Summer Secrets (17 page)

“You’re always herded around like cattle in airports,” Clover grumbles as we walk down the curved corridor to transfer on to the Miami flight. “It’s so undignified.”

We’ve only taken carry-on luggage so we walk straight past the shuddering, lumbering baggage carousels and catch a packed bus to Terminal 3.

“This is more like it,” Clover says as we walk into the super-smart shopping area. She pulls me into the Gucci shop where she tries on some sunglasses: huge Jackie O ones that cover most of her upper face. Putting one hand under her chin and the other on her hip, she purses her lips and vogues. “Do I look fabulous?”

“Utterly, darling,” I say, laughing. I try on an equally huge pair and check myself out in the mirror. I look ridiculous. I put them back on the rack and then glance at my watch. “Shouldn’t we go to the gate?”

“Nah.” Clover picks up another pair of glasses. “This is far more fun than waiting in a big sweaty old mush. We have at least an hour to kill.”

“Are you sure? The ticket says boarding closes at ten-thirty.”

“But they mean eleven.” She waves her hand at me dismissively. “Don’t worry, we have loads of time.”

We try on ultra-expensive Burberry coats – Clover, a short black mac; me, a beige trench coat. Clover looks amazingly glam; I look like a dodgy private detective. Then we wash our hands in the special basin in the Jo Malone shop and test some of the perfumes.

Clover sprays so much Orange Blossom on her neck that she has a coughing fit, her eyes streaming. She even splutters over the shop assistant. The woman doesn’t seem to mind, though; she just smiles at Clover and hands her a tissue.

Clover wipes some of the perfume off. “Don’t want to suffocate my fellow passengers on the flight. Speaking of which, what time is it, Beanie?”

“Ten-forty! Clover, we need to run. The gate’s fifteen minutes’ walk from here and we have to go through the metal-detector things again.”

Clover pales. “But we’ve been through security. Back in Dublin.”

“Yes, but we have to go through it again. Mum was quite specific about it; she said to be sure to leave enough time. After 9/11 they’re very thorough. Especially for the States.”

Clover frowns. “You know what that means, Beanie? Run!”

We weave through the crowds with a lot of “Excuse me”s and get to the security area in record time. Clover whips off her sky-blue Juicy hoody and hands it to me, so she’s left wearing just a skimpy vest top, and before I can say anything she has dashed up to a ruddy-faced security guard in his twenties. (Clover has charming security guards down to a T.)

“We’re going to miss our flight,” she says dramatically, fluttering her hand over her barely covered and by now heaving chest. “Can you help us? Please?” She bats her eyelashes at him.

“No problem, love. This way, please.”

He escorts us into the “Strictly Flight Staff Only” area, where a grey-haired man is standing by the metal-detector. “Damsels in distress, Duncan?” he says to his colleague with a wink.

Duncan grins and his face goes even redder.

“Thank you so much, Dunc,” Clover coos, touching his arm. “We’re so grateful. You’re a doll.”

He blushes even deeper and stammers, “I’ll ring the gate … let them know you’re … on your way.”

“You are a sweetie,” Clover says with a smile. “It’s gate eight. Clover Wildgust and Amy Green. I won’t forget this.”

*   *   *

We sprint to the gate. A single air hostess is standing behind the desk, running her pillar-box-red nails im-patiently over her collection of torn-off ticket stubs. A huge American Airlines plane is framed in the window behind her.

“Clover Wildgust and Amy Green?” she says, glaring at us. She is not a happy camper.

We both nod furiously.

“You are the last to board the plane. By a long stretch. Count yourselves very lucky.”

“Yes. Thanks.” I thrust my passport and ticket at her. She examines my horrible convict-like photo, tears off my ticket stub and hands everything back to me without comment.

Clover looks stunning in her passport photo. She had it taken professionally, at great expense – and even the air hostess is impressed.

“Nice pic,” she says resentfully.

The plane is ginormous; there must be at least three hundred people squeezed into it. It’s divided into sections. As we walk past the very swish first-class seats, Clover gives a dramatic sigh. “See what I gave up for you, Bean Machine? Nine hours of sheer luxury. You press a button and they turn into beds.”

In economy, Clover asks, “What seat are you in, Beanie?”

“32A.”

She chuckles. “Didn’t know they did it by bra size.”

“Ha bloody ha,” I say. “I suppose you’re in 38DD, then?”

She studies her ticket. “Hang on a sec. They must have made a mistake. I’m in 36F. That can’t be right. We have to sit together. I can’t fly for nine hours on my own. I’ll crack up.” She starts to look very agitated.

“Please take your seats, ladies,” an orange-faced air steward says. (I try not to stare at the give-away fake tan marks on the sides of his hands.)

“But we have to sit
together
!” Clover practically screeches.

I explain the problem to the steward, and he smiles. “I’ll sort it out; don’t you worry. Nervous flyer, is she?”

“Very.”

In the end, a large German man agrees to swap seats with me. He doesn’t mind at all; he gets my aisle seat.

After shuffling along the middle block, Clover and I sit down. There’s a small TV screen in the back of the headrests of the seats in front and pink blankets in plastic bags on our seats.

Clover takes the eye mask out of the welcome pack and pulls it down over her forehead.

“Very Holly Golightly in
Breakfast at Tiffany’s
,” I say.

“Clever you.” Clover smiles. “I do love that film. Audrey Hepburn and that cute blond writer. And the cat called Cat.”

“I know. You gave it to me for Christmas last year.”

“Did I? Clever me, in that case. Now, let’s see what movie we’re going to watch first.” She pulls the in-flight magazine out of the pouch in front of her and flicks to the film listings.

