Swimming with Sharks Page 2

  Do they allocate room numbers based on the occupant’s age? Nicola feels it is a bit insensitive, but she takes the key from his hand. He gives her a map of the island and tells her where her nearest restaurant is. If she hurries, she will still make it for dinner. The kitchen closes at 11 p.m. That gives her half an hour. Of course she can have sandwiches made and delivered to her chalet, if she prefers. Fresh fruit …

  ‘No, it’s all right.’ Nicola does not wish to cause anyone any inconvenience. The poor cook wants to go home to his family. She will go to the restaurant and grab something quick and simple.

  Another Boy-skipper – perhaps the former’s twin brother? – hauls her book-laden suitcase onto a cart and drives her to her room. She thought she would walk, but it is late, the island is big and her chalet is at the far end of it. She squats uncomfortably next to her driver. Her knee wedged into the side of her suitcase – her only taste of home in this impossibly exotic world – offers her a modicum of comfort. She would cuddle and kiss it if that wouldn’t look ridiculous.

  Her room is a large cabin wearing a conical party hat of thatched roof. Her driver drags her suitcase to the front door and lets her open it. A wave of freezing cold air hits her in the face and wipes the blush from it. The suitcase makes it across the threshold.

  ‘I take madam restaurant?’ the driver nods with keen conviction. He is not going to go away. He has his instructions.

  ‘I would need to change, refresh … It’s late … Maybe not?’ she asks feebly.

  ‘I will wait. No hurry.’

  She sits on the bed, biting her nails. The spillage has evaporated from her dress. She is not going to change. She doesn’t know what to wear. Hopefully, the driver will go away.

  Twenty minutes later, as she peeps out of the door, he waves to her, a big, wide grin on his face.

  The restaurant is an enormous, open-plan sacrificial temple. The buffet is brimming with hot and cold dishes; aromas mingle; chefs in tall white hats chop pieces of fish and toss them up in the air, using frying pans like tennis rackets. Sarong-wearing waiters look focused and competent. They are friendly. Smile a lot.

  Nicola’s waiter puts her at a discreet corner table. The lights here are dimmer and the foot traffic less exuberant than in other parts of the diner. Out of character she orders wine. She needs Dutch courage more than a clear head.

  There aren’t many diners in the restaurant. She feels singled out as a latecomer and a lone female in a place where having a partner is part of the dress code. If there were crowds, she could try to blend in, but all she has is a few cosy couples dotted over tables, drawn into each other to the exclusion of everyone else. She spies a quartet: two women, two men, middle-aged, loud and red-faced from the sun or the alcohol. Germans. They are having a whale of a time even though they are clearly not newlywed or under the age of thirty. Loud outbursts of laughter and slaps on the thighs keep them amused. They are happy on this love island. If there can be four of them here, then sure as hell there can be one of her, Nicola bites her lip. She will be strong. And she will have a good time, if it kills her!

  After a couple of false starts, she scuttles to pick something to eat from the buffet. It feels like everyone’s eyes are on her. She looks deeply engaged with her potential dinner: examines dishes carefully, lifts big silver domes, sniffs, tilts her head, thinks, contemplates options, goes back to where she has already been and compares. She has to make up her mind sooner or later, and return to her table for one. And then she will have to eat in solitude.

  She returns with a slice of bread and a pork medallion. She has forgotten vegetables. Her plate looks empty and inadequate in this extravaganza of culinary excesses. She will not be able to go for pudding. The chefs are already clearing the stalls. She was hoping for a trifle, and those smiley faces of watermelons looked irresistible.

  She chews slowly and at the same time peeps from under her eyelashes. Honeymooning couples are radiant. Men look hungry even with their stomachs full – they are hungry for their women. It is in their eyes: the hunger, the lust. The women are more than deserving of that lust: they are young, fresh-faced and beautiful. Suntans glisten on their skin like nail polish. Their hair is long and moist. Did Nicola already acknowledge that they are all so young? On average they are about twenty years younger than their hungry men. That explains things: someone has to be able to afford the price tag that goes with paradise.

