Act I: The Tourists

Chapter One

Bristol

It was only a little thing, barely an accident really, but the wreckage lodged stubbornly in his mind. David was edging forward in a queue of traffic when the car in front stopped, unexpectedly. His didn’t, equally unexpectedly. Time slowed as the small, sensible Citroen slipped on black ice and into the rear bumper of its neighbour. David felt different - connected - as though the sudden jolt had completed some intricate circuitry in his brain. He was aware of things he hadn’t previously noticed: a rear window full of football regalia took his attention from the emblem of a leaping jaguar. David realised he was in love and in love in a way he had all but forgotten. He melted into the all-consuming, exotic smell of her, the warming rush of electricity as her fingers fell gently across the back of his hand.

For once David was wide awake and greedy for new adventure. Shock coursed through him as he was confronted by an angry man in possession of a now slightly warped vehicle. How was he going to respond, not to the driver, but to the girl whose life felt so far from his own? He didn’t know, but was desperate not to lose the connection. Maybe that explained why he lowered his window and said what he did - and why the man hit him.

David’s euphoria turned into panic. He was a revolving storm coursing across the countryside, spitting out familiar things like homes and cars and furniture. And people. He worried about the people. People are unpredictable. Even the driver was now offering a handkerchief and mumbling concern in response to the cut dribbling blood from David’s ear. The roar of the whirlwind and the tinnitus in his ear became one and the same, driving out rational thought and leaving him in a semi-conscious stupor that made him spin faster. Any loss of control is difficult to deal with at forty, and being forty was just one more chunk of debris littering David’s emotional wasteland. He returned the handkerchief, with just a hint of a conciliatory smile.

His tattooed assailant stood transfixed, flexing a forearm mechanically. A snarling feline imprinted there seemed to be grinding its teeth. Events had not panned out quite as the driver had anticipated. He turned on his heels, stomped back to his car and sped off through a red light.

David watched him go, still unaware of the impatient tail-back behind him. CDs full of basic Spanish were strewn across the front passenger seat. Desperate now only for routine, he fumbled for a disc and managed to still his trembling hand just enough to insert it. Automatically he started to drive and to respond to each linguistic prompt. The knot in his stomach began to slacken and his breathing to subside. He thought again of a girl he hadn’t seen for twenty years. His fingers dabbed absent-mindedly at the damp side of his face, oblivious both to the blood patterning his white cotton shirt and to the well enunciated exhortations to escuchar y repetir emanating from the car stereo. Five minutes before his mind had been so clear. Five minutes before he had experienced an emotion so surprising it had lifted him completely from his everyday life. Now the accident - he was a careful driver and had never had one before - only added to a sense that he was dreaming.

David was back in familiar territory on the outer Bristol ring road: a purposeful strip of semi-ordered, semi-exciting, semi-detached intensity, which crowded out his deeper thoughts and feelings. David relaxed and was aware again of foreign phrases, each hanging momentarily in the overheated, exhaust-tainted air around him. He was almost cheery as he recalled his assailant’s apology and appeal to call it quits. At least there would be no insurance claim.

His attention was drawn to a slip road pulling away to his left. Two roads diverged... The phrase from a near forgotten poem would lead him away, but it was a hollow, passionless cliché - the strength to veer from his daily routine had died with his non-accident. David tried to avoid the features staring back at him from the driving mirror. What would she think of him now, anyway?

Chapter Two

London

London that day wore its usual grey winter jacket, the collar pulled up over the tallest towers, fingers of cold rain spilling from each arm. Inside those towers the finance industry wound through its daily routine, fleecing the country of any remaining assets and scattering its loose change to the most proximate few. London was still a playground for the super-rich, strings of bright-lights marking their progress from one well-manicured fantasy to the next. The gloss hadn’t completely worn off, but perhaps that was the problem: the city was a caricature and the country a cultural theme park - so thought Marcus as he stared from a window on the twenty-second floor, at Tailwind Adventure. There was a knock on the door. He swung his legs from the window-ledge then clumsily tightened his tie.

“Come in.”

Laura walked in, nervously smoothing the sides of the narrow, pencil skirt beneath her matching wool jacket. She glanced at Marcus and ventured a smile, but couldn’t help but be drawn to the expansive panorama receding over his left shoulder. Marcus turned again to follow her gaze.

“Magnificent, isn’t it? Do, please, sit down.”

As Laura complied she felt the plastic tag of the new skirt digging uncomfortably into her waist. “Yes, it is. Sorry, I’m from the Somerset Levels. London’s quite a contrast,” she stuttered.

They fell silent. Both followed a jet slipping through clouds in a holding pattern for Heathrow Airport. Laura was convinced her nerves were already making her sound like the inconsequential lost sheep she secretly believed herself to be. She bit her bottom lip, staring hard at the aircraft as though hoping it might crash.

