Worst. Person. Ever(48)

I looked to my right to see a firm, milky leg—Sarah’s!—and I was seized with gratitude to God for having delivered me unto Eden after so many days of total goatfucks. My eyes followed the line of her thigh up to her torso, and a wash of regret passed over me: I had no memory whatsoever of what must have been the absolute best drug-fuelled fuck of a lifetime. What is wrong with the universe? Just let me have this one fucking memory, is that too much to ask?

Well, old Ray, maybe the memory will come back to you. Relax. And think of it: there will be other killer shags. The planes are grounded worldwide. No one’s going anywhere. You must surely have enough tinned meats to last a decade. The sky and ocean are beautiful. Life is good.

I reached over and traced Sarah’s creamy leg. What a perfect fucking ten. What a woman in a million.

My fingers travelled farther upward. I gently brushed the almost invisible hairs that ran from her biff up her crab ladder to her navel. Then I finger-walked over her remarkable knockers up her throat to her …

Holy fucking godless mother of fucking hell!

She turned towards me, smiled, let out a small coo and said, “Well, bunny-wunny, I knew one day you’d be mine.”

I looked back in frozen horror: LACEY.

How do things like this happen? How many of the gods have to be taking a sick day for me to black out and wake up with the hospitality gorgon of LAX? How did she even get here? How did I get here? Last thing I remember I was … high and with Neal looking at tinned meats.

“Ray, don’t fret. You were great.”

“Where is everybody? Where am I? How the fuck did you get here? And why are you calling me ‘bunny-wunny’?”

“Ray, we have plenty of time for talking later.” She shimmied closer to me, pressing her remarkable breasts (how did I miss them first time around?) into my flank.

I shuddered. I had just a bit too much history with young LACEY to ever go that route. Now that I was conscious, you might as well ask me to bang a Ford Cortina. “Where’s Neal? Where’s Elspeth? Where’s Sarah?”

“They’re out on the yacht.”

“The yacht?!”

“The TV network banquet should be starting just about …” She looked at her watch. “… now.”

“Oh, fucking hell.” Standing up, I slipped on Arnaud du Puis’s pants. I looked for a shirt, and all I could find was a vintage Cure T-shirt.

The Cure is an English rock band formed in Crawley, West Sussex, in 1976. The band has experienced several line-up changes, with front man, vocalist, guitarist and principal songwriter Robert Smith being the only constant member, best recognized as the band member with the crazy red mushy lipstick, and you can’t believe he’s been doing it for all these years, and you sort of wonder if you’d recognize him at the mall if he walked past you without lipstick on.

I left her in bed and climbed down a small rattan staircase onto the beach, which was loaded with … thousands of bin bags? Oh, dear God, thousands of trash bags full of the foulest sorts of fish heads, rotting paper towels, rusting cans and fermenting dead whores, and—my nose twitched—everywhere I looked, the sand was peppered with human shit, miles and miles of it, kissed by the loving surf.

LACEY called out, “The locals don’t believe in our Western sense of personal hygiene. They just walk into the water, go to the bathroom and come back onto land. So free, and so liberated. You said as much yourself earlier today as we went to the bathroom together out in the lagoon.” I turned back to stare in further horror at her as she reached for a nylon sack. “If you’re hungry, I brought a duffle bag filled with packets of corn nuts from Los Angeles, and I have half a bottle of water from the drive here in the Jeep.”

“Jeep?”

“Yes. Your friend Stuart dropped us off. And your ex-wife. She’s nice.”

Aneurysm.

“Stuart said he wouldn’t disturb us for at least twenty-four hours. I’m so glad I’m not working at the airport bar anymore. Garcia was starting to get too possessive, and the thrill was gone. And after I met you, he could tell things were no longer the same between us.”

Stroke.

“Oh, come on now, Raymond. The electricity between us—especially that first time, when you didn’t tip me—it was magic.”

Throw up inside my mouth.

“Oh look.” She had come to the top of the stairs and was pointing at the sea. “I think I can see the yacht out beyond the reef. Imagine the fun they’re having: amazing food, the best music, socializing and having a blast. But not nearly the blast you and I have been having all afternoon, my hunny-bunny-wunny.”