  Nicola has to slap herself on the wrist: she should not be cynical. Or envious. She is not like that. She is not a bitter old spinster.

  Not yet.

  One couple is different: she is older than him, though well-preserved. She must be the one with money. Her hair is thick and healthy, and though it is greying, there is lustre and shine to it. It falls in coiled layers onto her back and shoulders. The skin on her upper arms and neckline is withered, one of the signs of age you can’t belie, but she wears her years with effortless elegance. She is tiny and he is tall, overwhelmingly tall, acutely so in comparison with her. It is hard to say if his hair is grey or reddish-blond, the colour of straw in the height of summer. There is some length to it – he pushes it behind his ear. His frame is square and strong. He is no boy gigolo. He must be over fifty. How old is she, then? She shakes her head in protest when he orders a drink from the waiter. When the drink arrives – a bottle of wine – the woman puts her hand flat over her glass. The man laughs and fills his own glass. The woman’s face crinkles with anxiety. The man kisses her hand and then her forehead. The woman seems appeased, though she still refuses to smile. They are eating in silence. The man’s eye catches Nicola’s and he freezes for a fraction of a second, a butter knife paused over a bread roll in his hand. Imperceptibly, he nods his head. Nicola looks away.

  No, he doesn’t. She has imagined it.

  She must stop staring, for God’s sake!

  Nicola gulps down the rest of the wine and squints. She is not used to the bitter taste. The wine wells up in her eyes. Is the man still looking at her? Despite her efforts, she turns red, as red as the wine. She had better leave before she makes a fool of herself.

  The footpath is lit by an occasional spotlight; the undergrowth beyond it is thick and dark. It is a jungle, Nicola observes, a tropical jungle, with a twinkle of excitement. Mysterious, wild creatures live in the jungle. Some of them live on the path. They have hairy legs and carry curvy shells on their backs. When danger approaches they freeze and play dead. Nicola knows where they are coming from – not geographically, mentally. She has been known to freeze when events in her life have taken sharp turns, when strangers intruded on her space, when conversations strayed into the explicit.

  A few years ago she tried to break away from her isolation. She signed up with a dating website. It was her last chance before turning forty. She had read about the website on Facebook. It came highly recommended. Her friends had found love there. She uploaded her passport photo and truthfully filled out all the sections about herself, her education, background, interests and dreams. She waited. Nothing happened. She searched through hundreds of profiles of eligible, heterosexual, male candidates of her own age, but she would not contact any of them. It would be too predatory and Nicola, despite her desperation, was firmly committed to the idea of being chased, not doing the chasing herself.

  She was dismayed: so many men looking for their true love and not a single one of them showing any interest in Nicola. Why? What was wrong with her? She was not fat. She was not cross-eyed. She wasn’t that old. She was comfortably well off – she would not be a burden on anyone. She wasn’t stupid; in fact, she was well-educated, an intellectual of sorts … She wished she could ask someone, someone more experienced in the area of dating, but that was out of the question. If she were to ask for help, everybody would know she was desperate – a cat on a hot tin roof. They would know she was looking. She would never get over the embarrassment.

  In the end, Nicola put her research and cross-referencing skills to a good use. She began stud
ying the profiles of other females – learning from the experts. She categorised them by age, image and style. The discoveries she made were eye-opening. Online dating wasn’t about real people – it was about striking the right pose, sending out a vibe of desire and desirability.

  Rescue me and I will take you to Paradise…

  Not a day should go by without me by your side…

  Looking for love – in all the wrong places? You found me…

  Hold me tight, never let me go…

  Nicola had always been a fast learner. She made instant adjustments: the passport photo had to go. It was replaced by a full-body shot of Nicola on the beach (taken some ten years earlier). Her interests transformed magically from reading and medieval history to outdoor adventure and extreme sports. Her headline became an invitation: Take me on a bumpy ride. With that she hit the nail on the head.

  She did not realise what effect her unintentionally indecent proposal would have on the red-blooded male population of the dating site. She did not comprehend the meaning of it. She was a dating simpleton. Take me on a bumpy ride sounded rather romantic to Nicola: windswept hills and galloping horses. The sexual innuendo behind the ride and the bumps along the way was lost on her. But not, of course, on the sex-starved dating site veterans. Offers started pouring in.