“However,” Marcus continued, oblivious to her internal machinations, “your CV suggests you’ve a good head for heights.”

Laura relaxed just a little at Marcus’ bland repost. “I love the mountains. It’s not so much the scenery or the physical challenge; more about climbing beyond my worries.”

“Well, you obviously haven’t neglected your studies: your qualifications are pretty impressive for a twenty-three year old.”

Laura tried not to look suspicious, covering her pause with a slight cough into a diminutive, half-clenched fist as she considered why Marcus was sounding so positive. She took a surreptitious deep breath and decided to continue.

“An ex-boyfriend used to sneer and tell me all I did was work - that I had Good Girl Syndrome. He was right, really. I was brought up by my dad and was always afraid of letting him down.

“Is your father academic?” Marcus enquired.

Laura relaxed some more as she sensed she might safely say anything vaguely relevant. “Sort of: he manages a computer network for an engineering company. My mother worked in a bank when I was very young. Then she became a veterinary nurse. That made her really happy - for a while.”

Marcus remained quiet; studying Laura’s face with a newly attentive expression. She reminded him of someone: someone familiar and much missed. Her face, at first the simplest of landscapes, came alive when she spoke. He remembered that same transformation and the same haste to get through her words from his cousin, Isabel.

“I’d like to offer you the job.”

“Are you sure?” Laura was incredulous and suddenly short of breath.

Marcus was no less surprised. Someone else must have articulated the words for him. He knew that he meant it, but he also knew he had just made a complete hash of the interview.

“Look, forgive me. I am sure, but I can also be a little impulsive.” This was too personal a tone, he knew, but his priority now was to slow down. “Can I get you something to drink - tea - coffee?”

Laura indicated the latter and Marcus swung from his seat, dodged past one wing of an impressive, walnut-veneered desktop and disappeared into the ante-room in which Laura had been waiting.

Laura looked around her. In almost every respect the expanse of wooden panelling, the towering bookcases, the matching red leather upholstery on the chairs and rather grand sofa to the right of Marcus’ desk matched her mental picture of an executive’s office. All the details, however, told a different story. A number of well-thumbed travel magazines lay in a pile in one corner of the somewhat threadbare green carpet. The desktop computer looked dated and was covered in stickers advertising exotic destinations and bars. Behind her the wall was obscured by a large map of the world, itself covered by roughly pinned holiday photographs and magazine articles. Laura noticed that, somewhat endearingly, a half-empty rucksack lay squeezed between the back of Marcus’ chair and the picture window, expressing - what - a certain lack of commitment - the capacity for a quick exit - or both?

“Milk... sugar?”

Laura heard the clank of a bottle being extracted from a fridge and the persistent rhythm of an unanswered telephone. Marcus returned, cup in one hand and a plate of bourbon biscuits in the other.

“Let me talk about the position whilst you drink your coffee, then I’ll tell you why it would suit you.” Having had time to recover his poise, rehearse his monologue and swallow a biscuit, Marcus began.

“Ours was a little company. Steven, my boss, started it up a few years back. He loved boats and had a yacht, so ran charters for stressed executives in the Med. Ten years down the line he had a small fleet and a number of holiday properties too. The family was loaded anyway. His father sold a stake in a chain of luxury hotels and helped Steven get started. I came in five years ago to organise land-based activities and that side was doing pretty well until the recession hit. We covered everything from wine-tasting to posh cycling weekends.”

Marcus sneezed and rummaged unsuccessfully for a handkerchief in each pocket of his blue, pinstriped linen jacket. “Actually, the whole thing was rather easy at first. The people we knew would pay a small fortune for any form of adventure, providing it appeared exclusive and they had plenty of opportunity to show off to their friends. Most of our trips ended up being quite a riot; occasionally, I’m afraid, somewhat literally.”

Laura extracted a tissue from a packet in her handbag and passed it over with a hesitant, but well-received smile.

“Thanks. I was perfectly healthy until I went home for the holidays. I wonder how many people are killed by kindness each Christmas?”

Marcus, sensing that he was getting into personal territory again - and demonstrating both his tendency towards hyperbole and hypochondria - blew his nose as discretely as possible then launched back into his summation. “Trouble, when it came, came quickly. Steven started to enjoy the hospitality side of the business rather too much. Getting drunk went with the territory, but then he slept with a couple of female clients, one of whose boyfriends got even by torching a boat. It was their first and his father loved it. To cut a long and rather messy story short, Steven’s father was furious and ended up leaving the company. Steven had to buy out his half and, shortly afterwards, his father died without leaving him a penny. At the time, we had already invested heavily in more coastal properties. That was my doing, I’m afraid.”

