by Julie Caplin
As I waited by the check-in desk, I looked at all the paperwork for the fifth time. Passport. Contact numbers. Laptop. Luggage. My hands were shaking. Ridiculous. Yesterday’s last minute pep talk from Megan had put the fear of God into me.
‘Are you sure you’ll be able to cope with six of them?’ she’d asked me. ‘Press trips are hard work.’
‘I know,’ I’d replied, thinking how hard could it be? What could go wrong? We had an itinerary. A guide.
‘People think it’s a cushy little junket, but journalists have a habit of wandering off piste and doing their own bloody thing. You need to make sure they toe the line. No ducking out of this trip or that visit. You lose one, you lose them all.’
‘OK,’ I’d nodded again, trying to look serious and attentive.
‘There’s a lot resting on this.’
I’d got that with bells on.
‘And don’t let them take the piss with expenses. There’s a budget for this trip.’ She’d paused and given me a searching look.
‘I’m just wondering if you ought to have some back up.’
‘Back up?’ I’d echoed. It was a press trip not a flipping drugs raid.
‘I’m wondering if we ought to send Josh Delaney with you.’
Firmly I’d reiterated how confident and sure I felt about the trip. Megan had no idea that this was the big time compared to my previous travelling experiences; a couple of trips to Ayia Napa with Connie and school friends and a long weekend in Barcelona, which had been mainly about sun, sea, shopping and sangria.
It would all be fine though; there would be someone meeting us at the airport, although he had the less than confidence instilling name of Mads.
That was yesterday, now this morning the cold reality of being responsible for six adults, some of whom were older than me, more sophisticated and a lot more travel savvy, had sucked all the confidence out of me like a dementor. What if someone lost their passport? Got ill on the trip? Didn’t like the hotel? The more I worried, the more things I thought of to worry about.
Across the terminal building I watched a girl wearing a rather fascinating long hairy coat, which made me think of an orangutan. She shifted her huge duffel style bag from one shoulder to another before standing, rubbing the back of one very long leg with the foot of the other. The awkward gawky motion reminded me of a stork wondering whether to take flight or not.
Was she Fiona or a one man zoo? I squinted at her again. The copies of everyone’s passports made them look like a bunch of convicts and bandits. When I tried to catch her eye, she was busy with her phone, so I decided she wasn’t my blogger at all. I took another look at the photocopies and when I glanced up, a bit like the weeping angels in Doctor Who, the girl had moved closer.
I looked at my watch even though no more than three minutes could have possibly elapsed since the last time I checked it.
The girl had moved a touch nearer.
‘Kate, my darling. What on earth do you call this godawful time?’ I turned to see sixty year old Conrad Fletcher, from Interiors of the World magazine. What he didn’t know about interior design and who was who in the industry wasn’t worth knowing.
‘Morning Conrad, how are you?’
‘Knackered. It’s a good job I like you otherwise I’d have turned my alarm off and gone back to sleep. And then the taxi driver was a surly sod. Oh, here’s the receipt by the way. You can give me cash, saves on all the bother of both of us having to do paperwork.’ Conrad patted the cab receipt into my hand. ‘And a coffee wouldn’t go amiss, I’m parched.’
‘We’ll go for a coffee as soon as I’ve got everyone rounded up.’ The girl now lurking to our left just in front of the check-in desk bobbed up and down on her toes like a small girl trying to get attention from a teacher without being too obtrusive. I suspected she might be my lifestyle blogger, Fiona Hanning.
‘Hi, are you Fiona?’
She blushed scarlet and nodded with very quick short sharp jerks before making eye contact as warily as a deer stepping from the edge of a forest glade.
‘Hi, I’m Kate. Nice to meet you.’ I held out my hand. Her hand shot out from the sleeve of the hairy monkey coat, grabbed mine, squeezed and then retracted before I could even blink.
‘This is Conrad Fletcher, he’s an interiors writer. Conrad, Fiona Hanning, she writes the blog Hanning’s Half Hour.’
