A Lizard In My Luggage (26 page)

The plane is waltzing about the skies like a possessed ballroom dancer while the cabin crew lurch up and down the aisle, instructing all of us naughty passengers to stay strapped in our seats. We are encountering a little turbulence they say. A little. And the rest. Sitting next to me calmly reading a newspaper and attempting to sip from a gyrating glass of beer is my companion, Jason Moore, editor of the
Majorca Daily Bulletin.
He is tall and lean and a bit of a hustler with a wry countenance and a breezy, laid-back demeanour. Despite his youth, he's more in the mould of an old Fleet Street hack, being sharp witted and pithy, with a nose for a story and a fag invariably glued to his lips. As fate would decree we have ended up on the same flight to London. I am back for meetings and a pre-Christmas shopping spree while he is attending a Spanish tourism conference. He gives me a cursory glance as I sit, white-knuckled, gripping the armrests of my seat.

  'Not a nervous flier, are you?'

  'Just a bit.'

  Jason chews on this nugget thoughtfully and slides me a grin. 'You don't look the type.'

  How should I look, I wonder: hair standing on end, limbs shaking uncontrollably, mouth open in an expression of abject terror, tears coursing down my cheeks? On the other side of me a middle-aged woman sits clutching a handkerchief, peering into the sullen sky as lightning whips about the wings.

  'Do you think we'll be alright?' she asks me anxiously as thunder growls beyond the window pane. I suppress an urge to shriek, 'NO!' and instead, try calmly to reassure her. Jason observes us both and puts his paper away.

  'Come on, have a drink, you'll both be fine. Planes nowadays can withstand pretty much anything.' He pauses. 'So, have either of you used a parachute before?'

  The woman winces and titters nervously while I knock back the remainder of a lukewarm vodka and tonic. It splashes down my chin as the plane leaps like a bucking bronco in the air. I steady myself on the pull down table.

  'Can't take you anywhere,' quips Jason. 'Well, there's no sign of Victoria Duvall, our esteemed film director, on the plane.'

  'I think she avoids flying over weekends. Spike got on earlier though.'

  'Who?'

  'He's a travel courier, one of Victoria's commuter chums. He was the guy I was talking to as we were boarding.'

  Jason raises a cynical brow. 'That trendy chap spouting to you about some dodgy self-help book?'

  'Yes, he's a bit of a hippy. He told me that book,
The Power of Now
, is all the rage in London.'

  'Whatever next?' he sniffs with distaste. 'I can't understand why people need these emotional props.'

  We bounce about as the plane struggles to rise above the turbulence. A plastic cup skips down the aisle in wild abandonment. I sure could do with a prop or soothing self-help book now. I grip Jason's arm in alarm.

  He yawns in ennui. 'Come on, it's only a lick of lightning. We'll be making our descent soon.'

  I look at my watch. Another 40 minutes of hell.

  Jason turns in his seat. 'So, what are you up to this trip?'

  I find his relaxed chatter an unwelcome intrusion in my moment of terror. Limply, I take him through some of my forthcoming meetings. He listens enthusiastically, questioning me on every detail. We talk for some time until there's a roar and the plane makes a sharp descent. The time seems to have whizzed by. The aircrew are strapped in and the lights are dimmed. A few minutes later we come to a stop at Gatwick airport. I practically kiss the tarmac.

  'There,' beams Jason, punching me on the arm. 'All you needed was a little distraction.'

I shower, get dressed and leave the flat, triple-locking the front door after me. Upstairs the hallway is silent with the musty aroma of old books. Not even Lord Jim Jam is prowling about the place. The mail is neatly stacked on a broad ledge. I flick gingerly through the pile and find three sales circulars addressed to Alan. Junk mail. No one writes to us here anymore because it's no longer our home. I think of my conversation with Pep. Maybe he's right. Why not close the business, get rid of the flat and set up a new enterprise in Mallorca? What have we got to lose?

