2
Delhi airport was teeming with people. Lou’s suitcase felt heavy and unwieldy as she concentrated on tipping it to one side so that it could roll along on the one wheel that hadn’t jammed. She hated airports, hated flying and was trying to drift into the zone necessary for any air travel to be … not pleasurable, never that, but endurable. She was looking for that Zen-like calm where anything problematic would just slip by her. Key to that condition was maintaining a cool indifference towards everything going on around her. Otherwise, she would be reduced to a gibbering state of impatience, then fear.
She and Ali stood together in the queue that snaked away from the check-in desk. They didn’t talk, just observed the hordes: families with children refusing to stay in line; trolleys laden with belongings heading with their owners towards a new start in another country; couples entwined after the romantic holiday of a lifetime; others barely speaking.
Eventually, they reached the front. She hefted her case onto the scales, catching her breath as she felt an ominous twinge in the small of her back, and watched the number of kilograms clocking up. Please God, let the airline official turn a blind eye.
‘It’s four kilos overweight,’ he announced, barely looking up.
Fuck. She should never have put in the fabric she’d bought in Udaipur. Instead, she should have had them shipped home like the rest of the fabric and the two bedspreads she hadn’t been able to resist in Jodhpur. ‘But you’ll let it go?’ she wheedled.
The official was unmoved. ‘You’ll have to pay the surcharge, I’m afraid. The desk’s over there.’ He could have been pointing anywhere. ‘Or you’ll have to remove some of the contents.’
And do what with them? Leave them on the terminal floor?
She could feel herself dithering, flustered, incapable of making a sensible decision. To pay a fortune for a few lengths of Indian silk, or not to pay? That was the question. Fortunately, Ali answered it. ‘For God’s sake, you mustn’t pay on principle. You don’t have to pay more for your seat because you’re heavier than me.’
‘Thanks for that,’ Lou muttered.
‘No, seriously, the same should apply to luggage. There’s some room in my case. Let’s just transfer a few things and I’ll give them back when we land.’
Relieved to have her dilemma so easily resolved, Lou agreed and yanked her case off the weighing machine. As she slid it back towards the queue, the implications of this perhaps rash decision struck her. She was about to reveal her totally shoddy packing techniques to the entire airport. But too late now. Someone else had taken her place at the desk and Ali was already unzipping her case. She flipped the lid back to reveal her perfectly folded capsule wardrobe taking up two-thirds of the available space.
Reluctantly, remembering the haphazard approach she had taken to her own packing, Lou began to pull at the zip of her suitcase, eyeing the straining seams. It had only consented to fasten when she’d sat on the case and shifted her weight about on top so the zip could inch round. The only way forward was to repeat the process. She sat down heavily, then, holding onto the zip, her knuckles white with the effort of not letting go, she began to pull. Slowly at first, it then gave with a little rush before slowing again. With Ali holding the two open sides as close together as possible, the last corner was turned and eventually, to the amusement of everyone alleviating the boredom of their wait by watching her, the final side was coerced into unzipping.
Self-conscious, Lou clambered off the case, half falling as she did. Steadying herself with her hand on Ali’s butt, she was aware that most of the queue could almost certainly see all the way down her cleavage as she bent forward. Mortified, she straightened up as fast as she could, adjusting her top at the same time.
Released from her weight, the case sprang open at the very moment that someone’s uncontrolled child cannoned into it. The contents jack-in-the-boxed into the air. Her Zen-like calm still nowhere in the vicinity, Lou could only think of one thing as she watched her most intimate garments hit the terminal floor. Why had she packed the Indian silks at the bottom of the case, leaving all her more personal bits and pieces on top? Galvanised into action, she reached for the bra that was spread-eagled on the floor in front of the crowd and folded it in half, tucking the straps inside. She’d never thought of her breasts as especially large until this moment when the D-cups assumed an embarrassing enormity. Neither had she noticed how much the once pretty pink lace had faded and discoloured to a dusty greyish colour. If only she’d invested in the sexy new underwear she’d thought might help mark the start of her single life.
Just then a young boy made a dash for it, her other bra capping his head, the straps dangling over his ears. She watched in disbelieving horror as his mother yelled after him to stop, then gave chase across the terminal.
Ali was no help. She was bent double laughing. At least everyone else had the grace to pretend not to be.
As Lou shoved one bra down the side of Ali’s case, the second was handed to her by the smirking child whose apologetic parent had a firm grip of his arm. She stuffed that one down the other side, her face burning with embarrassment. Still no one moved to help her. On her hands and knees, she reached out to grab the pairs of pants that littered the floor. Once they were stowed, she turned her attention to the contents of her washbag that had rolled towards the check-in.
As she snatched up the tweezers (the laser treatment to her chin was something else that had been too low on her priority list) and the bumper pack of ibuprofen, she became aware of a pair of unfamiliar male hands retrieving the pair of Bridget Jones knickers that she’d missed – the big cream M&S ones that only she knew she possessed. Until now. She’d brought them because they were perfect for the woman who only took her kit off when she was alone and who wanted to disguise her VPL without resorting to the bum-splitting discomfort of a thong. She certainly hadn’t envisaged sharing them with anyone else. They had landed on his very shiny dark brown left brogue. She watched aghast as the hands folded them once, then twice, before holding out the neat parcel to her. She wasn’t sure she could endure another moment of this.
Who would fold another person’s knickers? Mortified, she glanced up to lock eyes with a smart, suited Indian man of a certain age who was squatting beside her. He smiled a sympathetic smile. She had watched the DVD of Slumdog Millionaire for the nth time before she left, and the only thought that crossed her mind was that he was a dead ringer for the quiz-show host played by Anil Kapoor. It couldn’t be. Could it? Of course not. She took the knickers from his hand as briskly as she could without snatching.
‘Thank you,’ she mumbled, wishing the floor would rip apart to swallow her and her bloody case.
He nodded, straightened up and looked away. But Lou hadn’t missed the glint of amusement in his eye.
Meanwhile, Ali had recovered herself and had squatted down beside her to help Lou retrieve the last few clothes and shove them into her own case. ‘Let’s get this sorted. Quick. A gin and tonic is definitely called for.’
‘A large one!’ Lou agreed.
An hour and a half later, they had reached the departure gate, the alcohol having aided the recovery of Lou’s sense of humour. They were still laughing about what had happened as they walked down the tunnel onto the plane. Dodging elbows as hand luggage was stowed above heads and sidling past passengers preparing to sit down, they made their way through the nirvana of business class to the unholy limbo at the back of the plane. Lou was leading the way, checking the numbers of the seats, when she stopped dead. Ali bumped into her. ‘Easy!’ she said, taking a step back. ‘What’re you doing?’
‘It’s him!’ said Lou, feeling her inner temperature soar, the perspiration prickle. She gestured down the aisle to where, in the outside seat of three, sat her knicker-rescuer immersed in a magazine. ‘Those are our seats! You’ll have to sit in the middle. I can’t small-talk with someone who’s on such intimate terms with my underwear.’
‘Sounds like a perfect match to me,’ said Ali.
For once, Lou