Famous (45 page)

‘Sorry lady,’ said the Fijian man, as he pushed my wheelchair too close to the side of the boat and banged the cast of my outstretched broken leg against it.

I grimaced at the searing pain that shot through my foot and up my left leg, but somehow I managed to refrain from crying. This was only because I was so totally hungover and thoroughly dehydrated that my tear ducts appeared to have shriveled up and died. Every ounce of moisture in my body made its way to my tongue so that I could swallow and the sheer gargantuan size of it wouldn’t suffocate me to death.

There they were, sitting around the deck of the boat in the blazing sunshine, the fifty or so people I had spent the past four days with. The people who had flown in from Australia and New Zealand for our annual company conference. And there he was, The Bastard, in animated conversation with two of the Australian girls, not even glancing my way, let alone acknowledging my crippled presence. A couple of people ventured a ‘hello’ and gave me a little wave as I was wheeled on board, but they were by far the minority. The rest just stared at me as though they, too, had been hoping I’d be left on the jetty.

‘Where shall we put you, lady?’ asked my wheeler. ‘Over dere in the shade?’

Yes! screamed my body. Yes God, please! The shade!

The blazing sunshine, coupled with my groundbreaking hangover, was making me feel as though I’d been locked inside a sauna for three days, prior to being run over by a lorry.

‘Yes, thanks,’ I replied. ‘Lovely.’

As if there was anything remotely lovely about my current situation.

So there I was, deposited in the shade in my wheelchair, alone, on the opposite side of the deck from my colleagues. My suitcase was wheeled on and plonked down beside me.

Who was going to wheel me off? I wondered. Perhaps I would be left again? Left to catch the ferry back and forth to Nadi until the end of all time.

I took a book from my handbag and pretended to read, eventually turning it the right way up. I sneaked the odd glance at him through my face-eating dark glasses. He was like an antipodean Tony Robbins, so charismatic that every man, woman and their brown-nosing dog fawned to sit on his lap, in the vain hope that a smidgen of it would rub off. But I’d seen through him. He was nothing more than a good-looking used-car salesman who would give you the flick (literally) if he thought you were shadowing his star.

The bump of the waves underneath the boat made me want to cry. But I couldn’t. I wasn’t even supposed to have gone to Fiji. I was a contractor at the company, and contractors didn’t get to go to the annual company conference. It was only because I was sleeping with him that I was here. He thought he was doing me a favour by wrangling my attendance. Some bloody favour that turned out to be! And now of course everyone knew I’d been sleeping with him: the chief executive, the boss, absolutely everyone.

For some reason, I was the one to blame. Not him. Even though he was married with three kids and I was the single, available one. Some people are addicted to reality telly, chocolate-covered cashews or internet shopping. I am addicted to affairs with married men. It’s not as though I sniff them out, hunt them down and beat them into cheating on their wives. It just happens that every man I am attracted to and start dating is married. Yes, I should stop dating them the minute I find out they’re married. Yes, you’re right, this would be the sensible and morally correct thing to do. But when you’ve been staggering through the desert for many long months in search of a well and finally meet someone who has a direct mainline to the Nile, this is a very difficult thing to do. What can I say, I was low on self-control. It seemed to me there were no attractive single men in this city, but there were
plenty
of attractive married men who thought they were single.

Anyway, it seemed nothing could tarnish his gold-plated image. It had been difficult to keep our affair a secret once word of the bicycle incident got out. It was tricky to explain why I’d been sitting on the handlebars of a bicycle being ridden by him across the resort at 2 a.m. that morning, in a direct beeline for his bure. If only he hadn’t ridden straight into the rock. And if only I hadn’t been flung from the handlebars onto the path. There would have been nothing to explain.

It was incredible how quickly word had spread amongst our colleagues. In a remarkable example of Chinese whispers, the story now included me naked on the handlebars, yodeling at the top of my lungs, swigging from a bottle of Lindauer and giving him a blowjob. Simultaneously.