Mild panic stretched across Fiona’s face as I introduced them but thankfully Conrad didn’t have a shy bone in his body.
‘I love your blog darling. Such a clever idea.’ You never knew with Conrad whether he was bluffing, he liked to make out he knew everything and everyone, and although I’d never caught him out, I did occasionally wonder if it was all a front. To my surprise, he started talking about a recent article on the blog about upholstery of all things and then making suggestions for a follow up piece, with names and contacts she might try.
Fiona didn’t say much and seemed much better able to cope with this type of human interaction, being talked at rather than required to join in.
‘Conrad, well if you’re here, I must be in the right place.’ Avril Baines-Hamilton, a regular This Morning presenter, had arrived wearing a huge fur hat, outsize sunglasses and a full length down coat, belted in the middle. Making her grand entrance, she drew to a halt and dropped the handles of two pull along cases, a Gucci carry on case, which I recognised as the Bengal tiger edition, much featured in magazines, a snip at eighteen hundred pounds, and a second much larger bog standard Gucci case.
‘Hi Avril, we’ve met before. I’m Kate.’ She made no sign of recognition and she didn’t take her sunglasses off which I always think is rather impolite.
‘Have we?’ I couldn’t see the expression on her face for obvious reasons but her slightly indifferent bored tone bugged me. We were going to be spending the next five days together and a small fortune was about to be spent showing her the finest that Copenhagen had to offer. She could at least summon up a bit of enthusiasm.
Refusing to let my irritation show, I plastered a PR cum air hostess smile on my face. ‘Yes, several times but I suspect you meet lots of people. It’s hard to keep track. Now, I know it’s obvious but can I check you’ve all got your passports with you?’
Fiona immediately started patting her pocket and pulled out her passport straight away.
Conrad rolled his eyes good naturedly and dipped his hand inside his slightly shabby camel cashmere coat. He started to frown in consternation.
‘Don’t even think about it, Conrad,’ I said. ‘I know you and it would not be funny.’
‘You’re no fun.’ He grinned, devilment dancing in his eyes.
‘Not on this trip, no,’ I said in a suitably schoolmarm tone, hoping that he’d be sympathetic to me. When I’d invited Conrad, it had been a bit of a surprise that he’d not already been booked. Now when it was too late, I remembered that if he chose, he could be a liability. He was known for being a little bit rebellious and taking the mick with his expense account. I needed to be firm with him because if he decided to lead the other journalists astray, I’d be sunk. Avril would follow his lead without a doubt. Fiona, I couldn’t predict.
‘Morning,’ a quiet voice said in my ear. I whirled round to find David Ruddings who freelanced for the Evening Standard standing behind me, his usual gentle smile on his face.
‘Hello David, how are you?’
‘Excited.’ His face wreathed into a smile. Shame he was gay, he would have been perfect for Sophie, they both had that sunshine approach to life, although where she was bubbly and bright, he was quiet and beaming.
With an internal sigh, I calmed. Sophie and David would be a good influence and I could count on both to be on my side. Of course, the completely unknown quantity was Benedict Johnson, who probably would lead the charge if Conrad decided to be mischievous. And where the hell was he? I looked at my watch.
Five minutes to go before the official meeting time.
‘Good morning,’ Sophie’
s voice trilled and there she was exuding brightness and cheer, like a blackbird fresh from the dawn chorus. I knew Sophie through Connie and as we’d met a few times it was rather nice to see a friendly face.
I introduced her to the rest of the group, letting them chat among themselves. There was plenty of time before the flight but I was conscious that everyone would probably expect a coffee. I for one could murder one.
‘Everything alright, Kate?’ Sophie’s low voice interrupted my thoughts.
‘Yes, fine. One more to come.’ I looked around the airport hoping that Benedict Johnson might materialise at any second. Surely he wouldn’t stand me up. That would just be rude, although I wouldn’t put it past him to deliberately miss the flight. Rude was his default.
