A Lizard In My Luggage

by Anna Nicholas

  Rachel is unperturbed. 'I'd better get one of the girls to jump in a taxi and pick up some clothes from your flat, otherwise, Cinders, you won't make it to the ball.'

  I gratefully throw her my door keys while writing out instructions for whomever of my long suffering staff has agreed to accomplish the task. They'll need to find everything from jewellery and hosiery to make-up and shoes in my jumble sale of a bedroom. Mind you, they've all done it enough times.

  'Oh and we've got team drinks in half an hour. I thought you might like to reassure the troops that you'll be back and forth each month now.'

  I feel like Brown Owl about to deliver a campfire talk.

  'Can't you do it?' I plead.

  'No, that's not an option.' She thumps me lightly on the head with a file she's carrying and says with irony, 'By the way, George Myers rang to thank you for giving that lizard to Dresden. He's doing an interview with him on Friday.'

  I begin to picture the headline and story:

  Lounge Lizard Craze Hits London

  It's only a toy, but a twelve-inch Moroccan leather lizard costing seventy-five pounds that shakes its head and exudes an intoxicating fragrance has caused hysterical scenes in the capital today. Designer George Myers of exclusive Mayfair store Havana Leather created the lizard as an executive anti-stress device, never expecting it to develop into a craze.

  'I put its success down to Posh & Becks who bought up the lot and now I'm waiting for new supplies,' said George Myers.

  Angry riots erupted outside the showroom in the early hours of this morning when it became clear that new stocks would not be available until tomorrow…

  A sharp cough shifts me out of my reverie.

  'A penny for them,' says Rachel before closing the door.

  Tuesday 2 a.m., the Pimlico pad

  I'm watching the news. Actually I'm staring at BBC News 24 while propped up in my voluminous bed, a pile of annotated notes, two out-of-date copies of Private Eye and a Spectator on my lap. News is addictive and because I have no television in Mallorca, I'm staring at the screen with the rapt attention of a voyeur at a bedroom window. I find it impossible to switch off in case I miss something, something heart-stopping, like the latest hourly bulletin about war and strife in the Middle East or wherever else the world's events have moved. In public relations circles we switch restaurants and hairdressers at the drop of a newspaper. In global politics, they

  swap their war terrain at the drop of a despot.

  Somehow, since I was last here the news has taken on a more sinister mantle. The stories seem darker, the murders more gruesome, the violence on the streets more tangible yet, perversely, my eyes are rooted to the news spot on the television screen or drinking up every last drop of ink on the page of a newspaper as if to goad myself into a state of terror. By contrast, in Mallorca the most nail-biting headline is likely to herald inclement weather, cancellation of a fiesta or inauguration of a new mayor. Perhaps our media should carry a government health warning.

  I get out of bed and go over to the wardrobe. It's bulging with city battle dress; suits, a few expensive ones, and last night's cocktail dress, hooked lopsidedly on a hanger. Too much stuff. Did I ever really wear all this clobber? As for my casual clothes, they have been sent to Mallorca where I shall be spending most of my time, my life. What remains here is a working wardrobe, whatever that's supposed to mean. My wardrobe has never earned a penny. It's a slob. It just dispenses clothes every day and taunts me when I can't find a vital part of an outfit. I swear it hides belts and shoes, or maybe, as in The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe, a secret world lies beyond. I push my arm through the bulk of suits and hit a wall on the other side. There are definitely no trees. I feel a pang of disappointment and potter off to the phone. I dial 123. A synthetic male voice announces frigidly, 'At the third stroke the time, sponsored by Accurist, will be 2.08 and 40 seconds.' I'm annoyed. Why does everything have to be sponsored these days? We never used to have any of that nonsense. I'm sounding like my Irish grandmother.