Marcus sniffed, it appeared, almost in self-pity, made the most of his tissue then gestured towards the map on the wall. That’s Steven, top-left. His father’s the one standing on the boat behind him.”

Laura turned with some difficulty in her deeply padded armchair and studied the image. Both father and son were handsome and fair, with the sun-beaten cheeks and foreheads one might expect from a life in the open air. Steven looked heavier, the belt of his shorts partially obscured by a protruding belly. Laura wondered whether his flushed cheeks were witness more to the climate or to the drink. Another picture caught her eye, of Marcus in a precipitous urban landscape with his arm around a girl. Somehow the scenery was more interesting than the subjects: their separate stances and ever-so-slightly fixed smiles hinting at a passing, representative and client relationship. Laura instantly clocked that the photo’s mere presence on the board suggested Marcus was not quite the lady’s man that he would like to be.

“When the recession hit it wiped out much of our client base in the financial sector almost overnight. So we sold out. It became a case of any port in a storm and here we are; a wholly-owned minor subsidiary of the Carlton Travel Group. Chaos, really, at least from our perspective, although most of the people I’ve met from CTG somehow seem to think we’re rather cool.”

Laura said nothing, but instantly knew what they meant. There was something boyish and innocent in the way Marcus spoke. She had no doubt - and the photos behind her confirmed it - that here were people who had, at heart, followed their dreams, despite their obvious glee in exploiting those of others for financial gain. It was not hard to imagine the appeal of travelling in their company: not so much a bespoke tour, she imagined, as a post-modern adventure which you assembled as you went along.

“CTG brought in their own administration team. We only had two people before. One was an ex-client and the other an agency typist who stayed and ended up virtually running the place. She’s the one you would have spoken to when you requested your application form and fixed up this interview. You’ll meet her when she comes back from lunch.”

Laura recalled a very direct lady with a loud voice and a South Asian accent. Marcus said that her name was Culjinder.

“They gave us ten people - said that they wanted to expand the business. It wasn’t hard to understand their thinking. If you just looked at our account books, as they did, our profit margins looked pretty impressive right up until the crash. Trouble was they didn’t understand the clientele. Our people wouldn’t have taken us seriously if we hadn’t charged high prices. Splashing the cash was all part of the machismo, but when they called us they called for a chat or dating advice, not to buy a package or to be sold travel insurance. Usually they were curious about what we’d been up to ourselves and just wanted to join in. I can’t imagine some of these CTG people having done anything more exciting than a trip to Tesco.”

Marcus paused, evidently to recover his composure, having spoken with an increasing tone of frustration. Laura mused that Marcus himself probably spent more time in supermarkets than he would care to admit.

“So where would I come in?”

Laura ventured a polite smile and Marcus couldn’t help noticing once again that this dark haired, dark eyed, modestly proportioned young lady went through something of a metamorphosis as her mouth and eyes narrowed and sparkled. He also felt, with a certain sense of unease, that she had already got the measure of him.

“Well,” said Marcus with a slightly laboured note of triumph, “That’s simple. CTG backed off when the phones stopped ringing and allowed us to pick our own team. Steven and I explained that we didn’t want operatives or personnel managers. For their part, CTG wanted us to develop new themes for some of their mass market locations: Eco-tourism, Adventure tourism, that sort of thing. You, according to your CV, are an outdoor girl; you’re bright and you’re a team player - just what we’re looking for.”

There was a momentary pause as Laura, whose eyes had once again drifted to the window, weighed up whether Marcus had finished. “Aren’t there lots of people like that? What’s so bespoke about me?”

Marcus felt vaguely drawn by her modesty. It wasn’t a quality with which he was particularly familiar.

“Yes, but about half way through your letter of application” - Marcus rustled through the papers in front of him and held up a particular sheet for dramatic emphasis - “you stopped saying what you thought you should say and wrote - yes, here it is – I want to stand in the middle of a rainforest, with a machete in my hand, and no map. I like that. Steven liked that when I read it to him. You’d fit in well.”

As Laura travelled home on the Underground she remembered how close she had come to deleting that sentence. It owed its survival to the same desire to be reckless that had prompted the application in the first place. Two more sentences in an advertisement on the curved carriage wall reinforced the approach: There’s probably no god. Now stop worrying and enjoy your life.

Upon leaving the offices of Tailwind Adventure she had experienced a brief, but significant encounter. Culjinder was back behind her desk in the ante-room and had lowered her glasses to very deliberately look her up and down. Laura had stopped, expecting her to speak. Culjinder hadn’t, staring back at her with a - “Well, what is it?” expression that suggested impatience and a certain cynicism. Laura’s stubborn streak surfaced and for a few seconds there was silence between them, during which time she realised that this slightly plump lady in a sari and dark-rimmed spectacles was probably the perfect counterpoint to her youthful potential employers’ excesses. The missing mother figure, she concluded. Skirting a bottomless well of personal sadness, her taught lips had softened into a smile and then a hello. She took Culjinder’s subsequent careful explanation of the exact manner in which travel expenses could be claimed as a form of approval.

