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