  Shutting the main door behind me, I stroll up the road and into Victoria Station. A Starbucks faces platform one so I buy an Earl Grey tea and sit in a corner sifting through the daily newspapers, undisturbed. Customers pop in and out ordering their coffee and eyeing the muffins and cakes with longing, like children in a tuck shop. Several yield to their impulses, shyly indicating the caramel square or chocolate brownie of their choice, and then quickly secreting it inside briefcases or handbags. A small, candied morsel to disguise the bitter pill of the working day. I'm due to meet Michael Roselock in an hour, so I drain my cup and leave, weaving my way through the great tidal wave of commuters spilling out of trains and on to the concourse. They march together side by side; a band of wordless foot soldiers, impassive and resolute in their winter garb. At the front of the station I hop on to a bus and head for Mayfair and to Roselock Fine Jewellery.

Piccadilly's teeming with traffic as I cross the road and stagger into Waterstone's bookshop with all my shopping bags. Book buying is becoming a serious addiction. I've already plundered Hatchards for new titles and had a quick coffee with Roger Katz before he had to get back to the store. Now I'm on the hunt for books for Ollie and so can't resist the huge children's department in Waterstone's, which is looking particularly festive. After this I will trundle from Knightsbridge to Regent Street in my quest for Christmas crackers, cranberry sauce, stilton and chocolate truffles to make our Mallorcan Christmas a reasonably British affair. There's still more shopping to be done, not least finding Christmas gifts for Margalida and Teresa and all our other Mallorcan friends. I scan my watch. Another few hours and then I shall be meeting Ed. I must get going.

'I love this place,' opines Ed, chewing on a piece of roast lamb.

  'Why?' I ask crisply.

  'Well, for one, the portions are enormous, and two, they don't treat me like an alien. That's because it's American owned.'

  'Don't be ridiculous.' I toy with a piece of lettuce on my plate.

  'It's true, Scatters. Most English restaurants don't understand about the MEK. Here they accept that it's my hot date.' Furtively he pats the heavy bag on the seat next to him.

  I roll my eyes. 'There's nothing wrong with being a little eccentric.'

  He fidgets with his serviette. 'Well according to Cotton-Georgia there is. We've split up for good.'

  I can't disguise my relief. The thought of Ed engaging in a serious Internet romance with the daughter of an American snake handling lay preacher, was giving me palpitations. 'Oh well, there are plenty more pebbles on the beach.'

  'That's hardly a comfort,' he sulks, popping a chunk of roast potato in his mouth.

  'More ships on the sea, tea leaves in the pot, fish in the pond…'

  'Oh be quiet!' He gives a snort of laughter then pulls a blue cordial from the MEK.

  'What the hell's that?'

  'My doctor prescribed it. It's to help me with digesting food.'

  I'd like to meet his doctor once and for all, preferably to give her a taste of her own medicine. He takes a few glugs and then replaces the lid.

  'Has it worked its magic yet?'

  He casts me a wounded look and turns his head away. A waiter approaches the table and seems delighted to see Ed.

  'Sir, how lovely to see you again? How's the food?'

  'Marvellous,' replies Ed, nodding happily at the man. 'As always.'

  He gives a gracious little bow and saunters off.

  'See how nice they are to me in here?'

  'Maybe they're all Samaritans in their spare time,' I tease.

  'Probably,' he demurs.

  'So, when are you coming out to Mallorca?'

  'I might pluck up the courage to visit around June.'

  'Great!' I say encouragingly.

  He ponders for a moment. 'But what if the planes are full?'

  'There are loads of flights.'

  'But I won't go on one of those no frills airlines. It has to be Bmi or British Airways where they have kind, motherly staff.'

  'Oh please..!'

  'And then there's the stifling heat to contend with at that time of the year.'

  'It's perfect in June.'

  'Well, I suppose…'

  Another waiter buzzes by our table and refills my glass of wine. He moves towards Ed's glass.

  'No!' shrieks Ed as if he's being offered strychnine. He jerks the glass away from him. Politely, the man steps back and rests the half bottle back in its holder.

  'Worried I'll get you drunk?' I snigger.

  'You know I can only cope with one glass. Don't be provocative.'

