by Maeve Haran
She could just imagine the intense satisfaction Martin would feel at a) her stupidity b) the stupidity of women generally and c) the waste of money which would now render the whole venture the folly he had always thought it was.
She rushed into the nearest loo and locked the door.
What on earth could she do?
Tell Martin some tall story, disappear in a cab despite the enormity of the cost and try to get back in time for the flight? But that, of course, was almost certainly doomed to failure. Fess up and take her punishment and see if there were any later flights, then rush home and get it?
All the options seemed equally disastrous. Belinda and Evan would both have left for work, so they couldn’t bring it.
Someone was banging on the cubicle door. She would have to come out.
And then it dawned on her. After a number of occasions when their burglar alarm had gone off, vastly irritating the neighbours, they had been forced to leave a key with a professional firm of key holders who would come out and turn it off and check that there wasn’t an actual burglar present, which there never was.
This service was staffed by teams of nice young men, mostly students, who didn’t mind staying up all night, being used to clubbing. One of these nice young men had told Claire that they also provided another service – picking up things people had forgotten and delivering them. He had added that she’d be amazed how many CEOs and Top People forgot their passports and that the nice young men – being in possession of their door key – had to rush to their homes on motorbikes, find the passports and dash to the airport in time for them to catch their flight.
Claire delved in her bag, looking for her wallet, heart beating. There was the card. She called them up, describing exactly where she could see the passport in her mind’s eye but not, unfortunately, in her handbag, and where she would be waiting at the airport, well out of the line of vision of her husband.
‘It will be our pleasure,’ commented the man at the key-holding firm without a hint of patronage. They would charge her £30.
‘You were a long time,’ commented Martin suspiciously.
‘A slight touch of the runs,’ elaborated Claire.
‘I thought you got that when you were out there not when you’re still at Gatwick.’
‘Probably just a little pre-trip excitement.’
‘I can’t think what’s so exciting about staying with someone you don’t even really know,’ he commented generously. ‘I thought you said you wanted to go through security.’
‘I thought, since you’d been so chivalrous as to drive me here, I’d stay a moment or two with you.’
He looked at her as if she were someone needing care in the community.
As soon as she could she’d get rid of him, but there was no way the bike could get here yet. Claire sat down and leaned her head on his shoulder, knowing full well he would be able to tolerate this intrusion into his personal space for no more than two minutes.
She was proved to be incorrect.
In about eight seconds he shrugged her off. ‘Really, Claire, I’m trying to read the paper.’
Claire went back to her book. She snapped it shut after she thought enough time had elapsed. ‘Look, love, you’ve been really kind. Why don’t you head back and get a kip? Just think, you’ll have the whole bed to yourself for once.’
This proved an irresistible enticement.
‘Perhaps I will.’
She waved him off, sighing with relief. ‘Bye, love. Evan and Belinda will look after you.’
‘I very much doubt it.’
So did Claire, but she wasn’t going to admit that.
He kissed her rather clumsily and ambled off, remembering that he had to prepay before leaving the car park. ‘Ten quid! Daylight robbery!’
Just as he was driving past the drop-off point a motorcycle cut him up and he had to brake. The driver, a young man, waved to him gaily as he parked his bike and removed his helmet.
If Martin had been a more hot-headed person, he would have replied with quite a different gesture.
Claire, standing under the Arrivals board, had a very different reaction. She could have kissed him. Since having a woman old enough to be your mother throw herself on you would have caused the nice young man nothing but embarrassment, she confined herself to smiling and waving as he handed over the passport.
‘You don’t know how grateful I am,’ she breathed.
‘Happens to the best of us,’ replied her knight in leather motorcycle gear. Then he waved and was gone. And that, thought Claire, is the best thirty pounds I’ve ever spent.