  Unfortunately for Nicola, the transition from fiction to reality turned out to be quite a challenge. She was not prepared for the extent of filth that evaded her laptop’s filters and made it to her inbox. Emails inviting her to tame senders’ dicks, cocks and other bodily protrusions, suggestions of flayed whips and unbridled sodomy and the slightly less colourful intimations of a good old fuck under the star-studded sky made Nicola’s hair stand on end.

  After the initial shock, she managed to sieve through the plankton of vulgarity and continued corresponding with two potential candidates: Peter and Paul. That their names were also those of the two most holy disciples had nothing to do with her choice. Peter seemed genuine about his passion for water-based sports and Paul was even more genuinely grieving the loss of his family home and half his pension to his demonic second wife and her brat whose paternity Paul was seriously suspicious about.

  Nicola enjoyed talking to both men over the internet. She had built an advanced knowledge and professional vocabulary relating to surfing, tides, boating and everything water-related. She excelled at commiserating with Paul and hating his ex-wife. She felt needed and appreciated. But she had to go one step further – she had to meet them in person and she had to choose between them. The state of virtual bigamy could not go on for ever.

  She took the plunge with Peter – literally. He gave her a surprise on their first date, and everything went down the drain from that moment on. Kayaking! In her trainers and ankle-length Laura Ashley skirt she was hardly dressed for the occasion. To make matters worse, the puffy, dirty-yellow life jacket she was obliged to wear made her look like a neckless hen with steroid-packed chicken’s breasts. And to finish on a high note she dropped her oar in the water, leaned over to fetch it, and capsized her kayak. Unable to bring herself back to the surface, as she hung upside down among weeds and duck poo, Nicola had lost the will to live. She was such a fraud! Peter was bound to know it. She would rather die than have to face him again, but face him she did as he pulled her out of the river’s depths and dragged her to the bank.

  As soon as the water was out of her lungs, she spat out a couple of snails together with an I hate bloody water! It wasn’t even true – she had nothing against water in principle, but in that moment of defeat water was her enemy number one. Peter’s face creased in disappointment. He drove her home in her dripping, dirty-yellow life jacket, and dropped her at her doorstep. She did not hear from him again.

  Paul went as far as inviting himself in. The dinner had gone well – they’d talked about his ex-wife’s antics in the divorce court, and Nicola had felt safe and useful being there for him. He didn’t look anything like his profile photograph, but then neither did she, so after the initial shock, they reconciled with each other’s actual ages, weights and hairstyles.

  He wasn’t impressed with her flat (she was still living in her Hammersmith matchbox), but the sofa appealed to him. It was a sizeable leather sofa – a deep four-seater capable of housing a pair of consenting adults. Consenting copulating adults. Or so Paul thought. And he also thought that Nicola shared his appetites. Why else would she have invited him to her flat? Surely the ‘bumpy ride’ was on the cards.

  As his hand rolled up her skirt and reached for her knickers, with his finger poking fervently inside them, Nicola froze. She sat up with her eyes and mouth wide opened and her body as stiff as Paul’s organ. Her body went into a spasm, but by no stretch of imagination could that be mistaken for an orgasm. There she was again, back on form: a koala bear who has just had her once-in-a-lifetime chance to reproduce, and lost it. A disappointment. A species on the brink of extinction.

  Paul paused and peered into her eyes. ‘Are you all right?’ She did not answer. She was frozen, playing dead.

  Very much like those shelled creatures caught underfoot on the sandy path she now walks in the Maldives.

  Nicola feels their fear.

  Something screeches up in the trees. She clutches her chest. Breathe, she reminds herself. She dares not look up. A rat scampers from under her feet and dives into a clump of undergrowth. Nicola screams. Jumps back. Her heart is racing inside her chest. She runs.

  Her trainers are useful, at last. Her feet may be sweaty in them and her white socks may look ludicrous beneath the hem of her floral dress, but she can run! Keep to the path, another reminder crosses her feverish mind. She keeps running, she must not stop.