‘Well he’d better get a move on, I’m dying for a coffee,’ muttered Avril.
‘Another five minutes. I’m sure he’ll be here soon.’
‘I want to go to duty free. So we have to have coffee after security.’
Five minutes ticked by slowly and I forced myself to make light chit-chat and look completely unconcerned. Should I let them go through passport control and get settled or should I wait here for Benedict? The queue for check-in was starting to build up.
‘Kate, look I desperately need to get some essentials in duty free. I can’t hang around here any longer. It really isn’t on.’
‘And I’m in dire need of coffee, darling. Actually, breakfast wouldn’t come amiss.’
See – exactly as I predicted, Avril and Conrad had teamed up already, the high maintenance twins. They looked at me expectantly.
From behind them, Sophie flashed a sympathetic smile.
I was reluctant to let everyone out of my sight. This was worse than being a teacher on a school trip. Connie had told me enough horror stories. If I let them all disperse I might not round them up again.
Avril sighed heavily and pouted. Even behind the celebrity hat and sunglasses combo, I could tell she was sliding into petulance.
‘Tell you what,’ I said making a quick decision. ‘Let’s get our bags checked in and join the queue. Hopefully by the time we get to the front, he’ll have arrived.’
Everyone grabbed their bags and as we moved to join the queue, a helpful young man opened up a new check-in desk and summoned us over.
One by one everyone checked in their bags, as I scanned the area. Where the hell was he?
Now all the bags had gone and everyone looked at me waiting for me to decide what to do next. With a sigh, I knew I had to make a decision. Letting them go through passport control without me felt like an irresponsible mother hen waving goodbye to her babies, but there’d be severe dissension in the ranks if I didn’t.
‘You all go through passport control. And I’ll meet you …’ at the gate felt too late.
‘There’s a Café Nero there,’ offered Sophie.
‘I’ll meet you at Café Nero.’
‘Thank God for that,’ said Avril. ‘And you’d better give us our boarding passes. We’ll need them for duty free and if you don’t turn up.’
‘I’m sure Benedict will be here very soon,’ I said, wishing I could be sure of that.
I sifted through the printed boarding passes and handed them out to everyone.
Avril grabbed the handles of her bags and wheeled around like a racehorse under starters orders. ‘If I don’t get my Clarins stuff, this trip will have been a complete waste of time.’
Conrad looked at me and made no move. I suddenly realised that I was expected to pay for breakfast. Of course, I was. I looked around at the party realising that was what everyone was waiting for and Sophie caught my eye and nodded almost imperceptibly. The perfect ally. I pulled out my purse which bulged with English cash and Danish Kroner.
‘Sophie, would you mind doing the honours for me?’ I pushed a couple of notes into her hands. ‘Can you pay for the coffees and give me the receipt?’
‘No problem.’ She winked and took the money. ‘Come on then troops.’ She turned and led the way falling into step with Fiona and David while Conrad and Avril followed up the rear. As they walked away down the airport concourse, I felt a sense of premonition; I had a horrible feeling that was how the group split was going to be for the whole trip.
I looked at my watch again. At least my case had gone on the plane, they wouldn’t leave without me. Not to start with anyway. There was another fifteen minutes before the check-in desk closed. Should I call Benedict?
As part of my preparation, I’d asked for everyone’s mobile number and being super-efficient, I’d pre-programmed everyone’s numbers into my contacts the other evening.
I paced up and down in a small circle around the check-in desk. When I called Benedict’s number, my heart sank as I listened to, ‘This mobile is currently switched off.’ Did that mean he was on the tube, on his way? Still asleep with his phone switched off for the night?
Impatiently I called again in case he’d been in a bad signal area, or he’d just got off the tube and was on his way up, as I kept an eye out for a vaguely quiff haired bandit, which was all I could glean from Benedict’s fuzzy photocopy of his passport picture. Every time I looked up at the overhead digital clock another two minutes had elapsed. It was like some horrible magical trick where time sped up in direct proportion to my increasing stress level.