  Perhaps I should try to sleep. I pace up and down the room, aware of the soft wool carpet contracting beneath my feet. A restless lion in a fur-lined cage. It's a strange, lonely sort of time to be awake in the city. There's a dull hum of traffic in the distance and I can just about hear rain dripping methodically from the gutter above the window. I peer under the blind and through the iron bars up to the starless sky and then to the sodden patio. Leaves have clogged up the drain and a discarded, empty packet of cigarettes is rotating in the scum and water. Some drunk or yob must have thrown it down. It happens every day. A large pile of rubble, like a tired old man, sits dejectedly in a corner, the remnants of a neighbour's crumbling wall that was never repaired. Here I am in my own private prison, protected from an invisible enemy. I slump back on the bed, longing to pick up the phone and speak to a human voice, and wondering what I'm doing here in this cramped flat, more like a lock-up, stifled with the trappings of city life which now seem so alien to me. I'm missing a soft sky pregnant with stars, chanting cicadas and the smell of jasmine floating on the breeze. And above all, I miss space and peace. Suddenly I want to be back home, curled up next to the homely Scot in our simple, white walled room with its gnarled beams and shutters, with the balmy, fragrant mountain air seeping through the bedroom shutters and fluttering about the sheets. For the first time ever, I'm even missing Alan's habitual snoring, although I'd never admit it. God forbid! I begin to yearn for my bedtime story-reading with Ollie, those secret moments of communication alone with my son, as the clicking cicadas and frogs croon outside his window. My family now feels like it belongs there, back on Mallorca, and tonight in London I feel like a lone tourist in search of some guidebook to help me make sense of my life here again.

  A coach whooshes by in the distance and then there's a wail of sirens as two speeding police cars pelt up a nearby street, their tyres squealing in the rain as they spin round a corner. Then silence. I sip at a glass of water, forcibly make myself switch off the television, hurl everything from the bed and extinguish the light. I'm exhausted. Time to go home.

  THREE

  DOWNING TOOLS

  This is what I hate about flying. You're given a departure time on your ticket but in truth it's just nonsense. What actually happens is that you merely board the plane at that time, taking off at the airport's leisure. Then again I'm on a no frills airline for which delay is a hallmark. Still, I'm en route back to Mallorca so things could be worse. I've brought The Fearless Flier's Handbook with me but immediately regret that I didn't think to wrap it in a false cover. Come on – to flaunt the title, rather like sporting an 'I love Cliff Richard' T-shirt on board, would be begging for ridicule from passengers and crew alike. I pull the book furtively out of my bag, turning the front cover back on itself. The man by the window appears to have dozed off. I hate him already. I am sitting in an aisle seat, row two to be exact, with an uninterrupted view of the air hostess's jump seat. Given that there is no allocation of seats on these budget airlines, this is some achievement. It took a serious amount of artifice and grievous bodily harm inflicted on my fellow passengers to end up here. As soon as they started calling us to the plane, I had leapt up, elbowed and kicked the early birds out of the way, and hobbled dramatically to the desk.

  'Your ticket number is 98. That means you have to wait,' snapped a male attendant.

  I groaned and writhed horribly.

  'What's wrong?'

  'I've had an operation.' Then in a whisper, 'It's a little personal and embarrassing.'

  He reddened. 'Oh, er, well, you'd better go ahead.'

  Once out of view, I had walked briskly onto the plane and bagged my favourite seat. Was it necessary to lie or to abuse other passengers? Yes. Look, when you're a nervous flier, you will do anything to ease your inner hysteria. Like superstitious actors who carry their favourite amulets to the theatre, we fractious fliers take comfort from sitting in certain seats on flights, particularly if they are near exits, cabin
crew, flight deck or drinks trolley.

