The Mini Break (8 page)

I look up and note with panic that there is a surge of interest in the breakfast bar. Meredith’s plate is piled high with croissants, crudités and Marmite – a psychopathic
combination even accounting for the fact that she’s pregnant – and she’s been joined by several others tucking into the dwindling supplies. My stomach growls like a werewolf
during a full moon.

‘I’d better go, Mum. Thanks again for looking after Florence for me, it really is appreciated. Can I phone you when we get to Barcelona so I can speak to her?’

‘Before you go, have you got that special bag with you?’

I hesitate. ‘Yes,’ I lie.

Unfortunately, my voice always rises an octave when I’m not telling the truth – an oral version of Pinocchio’s nose. This does not escape my mother’s notice.

‘You haven’t brought it, have you?’

It’s been years since my mother has been to Barcelona and, following some Internet research, she’s concluded that there is now a grave pickpocketing problem there.

You would never believe that someone so worldly wise could be this neurotic about her daughter, but Mum still treats me like I’ve barely learned to tie my own shoelaces. As a result, she
purchased on my behalf a bag that looks like the sort of thing Securicor would use to transport gold bullion. Its proportions are preposterous – I tried carrying it briefly, and decided
I’d have returned home in traction had I persevered.

I will, reluctantly, admit that there’s an inkling of truth behind the pickpocketing stories. After the holiday had been arranged, I read an article about tried-and-tested tricks used by
street robbers. In one, a woman on the metro stands up to announce that she has just been pick-pocketed, and suggests that everyone checks their wallets. At which point, all the men pat the pocket
they keep those wallets in, and this gives her accomplices a clear indication of their whereabouts. In another con, fake bird-poo is squirted on an unsuspecting tourist’s shoulder before
someone leaps to their aid to wipe it off – and help themselves to the contents of their handbag.

Even in the light of this dazzling array of anecdotes, of which the Internet is awash, I still wouldn’t bring the bag. It’s so big and so ugly that even if you’d told me if I
was destined to be marooned on a desert island and my only possible chance of escape was using it as a makeshift kayak, I’d prefer to take my chances with the breaststroke.

I clear my throat and deliberately lower my voice before answering her. ‘Of course I have.’ It comes out like Barry White on steroids.

‘What about the Acidophilus I gave you? You know, to cope with digesting the shellfish.’

‘Yes, I’ve taken lots of those,’ I reply, meaning none. My mum loves health supplements. It’s never occurred to her that the human body could possibly function without
the existence of Holland & Barrett.

Nicola returns to her seat with a plate full of rye bread, cheese and other goodies, the sight of which makes me feel as though I’ll fall into a coma if I don’t eat.

‘Mum, I have to go.’

‘But I haven’t mentioned the glucosamine sulphate!’

‘Flight’s being called. Speak soon! Love you!’ I press ‘End’.

‘Haven’t you got some nosh yet?’ Meredith asks. ‘We’re going to have to go to the gate soon. You’d better get in there quick.’

I race to the brunch bar, and a cloud of wanton gluttony descends on me. It’s not merely that I’m hungry and that before me is an array of goodies that could rival one of Henry
VIII’s feasts. It’s that it’s
free
.

I tell myself not to be such a pleb about this, but then I reason that I
am
on holiday and therefore, hungry or not, I’m allowed to pile up my plate.

There’s only one large dinner plate left and, as I reach to pick it up, a bony hand gets there first. Its owner is an anatomical skeleton dressed head to toe in Prada; a woman so skinny
that she’d surely need three weeks to make her way through one of these platefuls. She pouts. I narrow my eyes. But she’s obviously used to this sort of stand-off so, wimp that I am, I
back off. I’m then left with the choice of looking like an insufferable greedy guts and
asking
for a big plate, or settling for an infuriatingly modest one.

I sniff and opt for the latter.

I start with a croissant. Which looks lovely, so I have two. Then I spot some little madeleine-type things and add those, then a dollop of honey. If I was sensible, I’d stop there. But
there’s something in my Irish-Liverpool ancestry that means I’m genetically programmed to behave like the best I’m used to is half a rancid potato, so I add a little coconut cake
and a pot of jam. Then I realise I have two handily empty pockets and so add two more pots – they’re so cute! – leaving plate-space free for a couple more items.

