I said slowly trying to place the angry voice. ‘Do I know you?’
‘Unfortunately, you’re about to. Benedict Johnson, lap dog,’ he spat.
Ah, the angry journalist. Why the hell was he ringing me? I had no idea but given his initial rudeness yesterday the opportunity to mess with him was too good to miss.
‘How the mighty are fallen, the other day you were Mad Fox,’ I observed, picking up a pen and doodling on my lined pad.
‘Then, I wasn’t dancing to your tune.’
‘Clues would be good at this point.’
‘Playing innocent, are we?’
‘It would be difficult to play otherwise because I have absolutely no idea why you’re calling me.’
‘Didn’t you hear the good news?’ Sarcasm curdled the words.
‘Hans Solo didn’t die in The Force Awakens? Douglas Adams got it wrong and the meaning of life is forty-three? Take That are back up to five members?’
‘I’m too bloody furious with you to even find you funny.’
‘Sharing’s good. Psychologists recommend it.’
‘Copenhagen. Press trip.’ He bit the words out with enunciated precision.
‘Journalist. Said no.’
‘Journalist forced to say yes.’
‘I’m all out of arm twists, so I’m not sure how you figure that. I’ve not forced anyone.’
‘Not directly. I don’t like sneaky, underhand people. You should watch out who you make deals with in future.’
‘I’ve got five perfectly reasonable people who have agreed to come to Copenhagen and are delighted. I’m not sure I want you along anyway.’
‘Too bad. Because now thanks to your conniving you’re stuck with me.’
‘Do you always talk in riddles?’ We were getting nowhere with this conversation and while I was enjoying it on one level, I had other things to do. ‘Seriously. You carry on but I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about. I’ve asked another journalist to go on the trip.’ They’d turned it down too but he didn’t need to know that.
‘The Advertising Manager said that you’d suggested it would make a great feature and that he could sell a lot of advertising off the back of it. He went to his boss, who went to my boss and suddenly … it’s a very good idea if I go on a junket to Copenhagen.’
‘Sorry still no idea what you’re talking about. I haven’t suggested any such thing. You’ve got the wrong person,’ I said confidently.
‘Not according to Andrew Dawkins.’
‘Andr…’ my voice trailed away guiltily.
‘All coming back to you, now is it?’
‘I … er I, didn’t say that to him. I don’t …’ I sputtered as I desperately racked my brains as to what I’d said to him two nights previously.
‘No, of course not. Because he couldn’t possibly know that I’d been invited on a trip unless he’d spoken to you.’
‘Look, I’m sorry–’
‘Too bloody late now. You’d better send the itinerary over. I’ll see you in Copenhagen.’ With that he slammed the phone down before I’d had a chance to tell him that I certainly hadn’t put Andrew up to it, or that we were meeting at Heathrow.
Through bleary eyes, I clocked that Heathrow, even at the insane time of five o’clock in the morning, was surprisingly busy. Cleaners trailing huge carts with mops sticking out at odd angles roved the open expanse of the terminal, while half-asleep shop assistants battled with metal grilles opening up with weary determination, oblivious to travellers around them pulling the ubiquitous black luggage along.
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,