A Lizard In My Luggage (17 page)

  'You know,' he smiles stiffly, 'my father used to sit behind this very desk.'

  Prudence is shaking her head sorrowfully and glancing with misty eyes at the grand leather chair into which Michael now sinks with utter weariness. His white hair is thin and wispy, and the left-hand parting is carved with military precision. When his jacket flaps back I notice a frayed Gieves & Hawkes label, but it's a tired, stuffy old suit, not like the flashy new ones that adorn the shop windows in Savile Row now. He shuffles papers on his desk distractedly, laboriously puts on his gilt-edged reading glasses and unfolds a piece of foolscap paper like a solicitor about to announce the contents of a will.

  He clears his throat. 'I have put a few words together for a press statement. Would you look over it for me?'

  'I don't think we should say anything to the press at the moment, Michael. When is everything hitting the fan?'

  He gives a bitter little croak. 'Things have already hit the fan!'

  'It's been awful, dear,' butts in Prudence. 'You'd be mortified.'

  Prudence has an Essex twang that she proudly emphasises when imparting dramatic news.

  'To think what this company has been! I've worked for Mr Roselock for 20 years and never in my life have I seen such goings on.' She stabs her fingers fretfully through her lacquered grey hair. 'I just said to him last week, "Enough is enough."'

  'They've slit our throats and bled us dry,' Michael adds with asperity.

  I make sympathetic clucks and then take a deep breath. Somehow, since I've been in Mallorca, I have more clarity of vision. When I gaze over the Tramuntana mountain range, nothing seems insurmountable, and that includes Michael Roselock's problems.

  'I think you've got to see this as a new era, Michael, and move on, just like I'm doing.'

  I pass him and Prudence a document each. They look puzzled.

  'What's this?' says Michael cagily.

  'You know my client, Havana Leather?'

  'What of it?' he grunts.

  'I have an idea which might prove to be your salvation.'

I am one hour into my flight and sitting in the aisle seat of row three with a Bloody Mary and a packet of Pringles. Someone beat me to the row in front but instead of kicking the usurper in the leg, I sat behind him, took several deep breaths and quickly unearthed
The Fearless Flier's Handbook
from my handbag. I am about to read when the air hostess stops by my seat. It's the same girl from last month's flight. 'Thought I recognised you,' she beams. 'Are you a regular commuter?'

  'Trying to be,' I mutter.

  'Well it's lovely and calm out there. The pilot hopes to make it in record time today,' she says cheerfully. I pray that our Speedy Gonzales pilot won't take risks in his desire for
Guinness World Records
fame.

  So here I am on page 43. There is a sub-heading in bold letters:

The chance of an aircraft like the 747 or 767 ditching, or making a water landing in the ocean is so remote that one should count on a win at the lottery first.

And a little further on:

Once an Asia-based airline had a plane that overran terra firma during a takeoff in Hong Kong… the plane ended up competing with the ferries in Hong Kong Harbor!… Nobody was killed…

Nobody was killed. That's the point, isn't it? I imagine what must have been running through the minds of those poor passengers in the middle of take-off and then… Someone taps my shoulder. I look up and am momentarily thrown to see a familiar face peering down at me.

  'Victoria Duvall,' she says briskly. 'We met at the Banca March party.'

  I attempt to stand. After all she is the queen of film in our valley.

  'No need to get up.'

  I sit back down and introduce myself.

  'I know all about you,' she says airily and without explanation, 'and I occasionally read your column in the
Majorca Daily Bulletin
. I know Jason Moore, the editor.'

  'I see.'

  'So, are you going to be a regular commuter? There's a whole bunch of us. We call it the easyJet Commuter Club, the ECC.'

  'Is there a joining fee?'

  She smiles. 'Well, the offer of a round of G&Ts to exclusive club members usually does the trick.'

  'Then I'm your girl.'

  She breaks into a deep throaty laugh. 'Is that seat taken?' She indicates the middle seat.

  'No, I managed to keep it all to myself.'

  She doesn't need an invitation. 'I'll join you for a while. Now, judging by your choice of reading matter, I take it you're a nervous flier?'

  I feel like a child whose bed-wetting has just been discovered. I can feel my cheeks burn.

  'I only ask because I used to find flying such a drag. First I tried hypnosis, then acupuncture and all that twaddle until finally a friend bought me that book. It's marvellous.'

  I eye her suspiciously. Maybe she has shares in the publishing house.

  She chirrups on. 'After that, I went on a flying course for nervous passengers and now I love being in the air.'

  I take a gulp of my Bloody Mary and offer her a crisp. She politely declines but presses the call button.

  'That's encouraging,' I say. 'What's this course, then?'

  'Oh they take you through everything to do with planes, you get to meet the captain and end up going on a flight with your trainer.'

  That bit doesn't sound so appealing. The air hostess appears and Victoria orders a G&T.

  'So aren't you scared any more?'

  'Never.'

  'What, even in storms?'

  'Not really. I just read a film script or two and have a G&T.'

  As if on cue, her drink arrives and I insist on paying for it. We chat for the duration of the flight and I am so absorbed with her film industry anecdotes that when the plane finally makes its descent, I have completely forgotten to grip the armrests of my seat in terror, as is customary. We land smoothly and I gather my belongings and wait patiently for my companion who has returned to her seat to retrieve her bags. Most of the passengers have left as she strolls languidly down the aisle, talking loudly with two men.

  'Do you know James Grant?'

  Why would I?

