Awarded second prize in Cambridge Writers Short Story Competition 2014.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Eggs Benedict, crispy bacon, Belgian waffles. Stuffed at breakfast. The waffles, strangers to the continent of Europe, just a trifle stale in the Caribbean heat.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He arrives with effort, she follows with the downcast eyes, her hair a little straggled. Is it that look that gives her away? She\u2019s not alone. There are other thin people lost in this little paradise.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Now they sit. The table grates on the terrace tiles, moved to make more space. He looks outwards, studying other guests while his bottom, with rolls of fat, overlaps the seat. She faces the wall.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
A young waitress appears and flees. Another takes her place \u2013 her turn today. She steps forward, tugging downwards at her short black skirt.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u2018Full plate for me, the lot, with an extra egg, lovey,\u2019 he chortles, waving his podgy hands perilously near her thighs, she jumps, he chortles this time without words, chins oscillating to his beat. Dampness shows through the armpits of his shirt.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u2018Could \u2026 I \u2026\u2019 Her words come separated by anxious ellipses.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u2018No dear.\u2019 He turns from his wife and winks to the shuffling girl in black, still tugging. \u2018She\u2019ll have the fruit plate. I know what\u2019s best for her.\u2019 His waving hand raps back on the table, a little hard, she flinches.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u2018Yes, the fruit plate.\u2019 She lapses into safer silence.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The waitress leaves, glancing sympathy across the table. An extra egg will come with extra garnish, something less edible from the kitchen staff.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
More guests, more waffles; the eggs slightly dry.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u2018Great night.\u2019 He throws the words to a hurriedly passing pair; disgust breaks through their smiles as they remember exactly what happened last night.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
His eyes scan the crowd, eyes moving slowly over breasts and bums, young flesh.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u2018See you at the beach,\u2019 he oozes to another, while a piece of egg slides downwards through his facial hair.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Her thoughts come out for all to hear. What to wear, to hide? Beachwear shows too much. His eyes won\u2019t stray over her body, but others will see the marks of what he does.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u2018We\u2019re going snorkelling,\u2019 he announces loudly to another breakfast-ready trio.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Their look says they have a plan to run from shark infested water, as though he has announced a chemical attack, terrorists on the rampage, the Spanish Inquisition \u2013 no one expects that. The reminiscence of a smile lights her eyes for less than a millisecond.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
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\u2018Come on,\u2019 he growls.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She struggles clumsily to meet the command. Her overstuffed bag swings to hit her hips. Overstuffed with his hat, his glasses, his book, his wishes. She leaves the fruit.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
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She can\u2019t hear him. It\u2019s so blue, fish so fishy. Can\u2019t hear him but still can feel the words. He snorkels just to leer, getting close to bodies he would touch, stroke \u2026 She turns. His body in her face magnified and crystal clear in her mask. A fat, hairy, greasy beast next to her in the water. She snorkels off, moving faster than the whale. It\u2019s dangerous. There will be words later, but now she\u2019s out of reach. The coral draws her into a different world, shapes and colours not yet ruined. Fish chase fish and it\u2019s not so safe down here. Keep out of the way or you\u2019ll be eaten, beaten, crushed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She see\u2019s a jelly fish with long blue tentacles of sting. It jellys towards him. A giggle gives her a mouthful of sea water. But his hide is too thick. Fat man one, jelly fish zero. Have you any bigger relatives, she asks, bring them along?<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She turns. What is that? Under the shelf of rock, glinting in the rays of watery sun. Is it treasure or a glint of hope? A secret? She can keep secrets.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
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Hamburgers, chips, a bread roll or two, a beer, another beer, another \u2026 There seems no end to what he can shovel into that mouth. The sound of it, slurp slurp slurp as he sucks up the last morsels and looks for more. Lunch is hoovered up in minutes. It just seems longer. She pushes lettuce around with her fork.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He barely makes the sun-bed. The one in the shade, the last one in the shade. He\u2019s snoring even before she can find a patch of sand to sit. Her bag now heavy with his hat, his high-power binoculars, his magazine with sticky pages, his bottle of something to keep him away from hangover hate. He snores again. The next couple make a stifled sound of nausea. They\u2019d move except their sun-bed came at the 5.00am bagging time. They\u2019d not give up that hard won territory for any snorts and grunts. A dribble of tomato ketchuped saliva escapes onto his chin. She coughs to hide his sound of fart.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
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He wakes. He groans. He snarls, \u2018Your bag quick.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n
His words blow out into the blue blue sky, carried on the brochure perfect cooling breeze. Their sound circles the other sunning couples. \u2018Quick, I said.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Horror over the cabanas, thatched huts with a pattern of male baldness.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
His words don\u2019t fall on deaf ears. They don\u2019t fall on her deaf ears. Deafness wouldn\u2019t be safe even if the ringing from last night\u2019s slap made it hard to make out exactly what excess of something he wanted. No, the demands don’t fall on deaf ears or any of her ears at all.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
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It\u2019s a discrete hotel, many things it doesn\u2019t see \u2013 like livid bruises.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u2018Where\u2019s my fucking wife,\u2019 he whines.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
It\u2019s a discrete hotel, many things it doesn\u2019t see \u2013 like missing wives.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u2018Where\u2019s my fucking wife,\u2019 he whines louder and often.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Discrete hotels only like the fucking in private, not spoken in anger. If it\u2019s angry do it in private. That\u2019s why the guests have such private rooms. Private rooms for private anger. Missing wives are two a penny, cent, yen, euro but credit cards will do nicely to stay missing.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
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She walks alone. Is this the time to search out the sparkly treasure seen on her snorkelling trip? Buried secrets, perhaps a pirate hoard. No, she\u2019s off on a boat with Raymondo. Not what you think at all. Ray is a photographer, video pictures taken at your pleasure, in private. He is actually called Ted. Raymondo is his working name \u2013 one to fit in and even his medallion is fake, but his pictures aren\u2019t. She still may hear the slapped ringing in her ears but it reminds her of cash tills. Ray has it on camera, discretely. It helps in court, with the divorce settlement. She\u2019s used Raymondo before. This is the third fat husband she\u2019s left.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"