I looked at the check-in desk. Still seven minutes to go. Only three people left in the queue. One desk had already closed up. I looked at my mobile. No messages. Fifty-three minutes until the flight left. I looked down the concourse. Was he coming? The familiar burning sensation low in my stomach made me stop pacing. I took a deep breath. I needed a coffee and something to eat.
At what point did I give up? Once the check-in desks closed? What would I do if he turned up after then? Book another flight? My stomach knotted itself tighter.
Two minutes and counting. I looked at my phone. Still no word. This was ridiculous. I should be with the rest of the group; they were my responsibility. Benedict Johnson was now over three quarters of an hour late. I’d more than given him the benefit of the doubt.
With one last look at the check-in desk, catching the eye of the supervisor there, who looked suitably pitying at my dejected appearance, I turned to walk down towards passport control.
Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted something like a tornado in the distance, a man running pell mell down the concourse, dragging a case.
The man behind the desk had stood up.
‘Wait,’ I called rushing over to him. ‘I think my colleague’s here.’
The man pursed his lips.
‘Here you can start with this, can’t you?’ I pushed over the paperwork and the copy of Benedict’s passport.
The man in a leather jacket and jeans came flying to the front of the queue and slammed up against the desk, passport in hand.
‘Benedict Johnson, I presume,’ I snarled less than charitably given the poor chap was bent double trying to catch his breath, almost prostrate at my feet, and hiding the fact I was bloody relieved to see him.
His passport picture didn’t do him justice, not that I could see much but the back of his head. His dull fuzzy passport picture suggested stoned serial killer, not this man whirling in, leather jacket flying and zinging with energy.
‘I’ve just … made it … from … the tube in ninety … seven seconds,’ he puffed as the man on the desk tried to peer sideways to look at his face.
I had an impression of thick hair, well cut and an unusual shade … oh shit … of dark auburn hair.
I had a moment of flight or fight panic as he slowly straightened. At least I had the tiniest advantage of realising before he did as I schooled my face into polite indifference, while inside my heart banged with all the merry inappropriate joy of a big bass drum.
‘Cinders!’ he said, ‘What are you doing here?’ He hauled his case onto the conveyor belt as the man snapped on a label and handed back his passport. ‘Benedict Johnson. Ben.’
&nbs
p; My eyes met his and for a second we stared at each other until his sharpened with sudden quizzical intelligence.
‘Oh shit, you’re her. PR woman.’ His groaned words were all I needed to calm the silliness inside.
‘Oh shit, yes I am.’ Suddenly it was much easier to remember Mad Fox and not the brief connection at the awards do. Clearly, I had drunk far too much champagne that night. ‘And you’re late. We need to go now.’ I turned, hauling my laptop bag onto my shoulder.
His face tightened. ‘Bossy much? You should be grateful I’m here at all because quite frankly there are other places I’d rather be right now.’
‘You’re doing that barking mad fox thing again.’ Now I’d seen the colour of his hair, I was delighted with the original quip.
‘I reserve it especially for bossy manipulative PRs.’
I pushed my tongue against my cheek and sighed. ‘The flight’s in fifty minutes. We need to get through security and meet up with the other five people who got here on time.’
This was his moment for effusive apology and excuses. Instead he shrugged and picked up his canvas satchel and slung it over his shoulder. ‘Come on then.’ We marched along keeping a good couple of metres between us like an invisible wall of enmity, although I had a hard time keeping up with his long-legged lope which I was fairly sure was deliberate on his part. Inside I was absolutely gutted. My fairytale moment with the most delicious Prince Charming had been well and truly stomped on. How could he and Benedict Johnson possibly be the same person?
Chapter 8
By the time we fought our way through passport control and made our way to Café Nero, our flight had been called and it was time to go straight to the gate. At our arrival everyone started gathering their bags. I quickly introduced Benedict. I couldn’t bring myself to call him Ben.
‘Hi everyone, sorry I’m late. Slight domestic emergency.’