One long hour later we docked at the Nadi marina, the bump of the boat against the jetty sending fresh waves of pain cascading up and down my leg. It was by far the longest ferry ride of my life. The longest plane ride of my life dangled in front of me, like a mouldy carrot. My colleagues piled off the boat without even a glance my way, let alone an offer to push my wheelchair. I hadn’t the energy to wheel myself, I was scarcely managing to breathe on my own.

Once the flocks had filed past me, one person remained standing on the boat. Him.

‘Bloody great,’ I muttered under my breath as he walked towards me.

It is very difficult to look both aloof and severely pissed off when you are sitting in a wheelchair with a broken leg. The best I could do was to avert my eyes downward, which made me look even more pathetic.

‘How are you feeling?’ he asked.

‘
Me?
’ I replied, looking over my shoulder for wounded emphasis. ‘Oh, just peachy. Thanks for asking.’

‘How’s the . . .’ he stalled, pointing at my leg.

‘Oh, it’s fine. They just put it in a cast for the hell of it. Thought it might be nice and soothing in the forty-degree heat.’

‘I see,’ he replied. ‘Broken then?’

For someone who regularly prided himself on his intelligence, he was currently a firm contender for Village Idiot. I declined to reply.

‘I’m sorry for leaving you at the reception desk last night . . . I didn’t know how I could explain my . . . my presence.’

I stared up at him, fury blending with my hangover, giving my eyes a lovely deranged appearance.

‘I didn’t realize it was that serious,’ he continued. ‘Otherwise I would have . .’

‘Would have what?’ I asked. ‘Waved as you rode off?’

‘C’mon, Jools. You know I can’t be seen with you.’

‘Well it hardly matters now, does it?’ I said, raising my eyes towards the jetty. ‘It’s not like they haven’t all seen the movie.’

‘Let’s get you on da bus, lady,’ said the Fijian man, as he released the brake and wheeled me off the boat.

I wasn’t in any position to protest. Not unless I wanted to miss my flight and take up a permanent position as boat mascot.

‘I’ll bring your suitcase,’ Gary called after us, hoping I’d take this as some sort of chivalrous gesture.

It was the bloody least he could do. The
very
least.

The kind Fijian man carried me onto the bus, banging my head loudly on the metal doorframe as he did so. The pain was indescribable. I could feel the sea of stares before my dazed eyes could focus on them. They stared at me like the circus sideshow I was.

Thankfully there were two vacant seats at the front of the bus so I was spared being carried down the Aisle of Hell. I would be able to sit sideways and lay my leg across the other seat.

‘Dere you go, lady,’ said the man, plonking me into the seat, but thankfully not bumping either my leg or my head in the process. ‘I hope your leg be getting better.’

‘Thank you,’ I replied, somehow managing a smile.

He’d been so lovely to me. So much more lovely than the asshole who was currently putting my suitcase into the luggage hold. If only I’d been of able body I would have told him to shove the suitcase up his arse. But instead here I was, a cripple. A cripple who needed somebody to carry her luggage if she’d any hope of bringing it home with her.

He climbed onto the bus and had the audacity to smile sweetly at me as he walked past.

I hope he trips and impales himself on an arm rest, I prayed. But unfortunately no screams were forthcoming.

I could feel the stares and whispers hit the back of my seat and echo around the bus, while every bump and pothole (too many to count) sent excruciating pains flying up my leg and around my head. I needed water. Desperately. It was the longest twenty minutes known to woman.

We arrived at the airport, a devastating hour and a half before our flight was due to depart, and I was once again deposited into a wheelchair by the kindly bus driver.

‘You have anyone to help you, lady?’ he asked.

I looked around but Anyone appeared to have grabbed their suitcase and scarpered into the terminal.

‘Er, no,’ I replied.

‘I will help,’ he said sweetly, somehow managing to both push my wheelchair and pull my suitcase inside the terminal, where he recruited an airport staff member to take over.

I could see my colleagues queuing at the check-in counter ahead.

Bastards
, I thought to myself. And then I said it.

‘Pardon, lady?’ said my new female helper.

I fished in my handbag and handed her my passport.

I wondered what the hell to do with myself for the next hour. It was Nadi airport after all — there was no Zara or French Connection to lift my spirits.

