Love...Among The Stars: Book 4 in the Love...Series (Love Series) (9 page)

And I have a
plan
.

It is a
good
plan.
A
solid
plan.
A plan that can only result in my successful acquisition of the pedalo, before we fly from the island later this afternoon.

From my detailed study of the pedalo's movements, I know that Richie, the guy who works in the boathouse, doesn't open until 10am; sometimes ten past if he's feeling lazy. I have tried on two occasions to be down there
at
10am to get the pedalo before anybody else, but there has always been a queue.

To ensure that I would be the one to secure the pedalo on my last day, I had to do something to deter people of either German or Chinese extraction from getting down there before me and laying claim to the object of my unhealthy obsession.

This involved a pillow case, some chewing gum, Laura's eye liner, and a very early start...

At five this morning I was awoken by the vibrating of my iPhone from under my pillow. Without waking Laura I grabbed the pillow case and eye liner, and sneaked my way out of the water bungalow. Successfully managing to dodge the island's staff as they went about early morning jobs, I made my way stealthily to the boat house, where I stuck the pillow case onto the wall with the chewing gum, having written the legend 'PLEASE COME BACK AT 11AM' on it with the eye liner.

Genius!

Anyone who beat me down to the boat house before 10 o'clock would go away again, thinking lazy old Ritchie wasn't getting there until an hour later!

Fool proof!

The pedalo would be mine!

The second part of the plan involves convincing my wife that I really, really need a shit. I have to have a good reason why I need to leave her and Poppy at breakfast early, don't I?

'Oh dear,' I remark over my bacon and eggs. I also theatrically clutch my stomach and grimace.

'What's up?' Laura asks.

'My stomach feels funny,' I say, affecting a worried tone.

'Does it?'

'Yeah. It feels a bit... a bit
fajita-like
.'

Laura looks a little sick.
'Oh dear.
Perhaps you should... you know?'

I nod vigorously. 'Yes. Perhaps I should.'

Assured that my ruse is working like a charm, I rise from the table and scuttle out through the palm tree fringed dining hall, making a direct bee-line for the boat house on the other side of the tiny island. A glance at my watch confirms that it is ten minutes to ten. By the time I reach Ritchie and his selection of fibre glass wonders, it should be ten o'clock, without the hint of another holiday maker in the vicinity.

I round a particularly thick cluster of palm trees, and the thatched roof of the boat house comes into sight.

...as does Ritchie and a small middle aged gentleman, who is picking up the end of the pedalo and moving towards the sea.

Aaarrgghh
!

How can this be happening?

My sign was bloody fool proof!

My confident jog turns into a panicked scamper as I make my way across the white sand to my quarry... and my new enemy. As I get closer I can see that the man is easily in his late sixties, and is
under
five foot six. He's wearing bright blue long shorts and a white vest that exposes something of a pigeon chest. If it comes down to fisticuffs, I'm
fairly
sure I can take him. I recognise the old codger from somewhere, but can't quite put my finger on it. I must have seen him around the resort over the last week.

As I speed past the front of the boat house, I glance over to see my poor make-shift sign in a bedraggled heap on the decking, with a fat seagull on top of it, pecking away at one of the corners. It looks like he's after the chewing gum.

I hope you choke on it bird!

You can now truly see the depths of my irrationality here, can't you? I am actively wishing death on an innocent sea creature just because it's jeopardised my cunning plan to secure a ride in a rather shit plastic boat.

As I near Ritchie and the vest wearing pedalo stealer, I decide that the best way to handle this situation is with a display of Great British brashness.

'I say!' I bellow, one finger pointed aloft. 'I say there! I've booked that pedalo for myself today!'

You can't book the pedalo out - it's first come first served, but if I shout it loud enough I might sound convincing anyway.

Ritchie looks up at me, and his face drops with a look of familiar dread. 'Good morning, Mr Newman,' he says in clipped English. 'How are you today?'

I stop right in front of both men and put my hands on my hips. My nose goes in the air and I stare straight out into the ocean. 'Not happy Ritchie! Not happy at all!'

'And why is that Mr Newman?'

'You can plainly see why, Ritchie! I have asked you for usage of this pedalo all week, and not once have I been allowed to have it!'

Ritchie's shoulders slump. 'That's not true Mr
Newman,
you just keep coming over when somebody has already taken it out. If you had waited a little long - '

'I have a family to take care of Ritchie!' I exclaim imperiously. 'I can't just spend my entire time hanging out with you, waiting for Chinese people to return the pedalo, can I?'

'No, I suppose not, Mr Newman,' Ritchie agrees with a sigh.