Monica looked out of her window and couldn’t believe her eyes. The entire landscape of rural Buckinghamshire was buried in deep fresh snow. Only a day or two ago the sun had shone with a powerful heat. People had worn sleeveless tops! Throughout the county the charitably minded had turned out their winter wardrobes and taken their surplus woollies to the Oxfam shops. And now look at this! It was true that in this area the valleys were famed for their curious microclimate: hot when it was cold elsewhere, cold when it was hot. But this seemed almost Hardyesque in its deliberate malevolence. Nature conspiring against her need to get to Gatwick Airport. It wasn’t exactly Tess of the D’Urbervilles slipping her note under Angel’s door and it getting stuck under the mat with desperate consequences, but, in Monica’s view, it wasn’t far off.
‘This could only happen to me,’ she’d sometimes wailed to Brian. Brian, always jolly, a bright-side person, would laugh and tease her out of her pessimism.
But Brian wasn’t here.
Was it a sign? To someone braver it would simply be an obstacle, but to Monica it was the curtains coming down on her escape. Her mother would be thrilled.
The truth was her mother liked having Monica there to be the butt of her comments, and she, Monica, didn’t have the courage to live alone with no income.
Monica looked at her neatly packed suitcase, her folded Pac A Mac, and had to bite back the tears. Another failure.
In the far distance Monica saw a vehicle ploughing its way along their snowbound drive. Could it be the postman? He normally came on foot, but maybe the county had some emergency vehicles.
As it came closer she saw that it wasn’t the postman but Gwen Charlesworth in her ancient Land Rover Defender. Gwen, ever resourceful, turned the Defender round in a wide circle before she stopped so that it was facing back down the drive.
Monica ran downstairs.
‘Gwen! What are you doing driving in this?’
‘It’s glorious out.’ Gwen grinned. ‘It feels like the Garden of Eden before man put down his size-ten feet on it. Now, where’s your suitcase? You mentioned your flight was this morning, didn’t you?’
Monica, who had forgotten even mentioning it, nodded vigorously.
‘I tried to phone but nobody answered. Let’s get off before your mother makes a scene,’ Gwen added with an impish wink.
Monica was back down with her suitcase in no time. But she wasn’t quite fast enough for Mariella, who had appeared on the terrace in her flowery dressing gown and wellingtons looking like Lady Macbeth in Cath Kidston, clutching her head ominously.
‘Don’t worry about me,’ she announced dramatically. ‘I just have the worst migraine ever.’
Monica looked from her mother to Gwen, beginning to weaken.
Gwen grabbed her suitcase and threw it into the Defender, then delved in one of her voluminous pockets. Out came a very fluffy chick, cheeping away at the bright light. Gwen stroked it and put it carefully back in. ‘Wrong pocket,’ she announced with no further explanation. ‘I just have to make sure the sick ferret is as far away from it as possible.’
‘But don’t they bite you really badly?’ Monica asked, entranced by all the unexpected wildlife.
‘Not when you’re wearing these.’ Gwen waved her leather gauntlets. ‘Found them on Amazon. Terrific, aren’t they?’ Finally, she produced a bottle of rosé with a lovely label illustrating the Pro
menade des Anglais in Nice. ‘Well-known cure for migraine, Mariella. Nothing better. Put it in the fridge and we’ll crack it when I’ve dropped Monica at the station. Of course we have to hope the trains are running but Mr Google says they are and he’s very rarely wrong. Hop in.’
Bowing to a force of nature greater than herself, Monica climbed up.
They drove carefully down the drive. ‘Neville drove this across the Sahara so I don’t think we need worry about a little snow.’
Monica glanced back. Her mother was still standing on the terrace examining the label on the bottle.
‘I don’t think we’ll tell her I got it in Lidl for three ninety-nine, do you?’
Twenty minutes later Monica was climbing out of the Defender at Great Missenden station. Trains to London for her connection were indeed running.
She smiled gratefully at Gwen.
‘I never thought there was such a thing as a fairy godmother . . .’ she began.
