A Lizard In My Luggage Read online

  This surely is the first time I have ever stood this still for so long in years. The last occasion must have been about aged six during the silent spell of a pass the parcel game. I'm not good at being slow. My sister always says I was born with the engine of a Porsche crammed into the body of a Mini. It's true, I don't like hanging around, and I'm beginning to wonder what on earth I've done making this move to Mallorca. If I were in London now my ear would be superglued to an office phone, hands meanwhile tapping away on the computer keys, while I'd be mouthing instructions to someone in the office. There would be noise and manic activity, couriers arriving and taxi drivers barking down the intercom. A paper cup of cold Starbucks coffee would be perched on my desk, a blueberry muffin, hardly touched and stale, peeping out of a paper bag, ready for instant disposal in the bin. I worked it out one day, just for the hell of it. How much did I really spend at Starbucks? Way too much. Let's just leave it at that.

  Five years back when Alan and I first came to Mallorca, it was like a game. We were on holiday in a rented property supposedly to relax, but within two days I was on the mobile to London making umpteen corrections to a client document, while he lay serenely by the pool with a glass of cold cava, immersed in The Garden magazine. Once the Scotsman has this horticultural fix in his grasp, he is immune to everything around him. As I stalked around the garden like a demented stork trilling into my mobile on some exigent business, he calmly turned the pages, seemingly without a care in the world. At one point he looked into the distance and said with a sublime smile,

  'Ah, yes! Quercus ilex and Prunus dulcis, the evergreen holm oak and the almond tree.'

  Then he sighed contentedly as if he had just solved the final mystery of the universe and resumed his reading.

  When Toni appeared like deus ex machina before us in the garden, I wondered what genie I'd rubbed up the right way. Tall and bronzed with a chiselled cheek you could strike a match on, he stood smiling down at us like a benign God. I shook myself out of a sweet reverie and sized him up as a suave Spanish salesman. Despite the heat, he oozed charm, not sweat, and had the effortless elan of a man with a mission in an impeccable cream linen suit and sinfully pricey looking shoes. It transpired that the owners of our holiday finca were putting it on the market and Toni was handling the sale. Later, as we all sat mulling over a glass of wine on the spiky lawn, I was hooked.

  'So you have other fincas for sale?'

  Toni slid me a roguish grin from under a thick beetle-black fringe. 'So you want to buy?'

  'No,' muttered Alan decisively.

  'We'd like to look,' I interjected tetchily.

  'No, we don't.'

  'Do.'

  'Good. Well, come and see me tomorrow. Here's my card.'

  The following day, we found ourselves bumping up the very same track I have slogged along today. From the back of Toni's smart four-wheel drive with its spotless olive interiors and subtle scent of Dior's Eau Sauvage, I could see rising before us a vast stone wreck, beaten in, forlorn and unloved, its windows tiny black indents crossed with metal like decayed teeth in a brace. Small holes peppered the facade from which pigeons, like police marksmen, would poke their heads, ducking back in when they heard any noise. As we walked across the courtyard a metal sign hanging drunkenly on its side announced in gaudy red and rusted letters: 'CUIDADO CON EL PERRO'.

  'The dog has gone, I presume?'

  'Of course,' sniggered Toni, tutting at me. 'Is probably dead.'

  'The finca's in a bit of a state. When was it last occupied?'

  'Old people lived here, you know. Now they dead and there are, as we say, muchas brothers. Maybe there will be problem with esciptura, the title deeds of the house. Is lot of work. Come, I have many other houses with no problems.'

  I shot Alan a look. 'What do you think?'

  'What do you want me to think?'

  'It's an incredible place.'

  'Hmm, and free, I suppose?'

  We explored the interior of the house, opening rotten, worm-infested shutters to let in the light. It was like a Mallorcan equivalent of Satis House in Great Expectations and for a moment I half expected to see a mantilla clad Senyora Havisham claw her way down the ancient, creaking staircase. Gigantic cobwebs with arthritic limbed spiders hung in loops from the ceilings, and long battalion lines of centipedes, ants, moths and beetles shrivelled with age lay perished on their backs in every room as if defeated in some ancient battle of the antennae and proboscis.