'Excuse me?' says the small elderly gentleman. 'Can I take the pedalo out now please?'

Ritchie nods. 'Yes of course sir!' he says with a smile.

Oh god. This is getting away from me fast. I have to do something!

'No!' I bellow once more, and stamp my way around to the front of the pedalo, blocking its path to the sea. 'This pedalo is mine good sir, and I expect you to stand aside and wait your turn!'

The old man scowls at me in such a way that my sense of recollection gets even stronger.
Where have I seen that scowl before?

'I will do no such thing!' he snaps. 'I got here first,
laddie
. Now you just stand aside and allow me to use it!'

That strident tone... Why do I recognise that strident tone?

In desperation, I try to appeal to their charitable side. 'I have cancer!'

'What?!'
Ritchie and the old man say in unison.

'Yes! Cancer! You wouldn't deny a dying man his last ride in a pedalo, would you?'

My degree of insanity has now reached a level that not even Laura would believe.

'You look fine to me,' the old man says, giving me a suspicious look.

Where do I know him from?

'Well, I may look fine,' I begin, simultaneously trying to bolster my awful lie, and trying to remember why I recognise him so much. 'But the doctor says I may only have three months to... '

I trail off.

Doctor.

A doctor...

I mentally place a cream coloured pork pie hat on the old man's head, put a red, question mark shaped umbrella cane in his hand, and place a big blue Police box behind him.

'Are you Sylvester McCoy?' I ask in a hushed tone.

The old man draws himself up to his full five foot six inches. 'Yes, I am young man! Now kindly step aside!'

Well, this is excellent. I'm standing in thirty degree heat on the last day of a holiday that's been ruined by a childhood obsession, and I'm trying to steal a pedalo from Doctor Who by claiming I have a fatal disease.

I should just give up and fuck off back to the breakfast table, but even the prospect of offending the seventh Doctor won't stop me now. Nor will punching him in the face, if it comes down to it.

'Look Doctor... '

'That's not my name! It's Mister McCoy to you,
laddie
!'

At this moment Ritchie interrupts. 'Are you a doctor sir?' he asks McCoy. 'Perhaps you could help Mr Newman here with his illness?'

God bless you Ritchie. In the teeth of a brewing argument, you are trying your level best to bring both parties to the negotiating table.

'He's not
a
doctor Ritchie. He's
The
Doctor,' I try to explain. 'You know? Doctor Who?'

Ritchie looks puzzled. 'But he is much taller and thinner on the television. His chin is much larger too.'

'That's Matt Smith,' McCoy explains in a deflated voice.

'And you do not sound very Scottish!' Ritchie adds.

'That's Peter Capaldi,' McCoy adds in the same sad tone. You get the feeling he's been in this situation more than once in the past.

'He's the seventh Doctor,' I tell Ritchie. 'You know, the one that killed off the series back in the eighties? The unpopular one?'

Okay, so when trying to negotiate the usage of a pedalo, it's probably not best to deeply insult the other party.

'Why, you little sod!' McCoy exclaims.

There's nothing for it. Actions must speak louder than words.

I grab hold of the pedalo at the front end and yank it towards me. This will earn me a painfully torn shoulder muscle for the next few weeks, but I'm too het up right now to realise the damage I've done. 'It's mine Doctor!' I wail, sounding like I'm auditioning for the part of The Master. 'It's mine and I'm going to use it!'

I start to drag the pedalo towards the water. As I reach it, McCoy tries to pull the boat back in the other direction. Ritchie has wisely decided to stay the hell out of it.

Luckily for me, the momentum of the boat is with me as it dips into the sea, and McCoy is unable to stop it drifting in my direction. With a hop, skip and a jump, I am sat in the seat and starting to pedal furiously. McCoy comes alongside, now nearly waist deep in water. 'Give it back! Give it back this instant!'

'Or what?
You'll hit me with your sonic screwdriver?' I sneer and push him away from the side of the pedalo, which makes him lose his footing and fall over with a big splash.

With a roar of triumph I start to pedal with even more gusto, and the boat picks up speed.

I ignore the roars of displeasure coming from the pensionable Time Lord and fix my glare on the horizon.

I have done it!

I have claimed the pedalo!

It is mine!

Mwaa
haa
haa
haa
!

My transition from successful novelist to capering pantomime villain is complete.

But no matter!

The pedalo
is
mine!

Nothing can stop me enjoying the endless aquatic fun I can have with it now!

Ten minutes later, I'm bored shitless.

It turns out that a pedalo is a right arse to operate, especially when you're on your own. It steers badly, you have to pedal like a madman just to get it to fart along at three miles an hour, and it wallows so much in the water that you're permanently being splashed by waves.