As her carriage decelerated bumpily into a station, Laura steadied herself, looked around unsuccessfully for a seat then cast an eye idly over another poster on the platform wall. You survived the end of the world, so now what? Vaguely curious at this seemingly random revelation, her eyes fell first to its picture of a sun-kissed tropical beach and next to the very real young man struggling incongruously with a suitcase beneath it. The latch appeared to be stuck.

Laura could only see his features from the side. His profile looked as foreign as many a London lad, but at the same time was disturbingly, and inexplicably, familiar. He had a strong, straight nose and heavy brows pulled into a frown beneath a tussle of thick black curly hair, creating an overall impression of brooding sensuality. Looking up, he turned in frustration as the doors of the tube rolled together. Laura was sure his rich Latino eyes lingered briefly on hers. The train lurched forwards a few inches then stopped, unaccountably, in a screech of metal on metal. The carriage momentarily re-opened and, as Laura regained her balance, she found those eyes again: deep, inviting pools of possibility that held her transfixed for several seconds. Then he was gone, to be replaced by a shiny black wall as her conveyance returned to its tunnel. Instinctively, she had framed a message for those eyes, which spoke instead only to her own reflection.

Laura had rarely felt so drawn to offer comfort, but was aware how out of proportion this was to such a trivial encounter, however handsomely packaged. She felt a familiar rush of blood as she imagined her fingers running through the unruly waves of his hair. Not prone to romantic notions, she endeavoured, half successfully, to dismiss the moment as a capricious conceit and quirk of the moment. The usual rush hour mix of crush, clatter and body odour helped, but every pair of eyes she met was his.

Chapter Three

Bristol

“You said what?”

“I said: If you react to traffic lights that slowly you should be playing for Bristol.”

“...and he hit you?”

“Yes: he had a Bristol FC Supporters Club sticker in his rear window. They went down after last season.”

“...and you knew this?”

“Yes.” David handed his bloodied shirt to his sometime girlfriend, Phoebe.

“But why, David?”

“I don’t know. I sat there staring at that stupid sticker after the crash. I’d been thinking about something else completely. It just seemed so bloody trivial. It made me angry.”

Phoebe crossed David’s kitchen to the washing machine and turned to study him from a distance. He sat topless at the small pine kitchen table, contemplating the cup of tea that Phoebe had just passed him. David wasn’t a young forty year old. Phoebe had noticed how the dark bags under his eyes were now often patterned with age. He was over-weight and growing ever so slightly pear-shaped and his hunched, shirtless frame looked limp and formless. His head still bore a full crown of brown hair, but it was etched with grey and had lost the healthy sheen that had once attracted her to him. Phoebe was worried about David. He was always tired, never talked about work and his shoulders collapsed at even the most fleeting tribulation. What had he been thinking about that had distracted him enough to have an accident? She was unsure whether she wanted to know.

Phoebe busied herself making the dinner. “I have to go soon: Adam will be back from rugby.”

David shrugged.

“How was work?”

David said nothing, assuming Phoebe was using her son as an excuse to get away. Work had not been good. Then there was the accident. The feelings he discovered there had left a deep sense of guilt. He had been desperate all day to get home to Phoebe, but now anything he might say would only confirm he was letting her down. He needed to be alone. He looked up as she turned back to her cooking and watched as she pulled dishes, cutlery and condiments from various draws and cupboards, as naturally as if the place was her own. Phoebe was in her late thirties; slight and trim, with short-cropped and quite striking strawberry-blonde hair. She was wearing sandals, brown jeans and a cream, autumn-leaf blouse. David dwelt on her petite facial features and striking blue eyes. This made him feel calmer. He was about to speak when Phoebe interjected.

“David.”

“Yes.”

“I want you to promise to do something for me.”

“Yes?”

“If someone rings will you promise to pick up the phone?”

David looked at Phoebe, unsure how to respond. He trawled through his mind for possible explanations for this slight, but unusual request.

“Is it your mother?” He knew that she had been unwell and perhaps things had taken a turn for the worse.

“No, she’s doing OK. I had a long talk with her earlier, though she’s still missing Dad.”

“So are you and Adam,” observed David. “I can’t remember the last time Adam cracked one of his jokes. Do you notice he’s always wearing that Glastonbury T-shirt his Granddad bought him?”