  Several floors had caved in as well as part of the roof which now let in rough wedges of bright light above our heads. Old wooden beams supporting ceilings still intact had been ravaged by insects and, when poked with a stick, released small explosions of splintered wood and dust. Bizarrely, every room was sparsely furnished and decorated with random objects enshrined in dust, as if the geriatric tenants were still occupying the place but had given up on any housekeeping. Propped up against a mould-ravaged wall in the kitchen stood a rickety-legged, water-stained pine table. Choked with thick grey soot, it housed a clutter of yellowing church pamphlets curled at the edges, festering mugs with chipped rims and two empty brown beer bottles. Cheap religious memorabilia hung on the walls and lined a chipboard cabinet in the dining room and in a downstairs bedroom, above an ornate mahogany bed, a beseeching Jesus looked on, eyes upturned to his heavenly Father, rosary in hand. On a sideboard in the hall, a small metal framed print of the Madonna, her head ripped off so that the torn paper billowed around her shoulders like a snowy stole, stood stoically, awaiting its eventual fate. At the Virgin's feet, a sepia photograph of an old couple dressed in pagès, 'country folk' garb, and smiling shyly, lay grubby and creased. I picked it up, wiped it on my shorts and gently put it in my bag. Up on the landing we discovered a depiction of Saint Francis of Assisi, with obese and grotesque Friar Tuck dimensions, holding a mouse which he appeared to be kissing or devouring, depending on your perspective. Toni and I wandered around the dark, claustrophobic rooms upstairs, with their grimy concrete floors and small window holes obscured by black iron grills. The rooms led one to the other across the top floor of the house like a series of empty dungeons whose prisoners had escaped. Alan, who had gone ahead of us, stood transfixed at a window in his own reverie, gazing through the bars out to the garden and field beyond.

  As we explored the various outhouses, we came across a table hewn out of old pine, its surface rough and dyed red, and sliced up as though Mad Max had been let loose on it. Several rusty instruments of torture, saws, knives and axes drooped from a lax piece of filthy rope overhead.

  'Is slaughter table, si,' said Toni with mock solemnity. 'Many lives have ended here.'

  'Just humans, I hope?'

  'Mostly,' he grinned. 'But occasionally a pig or hen.'

  The basement held the greatest revelation. Left as it must have been for twenty odd years, the air smelt dank and sweet and white paint powdered on our clothes as they scraped the inner wall on the way down the dark, crumbling steps. Lining every wall were bottle upon bottle of hand pickled preserves: olives and onions, cucumbers and tomatoes, fruits and liqueurs, all intact in simple glass bottles, their contents outliving their elderly owners. Hanging down over our heads were row upon row of dried tomatoes, basil and rosemary, cracked and gnarled with age but still holding the colour and vague aroma of their kind.

  'This could make a great guest bedroom,' I mumbled to myself.

  'Or a tomb,' my Scotsman rejoined laconically.

  We stumbled back up into the main entrada, a dark hall with rank, mildewed walls and a pitted concrete floor.

  'We'll take it.'

  Toni examined his shoes and Alan looked at the Madonna for inspiration but she had already lost her head.

  In an effort at male solidarity, Toni frowned slightly. 'Senyor, is important you see shower and toilet first.'

  Alan growled almost imperceptibly. 'I didn't think there was a bathroom.'

  'No. Is no bathroom. They used garden.'

  We crept unc
ertainly behind him up the back garden to a wooden shelter covered with a dirty, rain-ravaged, pinstriped cotton curtain partially ripped off its wooden rod. It was hiding something grim within, I knew that much. A hole gaped at us from the ground. We had plumbed new lavatorial depths. And the shower?

