A Lizard In My Luggage (38 page)

  She shakes hands with Alan and manages to block the aisle for several minutes until she is moved on by a long suffering member of the cabin crew.

  'Let's get together when we're all back…' she yells robustly down the plane.

  'She's a character,' says Alan admiringly. 'Can't help but like her.'

  As the plane rumbles along the tarmac, I sneak a look at Ollie and grasp his small hand.

  'Oh no you don't,' he says brutally. 'I'm not scared so you shouldn't be. You've just got to grow up.'

  He snatches his hand back and avidly peers out of the window as we speed along. Once the plane lifts into the air, he lets out a 'Cool!' and begins pointing out everything he can see from the air. I screw my eyes shut waiting until the plane is on an even keel.

  'Open your eyes, Mummy. You're just being pathetic.'

  I give him a sulky look. 'I'm just sleepy, that's all.'

  He rolls his eyes. 'No you're not. Come on, let's play soldiers.'

  Actually, engaging in battles of an Action Man kind with six-year-olds can be a good distraction for fretful fliers, although I find stickers and colouring books more therapeutic.

  A vodka and tonic later, I'm feeling fairly relaxed and skimming through a copy of
easyJet Inflight
magazine when a man taps me gently on the shoulder. It's James Grant, a member of the ECC. He proffers a hand to Alan over the seat and introduces himself.

  'Back for work?' asks Alan.

  'I'm writing a script for a new television cop drama. We've got a meeting to discuss the series. I'll be back tomorrow.'

  'Interesting stuff. So how often do you commute?'

  'About every two days.'

  'What?' I hear myself shriek. 'I'd be a nervous wreck.'

  He gives a laid-back shrug. 'It's just like catching a bus. Besides, it pays the bills.'

He wanders up the plane, his happy hunting ground, to catch up with another contact.

  As we make our descent into Gatwick, I suddenly focus on the main reason for our return: the London Marathon, and, with a touch of uneasiness, wonder whether, despite the months of training, I will be able to complete the course and raise a packet for my chosen cause, a remote Amerindian tribe in Guyana. Then I think of the party I have arranged at our flat afterwards and the many friends and contacts I will see once again and suddenly running 26 miles doesn't seem quite such an ordeal after all.

George and I have agreed to meet for a drink at a discreet hotel called One Aldwych which is conveniently close to one of his favourite hamburger joints. The sky is already dark and an icy wind blows as I walk quickly from Covent Garden tube, down Long Acre and turn right into Drury Lane in the direction of the Aldwych. The street is full of stressed individuals hurriedly heading for home, theatre land or the many bars and restaurants that suffocate this part of the West End. Traffic has snarled up and taxis are wedged nose to bumper on one side of the street, their red tail lights a blur in the sudden downpour of rain. I grapple around in my handbag and realise that, once again, I've forgotten to bring an umbrella with me. Fool, you're not in Mallorca now. I sprint across the road and a car brakes sharply and toots as it misses me by an inch. The driver gesticulates wildly from inside; an angry, distorted face through the pane which seems to sweat rain from every pore. I hurry on and finally see an oasis, the familiar floodlit exterior of the hotel. A doorman has already seen me crashing towards him, face obscured by the upturned collar of my coat, and gallantly rushes forward with an umbrella. I walk through the towering glass front doors and into the enormous lobby with its huge vaulted ceiling, arched windows and sleek white interior. Straight ahead but some way off, lies the bar and sitting at a small round table with a pile of papers in front of him is George.

  I cross the vast expanse of white marble, stopping at a pillar to push back my wet hair. I am momentarily thrown by a gigantic sculpture of a naked man squeezed into a boat with enormous oars jutting out at right angles. The place is littered with cool, contemporary sculptures so that it has more of the feel of a gallery than a hotel. As I approach the table, George rises cumbersomely from his seat to greet me. He's not in stand-up comic routine today because he doesn't have an audience, and wears a serious expression.

  'Let me get you a drink.'

  A waiter appears on cue and George orders two glasses of champagne.

