Part 23 (1/2)

”Oh, f.u.c.k me ragged!” A squash racquet narrowly missed my winegla.s.s. ”Herry f.u.c.kbuddy Potter, what the h.e.l.l are you doing in my suite? And dressed like the Hillside Strangler. Get out now, before I call security. How did you get in here?”

”Stuart, calm down. The door over there was open,” I lied. ”I'm just doing some reconnaissance. A mutinous Samoan has just trashed the s.h.i.+p's laundry. I wanted to make sure he didn't go further.”

”He what?”

”Stuart? Stuart, honey? Who's that?” Sarah's voice.

I called out, ”It's just me, making sure the s.h.i.+p is all s.h.i.+pshape.”

Sarah came in through the gla.s.s doors, magnificent in a knit bikini, her limbs glistening from a recent application of tanning oil. ”You're on your legs again! I'm so glad. Have a gla.s.s of wine with us.”

”Sarah, what do you possibly see in this pathetic English gimp?”

Sarah stared sternly at her loathsome boyfriend. ”Raymond has rescued me twice from dangerous situations with highly menacing men. You should give him a handshake, Stuart, not your scary outdoor shoo-the-racc.o.o.ns-away voice.”

Stuart could only acquiesce to his G.o.ddess. ”Right. Pour yourself a f.u.c.king drink and then leave.” He stalked out, vibrating with rage. My winegla.s.s became a goblet filled with my enemy's tears.

”Just ignore him,” Sarah said soothingly. ”He's in a state because so many of the locals have abandoned s.h.i.+p and the production. We'll never get the series shot at this rate. But at least the cast arrived, although your ex-wife had to go back and find some replacements.”

It was most unlikely that Fi would screw up on her job, the one thing that meant anything to her. ”Were some of the contestants unfu-inappropriate?”

”No, she did a great job, but a bunch of them caught a wicked strain of norovirus in the LAX waiting lounge while it was shut down.

I'd forgotten the nuclear war. ”Right, right-nuclear war-how's all that going?”

”Nothing new, just all these countries being childish.”

She topped up my gla.s.s.

Ahhhh ...

I felt statesmanlike discussing important current affairs with Sarah. I wondered how far this magic moment would take us until ... f.u.c.king h.e.l.l, I remembered waking up to LACEY in the f.u.c.k hut beside that ghastly poo-ous lagoon, the woman's eyes like two drainholes sucking everything good and joyous from the world.

Sarah chose that moment to add to my pain. ”You'll be happy to hear that your LACEY is fine. She's in the South Island camp. You must be aching to see her.” She sipped her drink. Were her eyes actually filled with regret? She raised a gla.s.s. ”To you and LACEY and a future of perfect s.e.x and happiness together with no one else except just the two of you, forever and ever and ever and ever.”

”Uh, it really wasn't like that at all, Sarah. In fact, I don't remember what happened.”

”Just a minute, Raymond. I'm buzzing.” Sarah removed the tiniest and slenderest mobile phone from her lady's region. ”Hmmm. Right. Okay. Not to worry. See you in five.” She hung up. ”Raymond, want to come with me to the North Island camp?”

O.

M.

F.

G.

Thong Kong.

”Why, um, yes. Neal's over there, isn't he?”

”Indeed he is, poor fellow.”

”Poor fellow?”

”Sprained his ankle. It must hurt like the d.i.c.kens. Come on. We have to meet the Zodiac right away. Chug the rest of your drink and we're off.”

I chugged, then grabbed the bottle.

39.

A minute later we were climbing into the Zodiac bound for the North Island-me!-a man of the world on a speedboat, squiring such a glorious humpcrumpet as Sarah to a turquoise lagoon populated by TV industry bigwigs and Neal's own personal s.e.x ranch. Yessiree, nothing could possibly go wrong on a beautiful day like today.

And then we landed and ... nothing went wrong!

The North Island camp was largely empty. Fiona had delivered the replacement contestants, and shooting had begun on the South Island.

Sarah vanished to do her urgent business, leaving me to search for Neal.

Hmmmm. If Neal had injured his ankle, he couldn't be working on the shoot. Wait a second: Neal had no actual job here on the island. I was the one the network had hired.

I looked up a small hill (elevation: 3 feet above sea level) and noticed a lovely little bungalow in the Bahamian style: solid typhoon-proof construction tastefully camouflaged in turquoise paint with pink storm shutters, graced by b.u.t.terfly palms and a zoo of flowering plants. A chill ran down my spine: That f.u.c.ker.

I stormed up the rise and banged on the door. ”Neal, I know you're in there. Don't try to pretend you aren't. This is me, Raymond.”

The door was opened by some lopsided gronk who I could tell immediately was a cameraman.

”Yes?” The gronk's burliness s.h.i.+elded the house from my entry.

”I'm Raymond Gunt. Tell Neal I want to speak with him.”

The cameraman called over his shoulder. ”Some guy here says his name is Raymond c.u.n.t. He wants to talk to you.” There came a m.u.f.fled reply, and he turned back to me. ”Right. You can come in.”

I entered the most beautiful house I've ever seen. Cut flowers, sofas upholstered with the hides of near-extinct animals, marble floors. The walls dripped with paintings of Tahitian birds offering you their melon b.r.e.a.s.t.s on a plate along with hibiscuses and mango wedges. But by far the most overwhelmingly desirable aspect of this house was the utterly silent and stunningly effective air conditioning. f.u.c.k me. This was heaven.

I headed off in the direction from which I'd heard Neal's voice. I found him in a room at the back. The sunproof shades on the windows were drawn, and the room was rather dark. Neal was in striped pajamas adrift on a duvet surrounded by ma.s.sive pillows while a muted TV set displayed a compilation of Australian rugby brawls. On his bedside were magnums of undrunk champagne and platters of sliced cold cuts and French cheeses.

”Raymond. You finally made it.”

”Neal, good G.o.d. What's happened to you?”