  'Is green hose over back door. Goes from drain above so when rain falls you have shower.' Nice touch.

  'All mod cons,' Alan intoned dryly.

  'Well, we still want it,' I persisted.

  Alan fixed me with one of his cool gazes. 'Exactly which bank were you planning to raid?'

  'But it's so cheap, and think what you could do with all that land!'

  As a keen horticulturist, he had already sussed out the landscaping possibilities for himself so wasn't going to be seduced by the insincere sales spiel of an inexpert gardener like me who couldn't tell a hibiscus from a hydrangea.

  'Look, we're not buying a mule here! This is a house and we don't have the money.'

  'So you like it?' I beamed victoriously.

  'It's not a question of what I like. We came to Mallorca for a holiday, not a house.'

  'And ended up doing the reverse. That's the thrill.'

  'Anyway, what would we do with it?'

  'We'll think of something.'

  Toni shuffled outside the front door, too polite to interrupt a potential marital dispute. I followed him out moments later and told him that we were going to buy it. He raised his eyebrows slightly and stole a glance at my husband.

  'What would you do with her?' Alan said to Toni with an exasperated grin, offering his hands out wide in a gesture of defeat. 'There's only one thing for it.'

  And with that he drew a large cigar from his pocket and popped it defiantly in between his teeth, certain for once that I wouldn't dare say a word.

  I'm slammed out of my reverie and back into reality with the sound of a deep rumbling far up the track. A procession of tipsy lorries are weaving their way unsteadily over pot holes, large gashes in the road and pools of muddy water left from the previous night's storm. Ollie has somehow inveigled his way into the passenger seat of the front truck and leans out of the open window quietly surveying the scene before him. Alan toots enthusiastically at me from the hire car, his eyes bright with anticipation and a wide beam on his face. Surreptitiously, head slightly lowered, he draws deeply on a cigar butt before ejecting it adroitly from the car window on nearing the house. He doesn't seem to think I've noticed. He parks the car under a carob tree, leaps out from his seat and saunters over to me across the gravel. It looks like we've arrived.

  TWO

  LONDON: AUGUST

  Sunday 5 p.m., Oxford Street

  Ed has bought me The Fearless Flier's Handbook. I laugh loudly. It's the sort of puerile joke that appeals to us both. This time he remonstrates earnestly.

  'No, Scatters,' he yelps in between bouts of guffaws, using his nickname for me from university days. 'I really think it might help. If you've got to commute from Mallorca to London each month, you've got to conquer your fear of flying.'

  Ed is a nervous traveller and uses tranquillisers and various potions from his mobile emergency kit, otherwise known as MEK, to assist him in times of high stress; but then Ed's problems are a tad more severe than mine. I mean Ed can't get on a train without a respirator and a dozen pills from the various pouches in his survival bag, which he carries everywhere with him. As for the London Underground, forget it. Ed works as a producer at the BBC and is always in a state of high anxiety when he needs to make business trips. On these fearful occasions he plans his route meticulously, packing his MEK with loving care, or he doesn't go at all. Once or twice I have peeked inside this voluminous bag and registered:

  Two packs of Nurofen

  Inhaler x 4

  Portable electric fan

  Two-litre bottle of Evian water

  Family size box of Kleenex

  Tweezers and scissors

  Plasters and bandages

  Eight bottles of different coloured pills

  Two small bottles of dubious liquid

  Eight chocolate muffins

  Packet of Jaffa Cakes

  Two family size bars of Cadbury's chocolate

  Tuna sandwich

  Flask of coffee

  Imperial mints

  Copy of Private Eye

  Book with obscure title

  Portable CD player and multiple classical CDs

  The MEK is no ordinary bag. It's a vortex. In the footsteps of Gladstone, Ed seems to be able to pack endless amounts of medicinal items inside his bag without ever filling the thing. Perhaps the day he tries to flat pack a mobile doctor, nurse and man of the cloth he may come unstuck.