  The air hostess has returned to her seat and is fastening her belt. We've had the seat belt check which I presume is to stop maniacs like me from leaping for the exit just before take off, and then there's the demonstration about what to do when landing on water. We drown, don't we? Still, even in death's claws we are strongly advised to remove high heel shoes and to secure our own oxygen mask before helping others with theirs. You bet, buddy. The plane is crawling towards the runway like a hearse and small lights are glinting in the dusk on the vast expanse of tarmac. In the dimmed cabin I can still read my watch face. It's nearly nine o'clock and the man next to me is snoring, his head and shoulders lolling over the vacant seat between us. I'm tempted to shake his arm and say, 'For heaven's sake, what the hell do you think you're doing? Do you realise, bonehead, that this is probably your last moment of consciousness?'

  Instead, I turn my head away, intently scrutinising the face of the ever-so-young air hostess sitting ahead of me by the exit. How old can she be? No more than 20, I'd guess, and how on earth would she cope in an emergency? Badly, that's how. I close my eyes for a split second. BING! What's that? I bob my head out into the aisle to study her face. The features are foggy in the half-light but she remains seated and calm – or is she just frozen in terror? There's a huge roaring sound and the plane is going faster and faster, racing out of control up, up and now practically vertical, and my mouth turns dry. Suddenly there's a strange creaking sound and a low humming. The ground below has become a huge chessboard listing from side to side. I strain to see the face of the air hostess which now looks like wax in the moonlight, her hands lying flat on her lap, her body pert and prim as if she's attending a church service. Maybe she's praying.

  BONG! BONG! That's it! We're done for. Perhaps we're losing cabin pressure? I can hear an ominous hiss like air being released from a punctured beach ball and again another BING! She's up this time, unlocking her belt and grabbing the internal phone. Who is she calling? Is it the captain or a colleague at the back of the plane? Is she suggesting dispersal of life jackets or a communal mass? The cabin lights up, people yawn and my sleeping partner continues to grunt. We're still alive.

  It's past midnight and I'm in a taxi coursing along dark country lanes, gulping in balmy and fragrant air from the open window while the driver hums softly, tapping the fingers of his right hand against the wheel. The car's headlights burrow into the blackness, briefly exposing scurrying rats, hedgehogs, rabbits and topaz-eyed bats in its glare. We reach the long and stony track that leads to the house. It is barely wide enough for a vehicle and my driver slows down, opening the door to inspect the significant drop on one side.

  'It's only an orchard down there,' I say mischievously in faltering Spanish.

  He whistles and clucks at me, 'Madre mia!'

  A few minutes later I'm in the courtyard watching him carefully reverse around large scattered obstacles left by the builders. The taxi rumbles slowly back down the track, laboriously picking its way over the stones like a giant beetle in a rockery. Soon the lights are no more than tiny white dots, fireflies in the obscurity, and the sound of the engine disappears into the night. Silence. I stand with my case at my feet, listening. There is a sudden hooting high above and an owl swoops over the trees. A hawk scuds by screeching wildly. To the side of me the rhythmic purring of the cicadas begins and a weird quack, not quite that of a duck, breaks out in the pond. Something plops in the water, and then a small leaping silhouette crash-lands soundlessly on to a terracotta tile balanced on the pond's edge. My eyes adjust to the darkness around me and there, surveying me impassively, is a large bullfrog – or is it a toad? He turns his head for a second and emits a strange crackly sound, not a croak. It is startling and I crunch back on the gravel at the sound. He dive-bombs into the pond with a tremendous splash. It's not only the geckos that have a weight problem around here.

  As I bend to lift my case, two bats rustle overhead and suddenly I am aware of a fine gossamer sky, light pewter in hue and sprinkled with what seems like thousands of miniscule shards of shiny white glass. Mesmerised, I sink to the ground and lie face up to the sky. These stars are so dazzling that everything around me seems flooded with light as if the darkness is just a figment of my own limited imagination. With a stab of regret I realise that until moving to Mallorca, I rarely stopped to reflect on the infinite beauty of nature. Come to think of it, I rarely stopped to reflect full stop. A gecko darts up a stone pillar close by, unnerved perhaps by this dotty English woman stretched out on the ground in the early hours of the morning. The very thought has me giggling to myself. I put a hand to my mouth to silence any release of laughter. The sharp stones and gravel dig into my back. A door bursts open and the porch light flashes on. Alan, unkempt and clad in cotton pyjama bottoms, is straining to see in the gloom. He calls out my name anxiously, but before I can rise he has glimpsed me lying like a corpse on the ground and rushes down the steps.