Phoebe reflected on the care she put into ironing that T-shirt. She knew she didn’t have to tell Adam to look after it. It was part of the new, closer bond forged in grief between the two of them. Unfortunately, it had yet to bring her closer to her mother. They always spent time together - her mother took this for granted - but Phoebe could already feel the role of dutiful daughter wearing thin now the love of her life, her dear father, was no longer there at the end of each visit with a cup of tea and a cuddle.

“It’s nothing to do with that, David. Well, at least not directly.” Her voice now carried the same worn-down tone as his.

Recognising this, David rallied. “Of course I’ll answer the phone. Whatever it is, you can count on me.” His words sounded hollow, but a smile flickered briefly in Phoebe’s eyes as she carried their dinner to the table.

Laura arrived home that evening to the usual mix of semi-intoxicated flatmates and uninvited guests. A heated conversation flickered between the sunken sofas in the bay-fronted living room of her Georgian, Bristol flat. Laura listened for a second, realised there was unlikely to be any immediate opportunity to impart her good news, so headed for the kitchen and a cup of tea. She pulled up a stool, slouched against a workbench and half-heartedly explored the contents of the local free newspaper.

“Laura.”

Someone must have actually noticed her.

“Laura?”

“Yes.”

“What do you think?” It was George, her flatmate Katie’s tall, Caribbean boyfriend.

“I think that you should go and get me some fish and chips. I’m starving.”

“There are biscuits in the tin. You should have been here earlier. Katie let me do the cooking.”

Laura glanced to her left to examine the sink. The large pile of tomato-stained dishes and pans suggested he was telling the truth.

“Pity you couldn’t wash up.”

“We knew you’d be home soon.”

Laura sighed, too tired to be provoked. Should she wash up, go to bed or join the conversation? The last two options were a close call. She wandered cup in hand into the living room and sat cross-legged on a rug, her back wedged between a sofa and the burnt umber tones of George’s outstretched legs.

“I want to know if trust in big business died with the Recession.” The typically bald statement came from Simon, George’s friend and Laura’s one-time partner.

“Blimey,” protested Laura, “don’t we leave questions like that at work?” She focused pointedly on her tea then used the cup to tap George on the thigh. He was falling asleep in fits and starts and, as he did so, a deep rumble and an occasional splutter emanated from over Laura’s left shoulder. She turned to Simon, who lay full-length on the opposing sofa, stroking his thinning fair hair with his beer-free hand. “So I take it work today was particularly dull?” she quizzed.

“Of course: you weren’t there.” Simon’s lean, slightly pinched face slipped to mock despondency in a well-practised theatrical gesture. “Tell me how to make advertising exciting and I’ll go and get your chips, Laura, and maybe even let you sleep with me again.”

Laura sighed at the thought of sleep and her own bed. Simon had always been too restless a sleeper to make his mock offer even remotely appealing. “I take it that you miss me terribly and still can’t bear to be without me?”

“Ouch!”

“If I were you, I’d quit,” she responded bluntly. She took Simon’s concerted attempt to balance a beer can on his forehead as mute acceptance.

“Anyway, you may be just about to lose your job, but I’ve got a new one. I take it none of you could be bothered to shift your arses to pick up the phone when I tried to call you earlier?”

“Sorry” said Katie, “bit of a heavy week. Tell us all about it then.” Her moon face opened into a wide smile and her heavily painted eyelashes shifted a little closer to her brow.

George leant forward and tussled Laura’s hair. “Well done, girl.” Laura always found his rich base voice soothing and was aware that she was becoming just a tad jealous of Katie.

“Well,” Laura collected her thoughts, “they’re called Tailwind Adventure. They want me to help them start up some new destinations. They’re part of the Carlton Travel Group now, which is apparently working to appeal to a more individualistic and thrill-seeking market, if you’ll forgive the corporate spiel. Thinking about it, perhaps you should have gone to the interview, Simon?” She couldn’t help the sort of gentle dig that had once been so characteristic of their relationship.

Simon smiled, spilling beer from the forgotten can onto the carpet as he rolled towards her. “So thrills and individualism equals you, does it?”

Laura folded her arms. She hadn’t stopped to think about it from this perspective. What, exactly, would she bring to the role? She didn’t actually have a clue what it would entail.

“Well, all I know is that they told me to look out my passport.”

“When do you start - I assume I’m going to be looking for a new flatmate if you’re working abroad?” Katie raised another matter that Laura had yet to consider.

Apologetically, Laura levered herself up using George’s legs, who squealed in mock discomfort. Tottering sleepily, she blew him a goodnight kiss, winked mischievously at Katie, and patted Simon on the shoulder as she shuffled past him towards her bed. What had she got herself into? Hopefully things would seem clearer in the morning. As she finally closed her eyes, she rediscovered those from her close encounter on the Underground. Laura slipped away on a warm, but turbulent ocean of uncertainty.