By now I’m in almost a hypnotic state, as if having an out-of-body experience as my hand frenziedly reaches out and grabs item after item. It’s only when I’ve paused for breath
that I realise I’ve created a culinary version of Buckaroo on my plate – it’s piled so high, it’s now difficult to move without the entire thing collapsing. I’m still
considering my options when I note that my neighbour, the skeleton, has allowed herself to go wild with three slices of melon, which sit in solitary confinement on her oversized plate.

I decide it is time to return to my seat. I do so as carefully as I can, holding my breath, with the stealth of a tightrope walker, baby-step by baby-step, glancing cautiously from my plate to
my destination . . . as an announcement is made: ‘British Airways would like to apologise for a delay to flight BA—’

At which point my ears fail me. ‘Was that ours?’ I holler to Nicola, increasing my speed. At least, I attempt to: instead, a human-shaped brick wall suddenly appears from nowhere,
upending my pastry goodies and spilling lavish amounts of Bucks Fizz down my front.

‘Oh God!’ I shriek, temporarily immobile as a wave of embarrassment overcomes me and I glare, crimson-faced, at the food I’ve firebombed over the pristine carpet. I then become
hyper-aware that the tapping of keyboards has ceased and dozens of eyes are now peering over their laptops at the source of the commotion.

‘Let me help,’ a male voice says, its owner grabbing my plate and piling debris back onto it.

When he’s finished, he reaches for a new plate and hands it to me. ‘You may have to start again.’

I open my mouth to reply but nothing comes out.

His features are more sexy than classically handsome, with midnight blue eyes and shamelessly full lips: when he smiles, they produce a kind of half-smirk, an unsettling look that gives the
clear impression that he’s probably slept with far more women than is good for anyone.

I know, simply know, that by the time I’ve returned to my seat, Meredith will have spotted him, given him the once-over, and be working out how she can chat him up: although I doubt even
she’d cheat on Nathan in current circumstances, she’s not let the small matter of pregnancy stop a bit of harmless flirting. And he’s exactly her type: big, broad, slightly
unshaven and, in her demented head, the sort of bloke you
just know
will be a fantastic shag – a quote I’ve heard more times than I can tell you over the years.

‘That’ll teach us both to look where we’re going,’ he adds, reaching to grab some napkins. It’s only then that I realise my Buck’s Fizz is all over his shirt
too. He begins mopping it up, before handing a napkin to me.

‘Us
both
?’ I ask, wiping my T-shirt. ‘I thought I was, to be honest.’ I say this politely, sweetly almost. But I’ve taken enough management-course
assertiveness modules to know that it must be said.

He pauses and looks at me, smirking again, which really gets up my nose. ‘Well, let’s not worry about it. Just one of those things.’

I go to reply, but his expression stops me in my tracks. It strikes me that he probably thinks I did this on purpose, because I fancy him, like Meg Ryan in a 1990s romcom. I suddenly want to get
out of there. ‘I’d better go. Thanks for the napkin,’ I add, to show there are no hard feelings, except as I wave said napkin in front of his nose, I manage to drop it.

So I bend over to pick it up, at which point the two pots of jam in my pockets plop onto the floor, next to a smattering of chocolate muffin. He picks them up and adds them to my plate with
another hint of a smile.

There is an awkward silence and, as ever (despite the obviously useless assertiveness modules), I am engulfed by the hideous need to fill it. ‘I collect jam jars,’ I announce, as if
such a hobby would be any less embarrassing than having the appetite of a ravenous water buffalo.

He blinks, clearly unable to think of a reply to that one. ‘Right. Well. Have a nice flight.’

I nod and force a smile, then head back to the girls, thanking the Lord that I never have to see him again.

He’s on the flight. Of course he is. I’m rifling through my complimentary bag of up-market toiletries when I register someone walking past and realise it’s
him. He’s removed his shirt and is down to a grey marl T-shirt. I take a deep breath and pray that he doesn’t sit next to me.

He pauses, surveying the seats as he glances at his ticket, before sailing past to sit two seats in front. I exhale with genuine relief.

Nic and Meredith are together in two seats by the window, while I’m in the middle, adjacent. It matters not that we’re separated by an aisle – in this utopia of aviation
nothing
matters.