  'My God! Are you all right? Speak to me!'

  I roll over, paralytic with laughter, incapable of speech.

  I'm sitting against the wall on the half-built terrassa, staring out over small heaps of rubble at the hills beyond. The builders have left for the weekend but semi-full bottles of water and unfinished packets of biscuits wedged beneath rocks are sure signs that they'll be back on Monday. I'm longing for a juice from oranges freshly collected from our own trees but it will have to wait for a while. First I must make an effort to don my running gear and tackle a few well-trodden Mallorcan tracks on foot. I only have myself to blame. In a moment of hubris back in London I foolishly agreed to run the London Marathon for The Scientific Exploration Society, a charity close to my heart. Even though friends warned me that it was a serious slog, I didn't believe them until, after my first two-mile run in Hyde Park, I returned home like a cartoon dog, with tongue lolling and my uncoordinated legs skating in all directions.

  The temperature is already more than 30˚C as I amble lazily along the track in shorts and T-shirt. I feel an irresistible urge to slope back to the garden to curl up in the haphazardly erected hammock under the olive tree but know that would be a real cop out. Thirty minutes later, with a face the colour of ketchup, I limp back, my skin seeping sweat from every pore. I hear a shout and a man, mid-thirties, appears from a house near the mouth of our track. He is munching on a fresh fig and beaming at me. 'Ah! Una corredora!'

  He switches from local dialect to English. 'Runner, you say in English, si?'

  Runner? The man's a diplomat. I feel like a doughnut that's been left to fry in the sun.

  'How did you know I was English?'

  'News travels fast here.' He smiles cordially, ruffling his dark mane of curls with a bronzed hand. Then he bounds over to a nearby fig tree and plucks me off a fruit. 'Here, un regal, a little gift. Benvinguts! That means, "Welcome!"'

  A very nice welcome indeed. I lift up the succulent fruit with its heady aroma and brush its downy skin against my cheek. Can it be true that I've discovered a friendly, welcoming neighbour so soon? This definitely isn't London.

  'You like to run? I am runner too. We go together. I am Rafael.'

  I'm winded and still contemplating the purchase of a respirator for the rest of my training, so this invitation hits me like a tram.

  'Thanks, but I'm really not very good. I need lots of practice. I don't think you and I…'

  'Poc a poc,' he says, slamming a muscular arm on my back. That's the other lethal Mallorcan expression, like 'No problema', that I'm getting to dread. Little by little. What that really, really means is that you haven't got a hope in hell of achieving whatever it is you're aiming for. In fact, you'll probably go quietly mad first. In between gasps for breath, I tell him my name and attempt an introduction.

  'So we're living here, but I'm commuting to England each month.'

  He chews on this nugget thoughtfully. 'You like to travel, me too. This is good, but why you move in hottest month? You crazy English!'


  'Well, our son has to start his new school in September or there won't be a place. We had to move here now.'

  He looks confused. 'Home! He can go to my son's school! There are many schools. Is not so important.'

  Home literally means 'man' in Mallorcan, and is used, I quickly discover, as a general exclamation.

  I take a sharp intake of breath. 'Oh well, it's a British school, you know. Not many places.'

  'What? You going to drive to Palma every day? Estas boja?!'

  I agree wholeheartedly with him. Yes, madness is a family trait.

  'So now we are friends,' he says brightly.

  I sincerely hope so. Besides, he is incredibly cheerful and welcoming, a tad manic and also, I discover, owns the main pastisseria, the cake shop, in the town. An irresistible combination of factors.