  'So, still enjoying life in the sun?'

  'Immensely.'

  'No regrets?'

  'Only that I'm not there enough.'

  He fiddles with a small vase in the centre of the table.

  'Old Campbell Gray's got good taste.'

  'Yes, he has.' I look round the lobby momentarily reflecting on the owner's inimitable style which penetrates deep into the very pores of the building.

  'Cards on the table, guv,' George bashes on. 'I've had three meetings with this American company and agreed to carve a deal. We'll be launching Havana Leather in the States in the next year.'

  'Wow, this has all happened very quickly.'

  'You know me, don't like to hang about. Point is, I need to know that you're on board to sort out the marketing and PR with me. I don't want you wobbling off.'

  'I never wobble off.'

  'Sorry, I didn't mean that. I just want to be sure that you're around to help. You know the brand inside out.'

  'I'll be honest with you. I'm not sure how long I want to carry on working in London.'

  His eyes pop wide open, just as the waiter places two fizzing glasses gently in front of us.

  'Are you mad? What, you're just going to vegetate in the sun?'

  'Of course not. I might want to think about some new venture.'

  'That's all pie in the sky. See this as your new venture. Our expansion plan is going to be the best thing you've ever worked on.'

  Hm. I'm not sure about that, but I'll humour him for now.

  'Listen, I'll give it serious thought. I'm flattered you want me around.'

  'Give me a break,' he puffs impatiently. 'OK think about it but don't mess me around.'

  I raise my glass and he breaks into a grin.

  'Oh, got something in my bag for you. A little good luck charm for the bloody marathon.'

  He pulls out a small and chic turquoise box with a white ribbon. 'A gift from Tiffany?'

  'Don't get carried away,' he moans.

  I pull open the ribbon and lift the lid. White tissue paper flutters as I peer between the folds. A bejewelled designer silver lizard stares back at me, with tiny green eyes. It hangs from a chain.

  'What can I say? It's beautiful.'

  'I was worried you might get homesick while you were over,' he clinks my glass. 'Here's to the marathon.'

  'And here's to Havana.'

  He takes a long sip. 'Yep, so just make sure you're on board.'

The sky is streaked with sunlight as I arrive at my Pimlico flat, a marathon royal bedecked with a medal and draped in a warming silver foil sheet, the runner's equivalent of an ermine stole, courtesy of the marathon sponsors. I can hardly believe that I have just run for nearly four hours solidly around London, clocking up

26.2 miles, and have still managed to walk a further two miles back to my flat afterwards. It has been a spectacular day and my fellow participants and the crowds of well wishers who lined the route created such a cocktail of energy and goodwill that it was nigh impossible to fail. Now it's party time and Rachel is at the flat, playing host to family and friends who've popped by to share a celebratory glass. Alan is fumbling with the door key.

  'It's funny but this all seems so alien now. It's just not home anymore.'

  I nod. 'You're right, so why don't we sell up?'

  He looks astonished. 'You mean it? What, pack up everything in the UK?'

  'I'd have to do something else but why not? New challenges and all that.'

  'Let's talk about this later,' he whispers.

  At the bottom of the stairs, the door flies open and warm light from the flat pours into the corridor. Rachel welcomes us in and Prudence Braithwaite stalks out of the kitchen and places a cool glass of bubbly in my hand. There's the sound of loud laughter and champagne corks popping. The party appears to be in full flow without us.

  'Come on,' she says robustly, grabbing my left arm and pulling me towards the living room. 'Everyone's waiting to welcome the champ.'

  Michael Roselock comes over to greet me and is keen to inspect the medal. 'Not very good quality', he says, inspecting it carefully. Prudence laughs. 'Really, it's just a memento, you silly sausage.'

  I'm amused at this term of endearment. She catches my expression and when I've done my round of greetings with friends and family, she beckons me over.

  'I wanted to let you know,' she says shyly, 'that Michael and I are going to get married. Nothing extravagant you understand. A small affair in Sevenoaks next month.'

  'That's fantastic!'