Meredith leans over to me, wide-eyed. ‘There’s that guy!’ she hisses.

‘Hmm?’ I say vaguely, as if I hadn’t noticed.

‘The GUY! The one you threw your drink over.’ Meredith jabs her finger at him as if providing driving directions to a half-blind simpleton, and Nicola, torn between amusement and
feeling my pain, nudges her and tells her to shush.

Meredith lowers her voice – slightly. ‘Oh, come off it, Nicola Harris. Tell me you’re not thinking exactly what I’m thinking?’

Nicola raises her eyebrows innocently, with a half-smirk. ‘What would that be?’

‘That we need to stop neglecting our duties and get Imogen off with a gorgeous bloke like that.’

‘I’m saying nothing,’ replies Nicola diplomatically, going back to her book.

‘That sounds like an excellent idea, Meredith,’ I hiss sarcastically, drawing a finger across my neck just as Hot Guy spins round, prompting me to slump in my seat, pretend
I’ve never met this woman before in my life and do everything in my power to concentrate instead on enjoying my first ever business-class flight.

It’s already amazing, and we’re not even off the tarmac. Oh, the luxury, the sophistication . . . the prospect of not sitting for two and a half hours with my knees in the optimum
position for a triple pike. The air hostesses are smiling angels – attentive, but not overly so – offering to cater to our every whim, with the possible exception of supplying Ryan
Gosling and several tubs of whipped cream (this isn’t exactly on the menu, but you get the picture). Plus, the majority of passengers are seated and ready for take-off, and it’s looking
like the three seats next to me are going to be free. If I was in economy, my heart would leap at this prospect – I could stretch out! – but here, no encroaching on an area other than
mine is required; my own legroom is so vast, I could probably undertake an entire Pilates session in it.

‘What are you reading, Imogen?’ Nic asks, leaning across Meredith as I take my book out of my bag.

‘
The Book Thief
. I’ve been trying to get this started for a while, but life’s got in the way. This time it’s going to be different.’

I used to read constantly – everything from chick lit to classics such as
Great Expectations
and, my all-time favourite,
Captain Corelli’s Mandolin
. These days, reading
represents a luxury that I don’t have enough time for. Consequently, I first opened
The Book Thief
in 2010 and got to chapter three. I tried again that September, then in January 2011,
then March this year. Those first three chapters were bloody good, so this time I am absolutely determined to get through it.

I open the first page and re-acquaint myself with the haunting words of its opening passage. ‘
Here is a small fact: You are going to die
.’

This might not be an optimal reminder just before take-off, but I persevere. I get to the third line before I am abruptly interrupted by a sound similar in volume to that of a Cape Canaveral
rocket launch.

‘
WAHHHHHHHHH!’

The piercing screech of the small boy who has suddenly appeared in the seat next to mine is discernable only nanoseconds before his foot lands with a violent thud on my chin.

Neither of my friends witness this; indeed, it’s only when Meredith breaks her momentary gaze at Hot Guy in front that she does a double take. ‘Have you got a nosebleed?’ she
asks me.

‘Oh . . . bugger!’ I grab the complimentary lemon and bergamot wipe from my cosmetics bag, rip it in half and shove it up each nostril as the captain announces we’re ready for
take-off.

‘Anisha. Now. NOW!’ The source of these frenzied pleas is the chubby little boy’s mother. She looks like an Arabian supermodel, with perfect eyeliner, glossy hair and a figure
so tiny it’s impossible to believe that belly ever contained not one but two children. Despite the cabin crew’s repeated requests for the little boy to fasten his seatbelt, it’s
his older sister who is being shrieked at by their mum for refusing to hand over her iPad.

‘
NOOOOOOOOWWWWWW!’
she adds, just to be absolutely clear.

‘Um . . . can I help?’ I offer, but she doesn’t even hear me and the dispute between mother and daughter escalates until it is less a familial tussle and more something
you’d expect to see on WWE’s
SmackDown
: hair is pulled, eyes are scratched but, eventually, the iPad is ripped from the little girl’s hands and she’s thrust into her
seat, a lollipop produced from somewhere and shoved in her mouth. I have no idea what’s in it – Valium, judging by its effects – but it certainly calms her down.