‘Take your bloody raincoat off, Paul. You look like you’re about to have an apoplexy.’ George stood by the baggage carousel in the marble-tiled airport, watching the pasty-faced British tourists take out their petty pent-up irritation with one another through the medium of their suitcases – the women, chastising the men for allowing them to go past without interception; the men, marching the length of the baggage reclaim hall to heave them passive-aggressively onto poorly behaved trolleys which rammed only slightly into the women’s knees.
That’s what an eight-hour flight will do to you, George thought.
‘I’ll wear my raincoat if I want to,’ Van den Bergen said, mopping at his shining brow with a tissue. Red in the face already. ‘I never wanted to come on this ridiculous wild-goose chase. I’ve got a family to think about back home.’
Staring at him in disbelief, George sucked her teeth. ‘Please your fucking self. Go on, then. Melt, you cantankerous old bastard!’
He tutted. ‘You’re obsessed!’ he said. ‘This was never within our remit. Trekking to bloody Cancun via Gatwick. You only got Maarten to agree to fund this fool’s errand because you flirted with him.’
George glanced at her watch. Noticed that time was running out. Caught sight of the departures board. She had only twenty minutes before her window of opportunity closed. Her heart was pounding in her chest at the thought of what she was about to do. Did he suspect? Had Marie ratted her out? Was his grumpiness on the flight an indication that he knew exactly what she was planning.
‘George!’ he said. ‘Your case.’
She jumped. It had sounded more like a command than anything else. But then her every sense was on fire.
‘I’ve got eyes, thanks,’ she said.
Her red suitcase moved towards her slowly. Come on! Hurry up! When Van den Bergen stepped in to pull it from the carousel, she elbowed him out of the way and lugged it off herself. Pulled the handle upright. Ignored the disappointment that was etched into his flushed face.
‘I was only trying to be helpful,’ he said. ‘I don’t know what’s got into you. I don’t know why we’re arguing in Cancun airport when we could be arguing in bed at home. Mexican food plays havoc with my stomach.’ He touched his abdomen, as if to illustrate his point better. ‘And I hate that guacamole crap. Avocado tastes like soap.’
As if plugging the flow of complaint from his mouth, George clamped his face between her hot hands, pulling his head down to meet her and planting a passionate kiss on his lips. ‘Be good, old man. Say, “Hola!” to the Federales. Don’t run off with a señorita, or you’ll wake up with a piñata’s head in your bed when we get back. Hasta luego, mi amor!’
‘What?’ Van den Bergen said, touching his lips. He raised an eyebrow, clearly perplexed.
But George didn’t have time to explain. ‘I’ll call. I promise.’
When he reached out to pull her back, he grabbed at empty air. George ran as fast as possible across the shining marble hall, following the arrows for international transfers on the overhead signs.
‘George! Come back! I’m sorry!’ Van den Bergen’s voice rang out behind her, but the ticket in her pocket was like a magnet, drawing her to the departure gate where the connecting flight to Tegucigalpa in Honduras would soon be closing its doors for take-off.