Chapter Four

In dreams, Bristol

The telephone rang. Its insistent tone drifted from a far corner of the insurance office where David worked. In front of him was a balance sheet he could not balance, spending that he could not justify, the unwelcome results of an ill-considered decision he had long since forgotten. The papers multiplied in front of him and toppled to the floor. The ringing grew louder. People were laughing and shouting at him to pick up the phone. His boss thumped his desk, snatched the shrill instrument, shook it a few inches from David’s face then hurled it against a wall. As it smashed into a thousand pieces, David woke up.

He sat up in bed. The pallid light of morning was just beginning to usurp the sodium orange glow of a streetlight through his bedroom curtains. He studied the telephone on his bedside table, remembered Phoebe’s request, then realised that his sheets were soaked in sweat. He shuffled across to the cold but dry side which she would periodically occupy. For a long time he lay there in limbo.

David rolled over, grabbed a book and turned on his bedside light. It was a popular physics tome: an exploration of space for the curious, but uninitiated. Cosmology took David far from his own world, and that was the appeal. The stars felt like old friends, but today the text provided new directions in which his fears could grow. He shrank into a hidden extra dimension, the walls receding in every direction. The light from his bedroom curtains became a barely perceptible afterglow - background radiation from the time of the Big Bang. Adrenaline swept through his system as he tumbled back to his particular place in space-time. As on several previous occasions, he couldn’t figure out where, or even who, he had been.

The house felt particularly cold and empty as David finally staggered, semi-conscious, down the stairs to the kitchen and a bowl of children’s cereal for breakfast. He stared out towards the damp, shaggy patch of lawn that defined the back garden. Droplets hung from the surrounding overgrown shrubbery, giving the whole ensemble a translucent, semi-liquid feel. David made a cup of tea. On route to a cupboard for sugar, he looked out into the garden again. The scene was just as it had been, but now a cat stared back at him from under the eaves of a dark Leylandi fir. It stood rigid, like some Egyptian deity. It was looking straight at him with quite striking eyes which, had they been any paler, might have dissolved away in the mist. The imperious looking animal appeared to be waiting for something. David felt strongly that if he could think of what this was it would leave, satisfied. Something deep inside him reacted as if he knew, but nothing reached his conscious mind, until he realised he had over-stirred the bag in his cup into a dark and bitter brew. He poured his tea into the sink and deliberately turned his back on the cat. Its spell was broken.

David shuffled into the living room then rooted around the scattered items on the coffee table looking for the photograph album that he had recently spent a lot of time contemplating. He made a neat pile of magazines, leaflets and newspapers in one corner. The album failed to emerge. He sighed and pulled a travel magazine from the pile. Why was there a travel magazine there at all? Sudden curiosity took hold. He flicked through the pages then examined the cover: Mexico and the Caribbean. It was a fairly standard Carlton Travel Group brochure.

Settling back to examine each destination, David absent-mindedly reached out for his non-existent cup of tea. A resume of historic Cuban towns immediately connected. He imagined himself a deeply tanned and dissolute drifter, dissuading a drunken Ernest Hemingway from starting a fight in a dark, smoke-stained waterfront bar, amidst the bustle of downtown Havana. Both characters staggered further into his imagination, driving off in the day’s afterglow in a battered 50’s Mustang saloon. Two shapely senoritas materialised on the backseat, starting a shrill argument which served to remind David that he had a headache.

He picked up the telephone instinctively from where it sat on a lamp table beside him, and drew it to his ear. A mercifully soothing, somewhat tentative female voice was asking him if he had yet decided whether to confirm his provisional booking.

“I’m sorry.” David let the apology hang in the ether. It could be applied to all sorts of things at that moment, but the lady to whom he was speaking ignored this introspection and translated it simply as “no”.

“I wonder,” she resumed, “whether you would be interested in considering something a little more adventurous?”

David had the uneasy feeling that whoever this person was knew far too much about him and could even be reading his mind. He also had not the slightest doubt that she was speaking about the very brochure that now lay in his lap.

“I’m sorry,” he repeated, “I don’t know anything about this booking.”

“Don’t worry. Phoebe said she might leave this bit to me.”

“Oh.” David wondered why this unknown presence seemed to be on first-name terms with his girlfriend, so that he was now a topic of mutual concern. He let a sigh out into a world whose only consistency was its failure to make any sense whatsoever then decided to continue the conversation.

“I take it that the provisional booking is for a holiday. Where does Phoebe want to go?” he enquired, secretly hoping that the lady would suggest Cuba.

This time the pause was at the other end of the line, as the caller grasped that there was much more explaining to do than she had anticipated. “I think,” she began cautiously, “that your girlfriend intends the holiday to be for you alone. Her provisional booking was for Mexico.”