  I look out of the window at the rain tumbling down on Oxford Street. Shoppers are fleeing for the tube stations, umbrellas to the wind. Most look beyond misery. We are sitting in Starbucks, two cappuccinos in paper cups between us. Proper china is off the menu, which really irks me.

  'Do you think you'll ever visit me in Mallorca?' I ask quietly.

  'God. No!' he splutters into his coffee. 'You wouldn't catch me on a plane.'

  I regard him with some alarm.

  He quickly changes tack. 'Well, no, I mean, flying is really safe now. I'm just a bit paranoid. Hopeless really. Not brave like you.'

  I open the book at a random sentence and read to him out loud: '"My fundamental goal in the Fearless Fliers course is to help people realize that they have no control over the aircraft or the pilot…" That's just great, Ed. I feel such immense relief just reading that.'

  'Oh, come on! You can't just pick out a line. You've got to give it a chance. You're so impetuous.'

  I read on, '"Most people who develop a fear of flying are what we call worriers." You don't say?!'

  'Look, if you're going to be sarcastic, I'll take it back.'

  He grabs at it but I evade him. 'I think it's going to be an inspiration. I'm serious, really. Thanks, Ed.' I throw him one of my indulgent smiles which I know he hates.

  How long have Ed and I known each other? It seems like a trillion years. I think I know him better than he does, and he thinks the same about me. We're both wrong, though. Ed is what others less endowed with brains would call a boffin. He's an academic with a first in English, a PhD and a swag bag of secret neuroses that the most fervent Freud couldn't unravel, though many have tried. But then that's part of his magic, his lure. Ed is naturally a dedicated hypochondriac and also has a weight problem. He starts a diet one day and eats the book the next with a generous dollop of mayonnaise. Exercise seems a complete waste of time to him when he could compose a brilliant piece of jazz on the piano, immerse himself on the Internet or consume a segment of a novel in the same time. Can I blame him? No. Ed's other problem is money. He never has any because he fritters his salary away on endless phone calls to fantasy women he encounters on the web who invariably hail from the States and have names like Laurel, Roxanne, Ivy-League and Cup Cake. But at the end of the day – and God, don't I hate that phrase – Ed is the best friend you could have, with or without his foibles.

  'What is it that kills, I mean, concerns you most about flying?' he stutters over a ton of chocolate cake which he tries to cram into his mouth all at once.

  'Oh, everything really. First there's the random BING BING sound at the beginning of the flight when little lights start twitching up and down the cabin…'

  His hazel eyes widen in horror.

  '… then the surge of power as the plane takes off, wings shaking like beaten whippets, followed by a weird sound of scraping metal and a grinding noise that deepens into a violent juddering like an unstoppable pneumatic drill. Then comes a loud DONG DONG over the intercom and the air hostesses' nostrils are flared and a look of terror creeps into their eyes as they unclip their belts and…'

  Ed loosens his collar. 'Stop, stop, for crying out loud! You'll give me palpitations. That's it, I'm never getting on a plane again.'

  Monday 7.45 a.m., the Pimlico pad

/>   I'm alone in my basement flat with the Today programme pontificating from the kitchen radio and breakfast television simpering from the bedroom. I'm already late but I can't blame it on this, my first monthly commute from Mallorca, since I arrived here yesterday afternoon. I just didn't set the alarm properly. Careering from room to room, cup of black tea in hand, I scoop up files, pens, mobile phone, diary, make-up, keys and wallet like a possessed vacuum cleaner with my free hand tipping these items messily into my handbag. I've got to get to a meeting in fifteen minutes. Should I catch a cab, or is the Tube quicker? A hurried snoop under the living room blind reveals a heavy downpour outside. Ye gods! What's wrong with this country? It's always raining. This is still August, isn't it? I sift through stuff in the walk-in cupboard. No umbrella. Damn it. I rush out into the dark and windowless rectangular corridor, once described by a zealous estate agent as a dining hall. What a joke.