  'Well, we're pleased,' she says, trying to hide her pleasure.

  Ed comes over. 'By the way Scatters, I've decided to visit you in Mallorca. I really mean it. This June.'

  'Well book your flights before you bottle out.'

  He sighs heavily. 'Mid June is best for me. I'll e-mail you with dates.'

  There's loud banging at the front door and a moment later Alan appears with George in tow, a glass of champagne in his hand. He swans into the room, gives me a thump on the back and goes over to talk to Michael. My mobile rings and I rush into the corridor to escape the din.

  'Did you make it?' Catalina is yelling excitedly into the receiver.

  'How nice that you called. I did it.'

  'Congratulations. I will let Ramon and everyone know.'

  George is yelling for me. 'Go,' she says. 'Enjoy your party. We'll see you home soon.'

  I switch off the mobile as George bounds towards me forcing me back into the living room. He breaks into a reptilian smile and tells everyone to charge their glasses.

  'A toast to guv,' he says, raising his own flamboyantly in the air before adding with a vulgar cackle, 'and to the Queen and all who sail in her!'

I'm sitting in the aisle seat of row one because, quite simply, my preferred aisle seat of row two is occupied. My copy of
The Fearless Flier's Handbook
is open on my lap and I have only three pages left to read. Passengers are filing by, and once or twice someone smiles at me and I recognise them as a fellow commuter. Spike, one of my ECC pals, passes my seat and we share a few words. It's a comforting moment. Just as I dip back into my book, one of the air hostesses approaches me and squats down conspiratorially at my feet.

  'I have a very nervous flier coming on the plane. Since we recognise you as a regular commuter, would you mind if we put him next to you?'

  Him. Can there be neurotic male fliers? I thought Ed was a one off. I am about to tell her that I'm the last person on the plane he should sit next to but find myself curiously tongue-tied.

  'So is it OK with you if he goes by the window?'

  'Yes, of course,' I hear myself saying calmly. Have I lost my mind? Between us we could bring down the plane. A few minutes later she guides a tall, ashen faced man, somewhere in his thirties, towards me. He gives a halfhearted greeting then ducks his head to avoid the overhead locker and slips into the window seat. He hunches up and peers out at the darkening sky beyond. I notice he's biting the inside of his mouth by the little puckers forming at the sides of his lips. The air hostess stands at the front of the plane like a teacher, willing me to act. I feel like the form prefect with a new school recruit.

  'It still seems like a nice day out there,' I say lamely.

  He turns to face me with terror in his eyes. 'Why shouldn't it be nice? Is there supposed to be bad weather?'

  I can tell this is going to be a fun flight. 'No, not at all.'

  He breathes deeply. 'I don't like flying.'

  You don't say?

  'Oh really? I'd never have guessed.'

  He gives a snort of laughter. 'I don't believe you.'

  The door is now closed and the air hostess is speaking on the intercom to the cabin crew at the back of the plane. She takes her seat and clips the belt shut. He strains to see her when the lights are dimmed.

  'She's still there,' I say, 'If she heads for the exit, I'll let you know.'

  He is horrified. 'That's not funny,' he says.

  'No, it wouldn't be,' I reply.

  He leans back in his seat, teeth clenched, hands gripping the armrests. God, is this what I look like normally?

  'Are you familiar with the bings and bongs?' I ask casually.

  The plane is starting to gather speed.

  'What?' he says in panic.

  'There's a series of bings and bongs. If you're a nervous flier, it helps to identify them.'

  'What comes first?'

  Chicken or egg?

  'Well, normally there's a BING about now.'

  He stares hard at me. BING.

  'See?'

  'What next?'

  The plane has raced up into the air and my head lolls back against the seat with the force. My companion puts his head in his hands.

  'Right, the BONG BONG is coming up soon.'

  He lifts his head, and dares to look at me but I can tell by his panicked expression that he's not sure what to fear most, the lunatic at his side or the flight itself. Nevertheless, he listens carefully. Sure enough there's a BONG BONG. My companion sits frozen in his seat, ever attentive.