‘Fairy grandmother, more like,’ chortled Gwen. ‘Have a good time in Italy. It’s a shame Easter was so early this year. It’s amazing in Italy. Anyway, it’ll give you time to think about what you want to do next. You’re too young to retire. Look at me. Wouldn’t dream of it. Too much to do.’
Monica’s shoulders began to sag. ‘I’m afraid I’m not very good at much.’
‘You wait. That’s what you think. Things happen in Lanzarella. It’s a very special place, you wait and see.’
Claire took off her shoes and put them in the tray along with her phone and backpack, clutching her passport so hard that the customs officers probably thought she was smuggling something.
She went through the security arch and submitted to being felt up by the female customs officer, then, with a sigh of relief that she didn’t have any unauthorized goods in her carry-on, she put her trainers back on and headed for the nearest Costa. For once she’d forget the extortionate price of a cappuccino and just order one. The Retail Price Index might calculate the cost of modern life by a basket of groceries but Claire knew better. She calculated it in cappuccinos from Costa. How many cappuccinos is that? This was how she measured the extravagances or economies of her life. A new blouse might be ten cappuccinos and a coat twenty-two. On the whole it wasn’t a bad method.
As she sipped the milky brew, relishing the free chocolate sprinkles on the top, she noticed that the front pouch of her backpack was unusually bulky. Oh my God, had some terrorist slipped a bomb in or a drugs dealer turned her into an unwilling mule?
Gingerly, hoping it wouldn’t be her last gesture on God’s earth, she opened the zip and removed a thick plastic folder. It was a detailed travel guide including printed timetables of the train and two buses she needed to take to get her from Naples Airport to Lanzarella.
It was so entirely a Martin gesture that she didn’t know whether to be grateful or cry. He had hardly even said goodbye and now this. On the one hand, he relished such challenges, and, of course, it would discourage her from the weak-willed temptation to get a taxi. On the other, it might have been done out of genuine consideration and affection. Love might be pushing it too far.
She put the package back into the pouch and zipped it up again.
Her boarding gate was being called and, after all, she had to admit it was only because of Martin’s infuriating caution that they had come to the airport early enough for her to retrieve her passport in the first place.
All in all, thank you, Martin.
Once on board, Claire got out her Anne Tyler novel but for some reason didn’t feel gripped and looked out of the window instead. There was sleety rain over Gatwick. Martin said they’d even had snow in some parts of the south-east.
Please let there be sunshine in Italy.
Sylvie, in her usual contrary fashion, since her house was far nearer to the motorway to Gatwick, decided to fly from City Airport. She loved City. She always said this was because it was like a toy airport, but the truth was, huge airports made her feel nervous.
Another of her oddities was that when she was flying she always wore black. It was Sylvie’s claim that you always looked tidy in black, so even if you’d got no sleep, and your hair was a mess, you could still pull it off. Also you wouldn’t be so noticeable to hijackers looking for a hostage.
She always managed to take a very large selection of make-up, which somehow she’d succeed in getting through security, so that no matter how drained and dehydrated she looked, she could still go into the toilet and emerge glamorous and glowing.
Sylvie never thought too much about her fellow customers who might be crossing their knees outside. On the other hand, she was extremely charming to them when she emerged, which somehow seemed to compensate.
Having perfected her appearance, she headed for her favourite seafood and champagne bar, which had a good view of all the airport’s comings and goings, and checked her laptop for any imminent problems at the office. She was very good at hiring, actually, so she knew she could trust her team to do exactly what she would do. The only problem was that clients always wanted Sylvie, and felt short-changed if, for all the vast sums they were laying out, they didn’t get her personally.
She also secretly hoped, although she wouldn’t admit it, that there might be a communication from Tony.
Nothing. Nada. Nix.
She ordered another glass. ‘To the single life!’ She smiled all round at the other passengers.
Very subtly the women slipped protective arms around their husbands.
Sylvie almost laughed. Not one of them was the tiniest bit attractive. But, let’s face it, at least they had husbands.