‘I put you over dere,’ said the lady, making my mind up for me. She wheeled me towards a roped-off area beside the check-in counters and then, much to my surprise, lifted up the rope and wheeled me under it.

‘Dere you go. I be back,’ she said, wandering off.

I looked around at my new surroundings. I appeared to be the only human in the roped-off area; the rest of my companions were various pieces of luggage, including some very big boxes with the word
oversized
emblazoned across them. The rest were suitcases and the like, all sporting a sticker that said
lost.

It took me a moment to realise I had been left with the oversized and lost baggage. Which meant, in all likelihood, that I was considered to be an oversized or lost piece of baggage, too.

I looked across at the queues of people waiting to check in, including my conference colleagues, who were all, it’s fair to say, staring at me with what could only be described as unashamed abandon. Some were trying their very best not to laugh, the rest were staring at me with nothing but pity.

I hung my head and took a moment to ponder my situation. I wondered, I mean
really
wondered, if life could possibly get any worse than this. I strongly doubted it could.

What should I do? I thought. Keep hanging my head and pray that I would suddenly be blessed with the ability to teleport to another dimension? Realise that I would never be blessed with the ability to teleport to another dimension and turn myself around to face the wall? Or hold my head up high, get my book out, and act as though it was the most natural thing in the world for me to be parked in the roped-off oversized baggage area and it was no skin off my nose,
no siree.

While I tried to make up my mind, I kept my head down and stared intently at a spot on the floor in front of me, as though it were the most fascinating spot I’d ever laid eyes on. There were plenty of spots on the floor to stare at (it wasn’t the cleanest floor I’d ever seen). Perhaps I could just keep doing that?

Where the fuck is my helper? I wondered. Having a cup of tea? Standing outside having a ciggie?

I suppose I could have wheeled the chair myself and escaped under the rope, but it all seemed like too much hard work. I was sweating enough from the combination of stifling humidity and violent hangover without adding to the cause.

‘You want drink or eat?’ asked my lady helper, who had finally remembered where she’d left me.

‘Yes, please,’ I said, fishing in my handbag for some coins. ‘A juice.’

There was a very audible rumbling coming from my stomach, but I decided it was more likely to be the processing of alcoholic toxins than a need for food. The wrong conclusion could have disastrous results.

Once again I was left alone in the roped-off area, as people continued to walk by me and either stare or smile sympathetically, which was worse. I was the girl who’d gone on holiday and come a cropper. The girl who was returning home maimed. Their stares and smiles said it all:
bloody glad it’s her and not me!

I could see my colleagues now gathered at the seating bay in the middle of the terminal, sitting and chatting amongst themselves or reading magazines. Thankfully half of them soon boarded a flight to Australia, so the number of evil stares diminished significantly as they headed towards the gate. Plus, it appeared the rest were beginning to tire of staring at me and whispering behind raised hands. (Actually, most of them had stopped whispering behind raised hands fairly early in the piece and had instead been having very audible face-to-face conversations about me.)

The lady arrived back and handed me my juice. I all but wrestled the cold bottle out of her hands and threw it down my fur-lined throat.

‘Sorry,’ I said, emptying it without taking a breath. ‘Bit thirsty.’

‘OK,’ she smiled, forgiving me my rudeness. ‘I come back and get you for plane.’

And with that she was gone again.

‘But . . .’ I called after her ‘I need to go . . . toilet.’

It was too late. She had waddled out of earshot.

I have often wondered why it is that when you feel the urge to wee and you’re near a toilet, you take your time and hold it in for a while, no problemo. But when you feel the urge to wee and you can’t — for instance if your leg is broken and you’re stuck in a wheelchair behind ropes — you are simply incapable of holding on. It really is one of life’s great mysteries.

Approximately thirty seconds later I could take it no more and had to take action.

But even if I manage to break through the barrier, how the hell am I going to lift myself onto the loo? I wondered.

I wheeled myself to the edge of the ropes, beside the check-in counter, and — after subtly trying to get the attention of one of the check-in staff and then giving up and hollering out ‘Hello! Down here!’ — I was finally acknowledged, voiced my urgent requirement, and my female helper was paged back.