Love...Among The Stars: Book 4 in the Love...Series (Love Series) (8 page)

I was somewhat annoyed that I had been so perfectly manipulated by the women in my life. The second I step off the sea plane and onto the Wimbufushi dock though, this annoyance melts away completely.

Hello
, the island seems to say to you with a gentle caress of warm wind.
Welcome to the nicest place on Earth. Yes, the sun above your head does stay like that the entire time, and yes, it is as hot as you think it is. The sea really
is
that blue, and the sand really
is
that white. There's every chance that after spending a week here, everywhere else on Planet Earth will subsequently look like fried dog shit. And did I mention that the mini bar is stocked with enough Jack Daniels to drown
yourself
in?

'Oh my,' Laura says from my side breathlessly. 'Oh my...'

Poppy is less subdued by the stunning scenery. 'Fish! Look at those big fish!' she screeches, pointing into the clear blue water at a passing shoal of bright pink parrotfish.
 

We are greeted, along with the dozen or so other holiday makers that flew in on the sea plane with us, by a collection of broadly smiling Maldivians, all dressed in pristine white linen. They supply us with cool towels to mop our brows, freshly made iced tea, and an assortment of sweetmeats to munch on. Our bags are whisked away by more of the smartly dressed Maldivians, and we are gently led down the dock and onto the island itself, which looks better than it did in the brochure. A sign greets you as you step off the dock that says 'no shoes beyond this point'.

Family Newman is led away from the main pack by a small Maldivian woman called Mimi, who takes us to our water bungalow. This is perched at the end of yet another long wooden dock that juts out into the turquoise ocean.

Inside is a huge apartment, tastefully decorated in various shades of cream and bamboo. The television is 50 inches if it's a foot, the bathroom gleams expansively, the beds are enormous, soft and inviting, and the mini bar... well, the mini bar is a thing of beauty as far as I'm concerned. It's stuffed to the gills with all manner of alcoholic beverages, and I intend to consume most of them in the coming seven days. Beyond the apartment itself is a wide expanse of decking, complete with sun loungers, that juts out over the glistening blue sea, a good six feet above the surface of the water. A set of steps off to one side takes you down there, should you wish to dip your toes in the warm Indian Ocean.

Frankly, the level of luxuriousness here is bordering on the idiotic.

Mimi gives us the guided tour, stopping every once in a while to let us ooh and
aah
for a few moments whenever we see something impressive. She then hands over the guest pack that details meal times, excursions, etc. Even this bloody thing is posh. I could swear the logo on the plush, padded front cover is stamped on in gold leaf.

We bid Mimi a pleasant goodbye once her job is done, and set about unpacking our suitcases, which of course have already been brought in by other smiling members of the Mildew
Wibblefushi
resort.

'None of them asked for a tip,' says Laura, as she begins to unpack about forty eight different bikinis. 'Muresh at The Dorchester wouldn't approve.'

'What?'

'Nothing, dear.
Why don't you take Poppy onto the deck outside with the guest brochure while I unpack?'

I'm dumbfounded. 'Are you actually suggesting that I don't do any work?'

'Yes, Jamie. But only because if I allow you to unpack your own clothes, I will be spending the entire week with a walking crease.' She turns to where Poppy is already fiddling with the TV remote control. 'Poppy? Go and see the fish with Dad.'

Without questioning further, Pops and I make our way out through a set of pristine sliding doors onto the large wooden deck with the kind of view that immediately takes your breath away, and sells it on the black market in Hong Kong. Poppy immediately walks down the steps that lead to the ocean, while I park myself on one of the loungers and begin to read the brochure.

Considering these places are generally meant for people who just want to sit on their
arses
for a week, I'm surprised to see quite so many excursions and facilities on offer to occupy your time. There are
snorkelling
trips, diving adventures, and sailing days out. There's a gym, an outdoor cinema, and a snooker room. You can kayak, paddle board and even go out on a -

'Laura! Laura!'

'What?' my wife replies, hurrying out onto the deck with a concerned look on her face. 'What's the matter? Is it Poppy? Is she alright?'

'Yeah, yeah, I'm sure she's fine,' I say, without even bothering to check whether my daughter has been swept out to sea or not. 'They've got a
pedalo
here!'

'Excuse me?'

'A pedalo! It's a boat that you sit in and pedal, like you get on boating lakes back home.'

'Yes Jamie. I know what a pedalo is, thank you very much. Why on earth would you be excited about that?'

I go very quiet.

'What's the matter?' Laura asks.

'Never got to go on one,' I mumble.

'What do you mean?'

This might sound pathetic, but when I was a child on parental excursions to the seaside, my biggest desire was to have a go on a pedalo. Other children wanted to play in the arcades, build sandcastles on the beach, or eat chips until they burst, but all I wanted to do was sit in a large fibre glass boat with pedals and make my way around the whole boating lake until I was sick from over-exertion.

But it
never happened.