David sat staring into the coal-effect gas fireplace beyond the coffee table. If he were a computer he would have been displaying a small central window with an error message. Try as he might to respond, his mind remained empty of everything except a very familiar feeling of growing panic.

“Would you like more time to think?” The caller was obviously concerned and this tone gave her voice a familiar quality, but one which David again totally failed to compute.

“We get a lot of solo travellers,” she continued. “In fact, they make up the majority of this side of our business.”

Ernest Hemingway drifted again as a companion through David’s imagination and somehow managed to make the image of a solo traveller quite appealing. He envisioned himself tapping away deliberately in two-finger style at an old-fashioned typewriter on the vine-strewn terrace of some cheap Pensione, a Cuban cigar protruding casually from one corner of his mouth and a glass of red wine beside him, refracting the rays of the sun onto his battered old writing table.

David sighed again, this time in resignation. He gave in to cats, cold-callers and unfathomable females. Anything was better than another week at work and he was certainly due a considerable amount of holiday time. “When do I go?” He felt a large part of himself recoil in surprise and shock, as he assimilated his own response.

The routine nature of the question made the caller rally and she quickly picked up the pace, perhaps as keen as David to escape the embarrassment of the call as soon as possible, as much as to ensure that David had no time to change his mind. “Do you have our brochure to hand, by any chance?”

David nodded. The voice moved on before he had time to reflect on what a ridiculous response this was.

“If you turn to page 47 you’ll see we’re now offering a range of activity-based trips: everything from scuba-diving and island hopping by yacht, to jungle trekking and exploring little-visited ruined cities from the famous Mayan period.”

David had no idea who the Mayans were, other than some vague notion that they had erroneously predicted the end of the world, but he knew all-too-well that he really was rather scared of anything to do with swimming or deep water. “Trekking sounds fine” he heard himself say, somehow managing to dodge his usual self-image of a rather fat, un-sporty, couch-potato.

“Well done, David. Now, if you can just confirm that Phoebe has given me your correct email address I can put all the details, dates and recommendations in writing. As the package you have chosen is new - in fact you will be one of our first participants - we are able to offer you a considerable discount, if you can confirm your exact requirements within the next week. Once you have spoken with Phoebe, I’m sure you’ll be able to think more clearly about what is best.”

There was a pause; the caller apparently unable to decide whether to say more. A half-strangled and unintelligible single word was followed by a barely audible sigh.

“I really enjoyed talking to you, David. Hopefully we’ll speak again soon.”

For a long time after the lady disconnected, David held the telephone to his ear, as though its monotone whine might suddenly modulate and offer some reasonable explanation for what had just occurred. “Well done, David” echoed incongruously around his head, finding absolutely nothing to befriend. Except that he knew that phrase. He was sure that he knew it from a long time ago and that it was associated with something, or someone, important in his life.

There was a suitcase in the sea: the brown leather suitcase from the Underground. It was bumping along the side of a boat. Laura felt seasick. She reached down and fought a tug of war with the water. The salt-patterned box sprung onto the deck beside her. A sound drifted from the case to her core. Laura knelt and grasped the metal latches. As the lid flipped open, it revealed only darkness and a mother’s scream, as at the moment of childbirth, which she really couldn’t bear.

Laura rolled over in bed and stared at the patterned ceiling. It moved as though she was still on the sea. She lay there indecisively, swept by a deeply perturbing sense of loss which wasn’t, for once, centred upon her dead mother. It felt like losing a child, but this made no sense. She shook her head and made for the bathroom.

Downstairs, coffee in hand a short while later, Laura discovered that the hoped-for letter had indeed arrived. It was a recorded delivery, so Katie, who seemed to have already departed for the office, must have signed for it. She checked the London postmark then turned it over to discover a cartoon version of her own features smiling back at her. A shining orb to her left and a pair of sunglasses provided the holiday touches. Katie, indeed: she was a fine artist. Laura tore into the package and scanned the contents. There was the job offer and also a personal note on scented writing paper from Culjinder, telling her that Marcus would be in touch after the weekend. Finally, there was an expedition kit list; a range of travel items long enough to leave Laura worried about both her bank balance and her fitness. Rucksack, boots, walking poles, full waterproofs: she gave up trying to tally the cost, but it was obvious from the list that, whatever her role, it was going to be hands on.

She lounged on a sofa with her drink and studied the contents of the package again. Laura knew it had been written and posted in haste, but still she felt cheated. She wanted to know exactly when she would start and what she would be doing. Come to think of it, she didn’t even know where she’d be working. The original brief had said: must be flexible about working irregular hours and over weekends, and willing to travel overseas, if necessary at short notice. Certainly, there seemed no question of her moving to London. Laura felt impatient and still more than slightly nervous. She would need to give in her notice. Doubtless, Simon had already spread the news at the office.