  A couple emerges from the shadows. The woman is draped over the man. Nicola slows down, tries to resume an ordinary, leisurely pace as if she knows where she is and what she is doing. She doesn’t want to look stupid and lost. She doesn’t want them to ask her if she is all right. Breathing steadily is a challenge. She swallows a gasp and goes red in the face. They pass by without noticing her. She turns to look back at them. The man’s hand is on the woman’s buttock.

  Nicola must go in the direction they have come from. They must have come from somewhere! Some civilised place, somewhere other than just rubber plants. She is staggering. The wine is taking its toll. On the other hand, it could be the tree roots. They encroach on the path and trip her over. She carries on regardless.

  At first, she hears the murmur of human voices cutting across the hiss of the ocean. Then she sees lights. Beyond the next curve of the path stands a bar. It is thatched like every other house on the island. Soft, jazzy music soaks in voices and the sounds of nature. There are tables inside and out, separated with screens and plants. People look relaxed. They are sprawled in comfy chairs, their feet on the tables, colourful cocktails in hand. Mainly couples, engrossed in each other. One of the trees is wrapped in Christmas lights: large blue and red bulbs reflect in the pool.

  Never in a million years will Nicola gatecrash this party! Not even to ask for directions, because, truth be told, she does not know where she is on the island. She is lost. Nevertheless, she will not go in. She will not introduce into this peaceful equation the discord of a single woman barging in on lovers’ privacy. Instead, she crouches behind a leafy branch, and watches.

  A twig snaps close behind her. Two half-naked kids are running away. They are laughing – no doubt at her. An adult woman spying on other adults, being spied on by kids! How do the kids fit into it? Where the hell did they come from?

  ‘Davay, Petya!’ shouts one to the other. Was it Russian? Is she looking at two Russian boys under the age of ten, loitering mother-less on a tropical honeymoon island? Surely, she has had too much to drink!

  The boys dive-bomb into the pool. There is one splash after another and they swim with their heads underwater like two slippery otters.

  Could it be sunstroke?

  Nicola is feeling faint. She is tired. She has
travelled non-stop for the past twenty-four hours. She needs rest. She needs to go to her room, and sleep!

  Beyond the pool, she recognises the Reception hut. She staggers towards it like a doomed desert traveller towards a mirage. With a wild look in her eye she summons a boy in a flowery sarong. He may be the lecherous Boy-skipper for all she cares. She needs to be driven to her room. Chalet 42.

  Out of sight! She dims the lights and shuts the curtains. She eagle-flies onto her indecently huge king-size bed, and lies sprawled across it, watching the relentless fan as it wrestles with the ceiling, wanting to break free. Think of all the homeless people living in cardboard boxes, she admonishes herself, but the guilt does not come. She is beyond caring.

  The icy-cold interior has invigorated her. She is not that sleepy after all. The trainers have to come off. They squelch off her feet. Her socks are wet. She peels them off like blisters. Her feet look swollen. Her breasts still ache inside her bra. She unclips it and pulls it out through an armhole in her dress. Her breasts burst out; nipples spring up and harden on contact with the cold air. Even the light dress feels oppressive. She slides it over her head, takes off the knickers. Her pubic mound itches – it’s a jungle there! The sweat and the heat make the itching unbearable. Her pubic hair has never seen the sharp end of a razor. She should shave it all off, not just the bikini line – all of it. That should bring some relief from the heat. She will do it now; then shower, moisturise and go to bed.

  Armed with a razor, Nicola heads for the bathroom. As the door swings open, she is assaulted by the heat and the bubbling sounds of the tropics. Quickly, she covers her modesty and retreats into her room. Bloody hell! Hopefully no one has seen her! Where is the bathroom? There aren’t any other doors: the front door, the sliding door and this one – the one she thought led to the bathroom. She has to discount the wardrobe doors, surely?

  She tries the same door again, peers in – indeed, it is a bathroom. But there is no roof over it – it is out in the open air. The walls are high, but are they high enough? She tunes into the sounds. Nature’s squawking and screeching, but no human voices. Is she going to crouch here, peeping through the keyhole into an empty bathroom, or is she going to go in?