She heard her flight being called but stayed where she was. She was skilled at being the last passenger to board and had developed a sense of timing that would have impressed Lewis Hamilton.
Four
Angela’s flight went entirely smoothly, as her flights tended to do. Delays and inconveniences rarely happened to Angela. Staff were unfailingly polite and helpful and if they slipped momentarily from this standard, a brief flash of Angela’s grey eyes put them back on course.
Naturally, she turned left as she boarded the plane, placed her bag in the overhead locker and sat down in the seat she always booked, by the window mid-way between galley and cockpit, then accepted the flight attendant’s offer of champagne.
She studied it before she sipped to ensure it had plenty of bubbles. Occasionally an ill-advised flight attendant attempted to give her a glass from an old bottle. They didn’t repeat the mistake.
She glanced round at the other passengers, hoping she wasn’t going to have anyone sitting next to her or, worse, that she would be stuck with someone who knew her face from Done Deal.
Neither threat materialized. Naples wasn’t on the usual business route and it was too early in the season for tourists. The few other travellers in Business Class were Italians going home and one spoiled-looking teenager who, Angela’s fashion antennae noted, was wearing low-slung tracksuit bottoms and a top with shoestring straps which tended to fall down when any male approached. No luck here, sweetie, was Angela’s bitchy thought, all the stewards are gay.
There was one elderly British couple – well, to be honest, not that much older than her – sitting either side of the aisle, doing a crossword together. They hardly spoke, just passed the newspaper over when they couldn’t get a clue, then passed it back. There was something about the easy unspoken intimacy of the gesture that upset Angela and she looked away. Her life was far more interesting than theirs, she was sure.
She drank a second glass of champagne and looked out of the window. Goodbye to grey London, to venture capitalists, and to the hungry gentlemen and women of the press. She hoped in the next few weeks to forget them all.
The flight passed quickly and it was mid-afternoon when they touched down at Capodichino Airport. At the back, in Economy, she heard some Italians clapping at the safe landing and it made her smile. But her smile soon dissipated when she saw the rain that was obscu
ring the entire landscape, veiling it in deep grey mist. This wasn’t what she’d signed up for.
Once she’d collected her case, Angela glanced around the baggage hall in case Claire had been on the same flight. The two and a half hours in the air had made her rethink her position about offering Claire a lift. After all, the woman had done her bit against the vulture capitalists. The annoying little shit wouldn’t forget that lunch in a hurry. But Claire was nowhere to be seen. Angela had to admit to feeling relief. She was looking forward to the luxury of another hour or two of peace before she got to Villa Le Sirenuse. She used it by watching Michel Thomas, the language supremo, on YouTube to refresh her Italian. It had been a long time since that summer school.
Even for someone as efficient and well-travelled as Angela it was still reassuring to see a uniformed chauffeur waiting behind the barrier with a sign saying – unusually liberated for Italy – Ms Angela Williams.
The driver rushed forward to take her bag and, moments later, she was settled comfortably in the back of a silver Mercedes. The first part of the drive was on a motorway, but rather like the shock of suddenly coming across Stonehenge when driving to the West Country, nothing had prepared her for the sight of Mount Vesuvius. She had imagined a snow-dusted peak glowing luminescent pink as the sun made a rare appearance but it was actually covered in green and the rain was so thick you could hardly see it, anyway.
And then, not long after Vesuvius, there were signs to Pompeii and Herculaneum. Angela felt a flash of guilt that she hadn’t even known these were so close. Still, there would be plenty of time to visit them.
‘How long till Lanzarella?’ she enquired of the driver.
‘Forty-five minutes, signora.’
She closed her eyes and when she opened them again they had arrived at Lanzarella and were at the gates to the villa. They turned left and drove up a well-kept gravel drive. Despite the rain, scented shrubs – choisya, lilac, daphne and banksiae roses – welcomed them in a perfumy embrace from either side of the road. The driveway was also much longer than Angela had expected. The villa must be way beyond the village. Damn this wretched rain!