“We?”
I ask.

“Yes, we, Beanie. It won’t be much fun watching a film on my own. I need someone to poke when it gets to the good bits.”

I grin. “As long as it has Johnny Depp in it, I don’t mind.”

“Even better” – Clover points at the magazine – “look,
Just Add Water,
starring the one and only Matt Munroe. It doesn’t come out in Dublin for another month. Cool! Useful for the interview too.”

We read the blurb. Matt is playing a surfer in love with a mermaid who teaches him the secrets of the sea. According to the review, he spends most of the film in surfing shorts – what’s not to like?

“I thought that flight would never end.” Clover lets go of my hand, which she has been clutching for the last twenty minutes, and stretches. Clover lasted two films before nodding off and snoring her way across the Atlantic. She woke up just in time to clutch my hand during landing. I flex my fingers a few times; Clover has quite a grip.

We’ve just landed at Miami International Airport, and the sun is splitting the heavens – yeah! There’s a heat shimmer on the runway.

I smile to myself. Miami! I’m in Miami!

Chapter 29

The
movie company has sent a car to collect us – a huge gleaming tar-black limousine with leather seats and enough room inside to play hockey. The driver, a tanned man in a white short-sleeved shirt and navy tie, opens the passenger door for us.

“I could get used to this,” Clover says.

Miami is insanely hot, and the car’s deliciously cool air-conditioning is like icy fingers running up and down my skin. I relax against the seat and stare out of the window as we pull away.

“How far are we from the city?” Clover asks the driver.

“Thirty minutes’ drive, ma’am, depending on the traffic,” the driver replies politely.

We settle back to enjoy the ride – and that’s when we both see it: our first palm tree. Tall and willowy and so very Miami. Clover grins at me, and I nod and grin back.

We power along the highway, drinking in all the sights: the huge wide roads, the rhino-sized cars and jeeps and the squat red hacienda-style houses with dark pink flowers spilling over the walls.

As we get closer to the city there are long stretching suburbs of squat, single-storey shopping malls, complete with all kinds of small shops. Their names crack me and Clover up – Patty’s House of Curl Up and Dye, Citizen Canine Pet Store, Leaven and Earth Bakery.

Soon we’re driving past glam modern houses with acres of tinted glass and lush green gardens until, finally, there it is: the sea, sparkling and shimmering in front of us like a giant oasis.

We’re still smiling insanely as we pull up at the hotel, a steel and glass skyscraper overlooking the bay.

“Twin Palms Hotel, ladies,” the driver announces.

We walk through the doors, into the super-cold lobby, and blink several times, our eyes adjusting to the murky darkness. The reception desk is manned by a team of black-suited men and women in their twenties; all are insanely good-looking.

Clover gives a low whistle. “Fancy-smancy.” Then, not in the least bit intimidated, she strides towards the desk and smiles at one of the men. “Clover Wildgust,” she says. “Checking in. The room was booked by Uptown Pictures.”

The man clicks away on the keyboard in front of him, then says, “I’m afraid there’s a slight problem with your room, Ms Wildgust.”

My heart sinks. I knew it was all too good to be true: there’s no room booked and we’ll have to camp out on the beach.

“We’re fully booked this week,” the receptionist continues, “so we’ve had to upgrade you to a suite.”

Clover grins at him. “That’ll be just fine and dandy.
Dia duit, a chairde
.”

He stares at her. “Excuse me?”

“It’s Irish for ‘Thanks’.”

His eyes light up. “You speak Gaeilge? How darling. Rhonda, Tibby, this girl speaks Gaeilge.”

Two women scuttle towards him and smile at Clover.

“Say something else,” he says. “It’s so precious.”

“
Póg mo—
”

“
Tá Miami go deas
,” I cut in. Clover’s Irish is hopeless and she was about to say something rather rude. “That means ‘Miami is beautiful’.”

“
An bhfuil cead agam dul go dtí an leithreas
?” Clover says, determined not to be outdone – that actually means “Can I go to the toilet, please?” (It’s one of the first Irish phrases you learn when you’re in junior infants.)

I giggle.

“Oh, that’s awesome, honey,” one of the women says. “My great-grandmother was from County Clare. I wish I could speak Gaeilge.”

“Actually, we call it Irish in Ireland,” I explain. “Gaeilge means Irish in the Irish language, if you know what I mean.”

“Honey, whatever you call it, it sounds just darling. You need anything, you just ask for Tibby, ya hear?”

In the lift on the way up to our suite, I ask Clover, “Why were you twittering on in Irish?”

“You heard Tibby. If we want anything, we just have to ask. There is method in my madness, Beanie. You have to play to your strengths, and in America being Irish is one of them.”

Our room, the South Beach Suite, is jaw-droppingly amazing.

“Wow!” Clover squeals, opening the door and then standing back to let me in.

“Double wow!” I scan the room, taking in the huge plate-glass windows overlooking the sea; the white silk curtains, complete with enough floaty voile to make dozens of bridal veils; the clear Perspex writing desk with matching chair; the two white leather sofas; and the giant brushed-steel fruit bowl, groaning with fruit.

There’s a door to the left.

I open it and step into the bedroom, my eyes taking in its vast super-king-size bed and view of the swanky hotel swimming pool.

The door to the en suite is open. Creamy marble from floor to ceiling. A bath the size of Clover’s Mini Cooper and a walk-in shower with several space-age silver shower nozzles.

Clover flops down on the bed and the plump feather duvet gives a gentle whispery
phew
under her body. “I could get
so
used to this,” she purrs.