  'No, I don't believe we've met.' I extend a hand which he shakes warmly. 'Not related to the whisky family, are you?' I ask.

  'Sadly not,' he replies jokily. 'Anyway, welcome to the ECC.'

  'He's a television producer,' Victoria rattles on. 'So you're both in the media business, and this is young Spike. He's a travel courier.'

  We shake hands and are diplomatically invited to leave the plane by the easyJet crew. I get the impression they know these characters pretty well.

  In the arrivals hall we say our farewells and promise to catch up on another flight soon. Victoria, whom I've decided is a lot of fun, invites Alan, Ollie and me up for lunch.

  'You must meet my husband, Charles, and of course the donkeys…' In a flash she's disappeared. I gather my belongings and head off for the taxi rank. Oh to be back home. I could almost dance!

  Suddenly Judas is ringing. Who on earth would call at this time of night? I wrestle it out of my handbag and hear Greedy George's booming voice.

  'Back in Lalaland, eh, guv?'

  'Just. Are you aware of the time?'

  'Of course, but you career girls never sleep.'

  Well this one has discovered the wonders of sleep since living here and has no intention of reverting. 'Where are you, anyway?'

  'Bloody Milan. Looks like I'm going to be here another week. They can't get production right. Still I've found a great new all night bar.'

  'I spoke to a journalist at
Condé Nast
magazine yesterday. They all seem to be cooing over the lounge lizards.'

  There's a twang of coarse laughter. 'Yeh, well, those girls at
Condé Nast
get excited about anything if you bribe them enough.'

  'Don't be mean.'

  'Think of all that advertising I'm giving them this year.'

  'You still haven't paid them for last year.'

  He wheezes with pleasure. 'That's true! Every cloud's got a silver lining.'

  The man really is incorrigible.

  He gives a cough. 'By the way, when you're next over can you bring me some of that Spanish serrano ham?'

  'Only if you behave.'

  'Maybe. Anyway, I got your voice message. What's up?'

  I brace myself. 'Well, you know my client, Michael Roselock?'

  'That old fart, the jeweller?'

  'The same. Well I've had an idea…'

The dreaded day of the Palma to Calvia half marathon has finally arrived. When my neighbour, Rafael, first mentioned the race very casually several weeks ago, I never thought he really expected me to enter. Wrong. In fact, Rafael had made it his unwavering ambition to toughen me up for the big event ever since I had foolishly let slip that I would be doing the London Marathon the following April. He had digested the news sombrely, pointing out that 44 kilometres was a very long way and that without adequate training with a half marathon or two in advance, I'd be sunk. So, under Rafael's tutelage, I began my training programme. Valiantly I would set off on a twenty-minute mountain jog, and then make my weary way back up our track. Hard as I tried to slip quietly past Rafael's front door each time, he would instinctively dart out from the house and on to his porch with the speed of a rattlesnake and point accusingly at his watch.

  'You lazy woman!
Venga!
You joke, yes? Only twenty minutes? This is nothing! We must be strong for the race, yes?'

  Then laughing manically, he'd lead me into his kitchen to swot up on a whole raft of potions and energy drinks needed for building stamina. One of his favourite pick-me-ups was carnitine, a protein supplement with a milky white hue which he bought in tiny glass phials from the chemist.

  'You drink this with an espresso and you go off like a rocket.'

  The thought of being turbo-fuelled, running like the possessed, frightened the life out of me, so I opted instead for mineral water and a spoonful of honey before each run.

  Although I never liked to admit it, I began to enjoy the practice runs, particularly those in the early hours when the country lanes were bereft of cars and
motos
and the near edible fragrance of rosemary and lavender hung bewitchingly in the air. At that time of the morning I would happen upon all manner of early risers, hawks and eagles sweeping the blue-grey skies, mice, hedgehogs and rats peeping warily out from the undergrowth and most captivating of all, an abundance of rabbits hopping across the fields and pathways, their fur flame-coloured under the beams of the emerging sun. Sometimes a rabbit would hop out on the path and I would chase it as fast as I could until its little taupe body effortlessly outran me over the hill, its frame caught in a patch of sunlight. In time I began to recognise those locals who routinely walked the country paths early in the morning, mostly old
pagès
(country folk) and farmers with their
ca raters.
At first disconcerted to stumble upon a female runner, and a foreigner at that, they gradually succumbed to my cheery greetings and before long were on '
Bon Dia!
' terms, sharing smiles and waves. In fact, I was soon on first name terms with one or two early birds such as jolly Gaspar, the newspaper delivery man, who every morning chugged through the town and down to the port on his old
moto
, its frame wheezing under his hefty frame and the weight of the bulging newspaper bags strung across the handles. One of Gaspar's favourite games was to allow me to overtake him along the pavement before gathering speed and passing me on the road with a flourish of kisses, shouts and honking. It worried me that such frivolous distraction might one day make him veer off the busy port road and into the
torrent
, the fast flowing river.

  In just a month my twenty-minute forays were doubled and before long I was managing regular eight-mile runs without too much trouble. Old Margalida Sampol would wave her stick in disapproval and chastise me as I ran by but Rafael would look on approvingly as I tore up the track having completed what he termed a real run. However, 13 miles is a long way and the Palma to Calvia race, which is one of the high points in Mallorca's running calendar, is run in the intense heat of the day.

  So, the big day has finally arrived and there's seemingly no going back. I can hear Rafael's heavy stride crunching on the gravel outside and then he bangs on the glass door of the porch and bounds into the house.