  My handbag begins vibrating and sure enough my little Judas of a mobile is trilling away. No peace for the wicked. It's Rachel.

  'Hi! George has just rung me to say he's brought the meeting forward by an hour tomorrow. He says it will be of a lizardy nature, whatever that means.'

  I groan. 'I thought he'd got lizards out of his system?'

  'Apparently not. See you at ten then.'

  When I've put the phone down I tell Ed about Greedy George's fragrant lounge lizards. He sits in wonder and shakes his head. 'Well, Scatters, I'm relieved to know I'm not the only nutter around.'

Rachel and I are sitting at the enormous glass table in George's office. A pile of warm mince pies lie sprawled in front of us on an oval plate while Richard, the shop manager, fusses with serviettes and coffee cups.

  'Push off, Ricardo! God, you're an old woman,' shouts Greedy George, spraying a mouthful of crumbs across the table.

  Richard raises an eyebrow, gives a little flounce and leaves the room. Despite the festive atmosphere, I am fretting about the box of leather lizards, each adorned with a miniature Santa hat, that George has thumped down on a chair at my side.

  'Santa Lizards,' bawls George, 'infused with frankincense and myrrh.'

  'I thought we'd put Christmas to bed some months ago?' I ask pointedly.

  'Yeh, well, it's a little surprise product for the festive season.' He averts his gaze and chomps on his mince pie.

  Rachel and I await an explanation.

  'All right, the truth is our berk of a production manager over-ordered the Lounge Lizards. Sort of added a few noughts on the order so I'm having to improvise to shift them.'

  'Are they in the shops yet?' says Rachel warily.

  'Yep, and walking out of the door. I've told the staff to say they're a limited edition. Always a good ruse.'

  'How much do they cost?' I quiz.

  'A hundred quid.'

  It stuns me that people in London are willing to part with such a wad of cash for a lizard gizmo. I can't wait to tell Catalina when I get back. She'll be outraged.

  Greedy George takes a gulp of coffee and smacks his lips.

  'So guv, what's Santa bringing you this Christmas?'

  'I was rather hoping it would be a surprise.'

  He breaks into a cheeky boy grin. 'Nah. Gotta spell out what you want or you'll get something naff. Last year the wife bought me some horrible sports watch with a million and one dials so I made her take it back and get a refund.'

  I look at him reproachfully. 'That's terrible. Bianca must have felt really wounded.'

  'Bianca hasn't felt anything for years. Anyway, what do I want with a diving watch worth three grand? Can you see me in a wetsuit?'

  Rachel keeps her head lowered.

  'God, I hate bloody Christmas. I've got the monster-in-law coming this year. Let's just hope she slips on the staircase. A bit of polish and whoosh!'

  'George!'

  He gives me an unrepentant grin and crosses the room.

  'Well, guv, suppose this year you'll be carving the turkey on the beach and then doing your Mother Theresa bit distributing food to the poor in the hills?'

  'Just my stray dogs and cats.'

  'I worry about you over there. All this marathon fundraising crap and animal welfare. Hope you're not going soft on me.'

  I don't rise to the bait. Inanely he grabs a Santa lizard and yanking its front legs back so they are hidden by his hands, waggles it under my nose, crying, 'Arms for the poor, arms for the poor!'

  Rachel tuts, shakes her head and sighs while I observe him coolly from my chair. Satisfied with our respective reactions, he rants on.

  'Anyway when's the London Marathon?'

  'April. I'm going to have a party afterwards so I expect you to be there.'

  'Wouldn't miss seeing you in pain for all the world,' he chortles merrily. 'So, did you see our Michael yesterday? He said you were popping by.'

  Michael Roselock and I had indeed met to discuss the idea that I had proposed to him a few months back. With his business folding around his ears, I had made the simple suggestion that he and George collaborate on a leather jewellery range incorporating both their skills. Although unlikely bed fellows, the two of them struck up a rapport and are now working assiduously on Havana Leather's first ever jewellery range.

  'Yes I did. Seems to have a new spring in his step. He says you've passed him a lot of business since you met.' I study his face carefully.