You wouldn't imagine it possible, but on every single family day trip out during the formative years of my life, there were either no pedalos in the vicinity, or they were all being used by other holidaymakers. In fact, the only time I got close was on a visit to Canoe Lake in
Southsea
when I was ten. If it hadn't been my stupid sister bleating on about wanting to visit the nearby natural history museum, I would have had my go in a pedalo,
dammit
. But she couldn't stand to wait even ten minutes, so we had to go traipsing off to look at stuffed birds and fossils for an hour. I managed to hold my counsel until we reached the geology display, before I burst into tears and started stamping my feet. My mother, father, and the rather harassed young woman who ran the museum tried to calm me down, but to no avail. I was only mollified when I was allowed to leave the decrepit old building and return to the boating lake.

You can imagine my complete and total dismay when we discovered that the pedalo vendor had buggered off home for the day, and all the lovely big plastic red pedalos were chained up and no longer in use. I then proceeded to punch Sarah so hard on the arm that I believe the bruise has only just cleared up.

Not feeling the need to relay all this childhood misery to my wife, I elect to keep things simple. 'I've just never been on a pedalo before. Never had the chance.' I tell her.

Her brow crinkles. 'What, never?'

'No. Please don't make me talk about it.'

Laura sighs. 'Okay, my little boy. If you want a go on a pedalo, then who am I to argue?'

I beam at her happily.

'Mum! Dad! Look what I've got!' Poppy squeals with delight, coming straight at us both with a huge, pissed off looking blue crab clutched in her hands. All thoughts of pedalos and other waterborne entertainments are forgotten for the moment, as we try to wrestle the gigantic crustacean from Poppy's grip before it either dies or rips one of her ears off.

There's every chance a career in natural history is in my daughter's future, if she can just get past the poking phase, that is.

But of course, gentle reader, you already know that my pedalo based fantasy has not come true...

That no matter how hard I have tried over the past seven days, I have been unable to fulfill my childhood ambition.

You see, there is only
one
pedalo on the entire island.
Ridiculous, yes?

There should be two, but one is broken, thanks to an over enthusiastic holiday maker crashing it into a reef and ripping a two foot hole in the fibre glass.

So, that's one pedalo to be shared between 364 guests.

How do I know exactly how many guests there are on
Madwiddly
Womblefishy
? Because I've bloody counted them, that's why. I had to. I simply couldn't believe that one tiny insignificant pedalo could be in such high demand, so I had to know exactly how many people I'd been competing against all week for its usage.

Not that everyone has used the pedalo, of course. I've been keeping watch every time the sodding thing has come past me on yet another tour of the small island, being driven by some other bastard in a bathing suit, and it's plain that there are only a few people who actually use it.

There are at least two German couples who seem to have taken a great liking to the pedalo. I have counted them going past me on at least twenty occasions in the past week. I know they are German because I have engaged both in conversation at meal times. Know your enemy, as Winston Churchill would have probably said at some point.

Then there are the Chinese. Who knew that an entire nation of
people
whose country is two thirds landlocked, would enjoy a bit of aquatic pedalling action so much? It seems like every time I drag my family down to the end of the beach where the pedalo and kayaks are stored, we invariably see a group of Chinese people dragging the thing down to the shoreline, and jumping in with big smiles on their faces.

I then have to suffer the indignity of going out onto the water in a bloody kayak. There is no shortage of kayaks on
Melbibbly
Wimbewayfooshy
. Not by a long shot.

But I've been kayaking
thousands
of times. The novelty wears off after a while, even if you are cruising over tropical reefs and exciting multi-
coloured
fish.

To compound my frustration, I would see other guests out on the pedalo while sat in one of the plentiful kayaks. This just rubbed salt into the wound.

It's got to the point where I have been making excuses to Laura just to go off on my own, to see if I can grab the pedalo while no-one is looking.

'Just, er, just going down to the cocktail bar to get a beer, baby,' I say to her yesterday, getting up from the sun lounger in as casual a manner as possible.

'There are loads of beers in the fridge, Jamie,' she replies from over her copy of Cosmopolitan.

'Um... I just fancied a different kind.
Maybe something from Asia.
I'm a bit bored with Corona.'

'Since when did you become such a beer aficionado? You've never - ' Her eyes widen. 'You're going to see if that bloody pedalo is free again, aren't you?'

'No!'

'Yes you bloody are!' Cosmo goes down onto her lap and she points a pointy finger in my direction. 'Just let it go Jamie! It's all you've gone on about all week!'

'No it isn't.'

'Yes it is! It's very hard to enjoy paradise when your significant other keeps making grumbling noises every time he sees a group of Chinese people float past in a big plastic dinghy.'

'It's a pedalo, not a dinghy,' I correct in a sullen voice.

'Whatever Jamie! Just drop it. It doesn't matter.'

But it
does
matter. At least to me!

And so here we are, on the last morning of our holiday.