel called him Lord Ponsonbollocks, unless you had seen it written in the calendar,’ Amy continues, dropping into the kind of tone Sherlock Holmes would have been proud of. ‘You used to come into the office a fair bit in those days. You’d hang around your grandfather a lot.’ Amy shoots me a look. ‘And my husband.’ Her head tilts a little. ‘My silly, scatter-brained, reckless husband, who always used to leave his computer on when he was away from his desk . . .’
You Again? Page 25