Only one thing for it - she decided to go shopping. Half an hour later she was rooting around an outdoor equipment store, trying on lightweight travel trousers and sunhats. Nothing seemed to fit, or maybe it did, but she just didn’t like the style. She settled eventually on a new pair of sunglasses - not unlike those that Katie had drawn - and decided she would be wearing these when her flatmate returned that evening. She let the steep slope of Park Street carry her down from Bristol’s main university district towards the city’s central square. Slipping into a favourite wooden booth in an old-fashioned café near the base of the hill, she pulled out her phone and paused momentarily to consider how she would broach her sudden change of career to her father. Then she gave up and lost herself to cappuccino and a small electrical storm of excited messages from curious friends.

Chapter Five

Riviera Maya

Marcus almost tumbled down the aircraft steps. He had slept heavily for most of the flight in the relative comfort of business class, after a long week of rushed preparations. His drowsiness - combined with a struggle to prevent his voluminous hand-baggage escaping - had left him more than a little light-headed. Then there were the three glasses of wine that had induced his torpor in the first place. Never mind, he consoled himself. He had pre-booked a taxi from Cancun airport to his hotel, and the others wouldn’t be arriving for another day. There’d be plenty of time to sort everything out.

As he was driven south down the long coastal highway, past an endless procession of grand entrances to jungle and palm-enfolded beach resorts, Marcus tried, unsuccessfully, to focus his mind on the task ahead. His chore was not helped by the stream of broken English from the determinedly cheerful taxi driver. Marcus half listened and mumbled the occasional “Si” out of a deeply engrained sense of good manners.

The squat, semi-bald, somewhat intimidating local smiled gleefully through a list of what should have been complaints. The car swerved as he stuck a broken finger up to the driving mirror for Marcus to examine, simultaneously lifting his other hand from the steering wheel to demonstrate how it had occurred. It swerved again, this time somewhat alarmingly, as the driver waved the same finger at a passing gas station to highlight the scandalous cost of fuel. Eventually the car started to sway in a manner Marcus could sense was stoking his giddiness and jetlag, as his tormentor complained at the state of the roads. The monologue turned to the unseasonably cold and wet weather. This seemed an unlikely contrast to Marcus’ sweaty and increasingly smelly self - an enquiry at this point establishing that the cabbie was called Eric and that he had not felt it warm enough to turn on the air conditioning. He did so, with an exaggerated shrug of the shoulders, following Marcus’ polite insistence.

After adding two hours of driving to the ten hour flight, the car swung through a grand, flower-fringed concrete portal and stopped at a security barrier. Marcus woke from fitful sleep to see Eric deep in conversation with the security guard. His attention was drawn to his driver’s neck. A tattoo had emerged from beneath his blue and slightly frayed shirt collar. It revealed a complex shield containing symbols including a football, a pistol, a lightning bolt and the letter X. All were in black and somehow the ensemble was slightly sinister and seemingly not the sports insignia that Marcus at first suspected. Moments later the taxi was engulfed by the reassuring sights and sounds of an all-inclusive, 5-star tropical resort. It wove past joggers, family groups on wobbly bicycles, and snake-like land trains. The roadway emerged from a dense patch of trail-pierced jungle to reveal the main car park and a grand thatched, timber-clad reception building. It was fronted by a fountain of leaping dolphins and a shining marble staircase. Standing between these was the familiar figure of Dana Murphy, Deputy Programme Manager for Carlton Travel Group’s Caribbean Division and the main line of communication to Tailwind Adventure.

Dana held out a pale, limp, slim-fingered hand as Marcus approached. Her height, slender figure and shock of red hair gave her gesture an almost imperious quality, leaving Marcus half tempted to kiss, rather than to shake it. The pair exchanged a few pleasantries, Dana speaking with a lazy Celtic lilt which Marcus found instantly soothing. As Eric dumped Marcus’ cases unceremoniously beside him, Dana issued an apologetic smile and said she would join him again shortly. With an unexpected burst of energy she skipped up the steps like a startled fawn and disappeared into the foyer.

A freshly showered and shaved Marcus stretched his long legs across the balcony of a newly completed honeymoon suite, taking in the expansive ocean view. Flecks of white spray marked the line of an offshore reef and dark shadows tracked the course of passing clouds in the grip of a strong onshore breeze. Children chased footballs across the white sands, as hotel staff fought to close a line of parasols in danger of blowing away.

Dana emerged from behind the curtains with a jug of Pimms and glasses retrieved from the housekeeper. Settling opposite Marcus, both concentrated upon their drinks. Marcus wondered whether to imbibe so soon after the flight. He rubbed his forehead to see if he could make an impression upon a dull headache and a vague sense that he was still in motion.

Dana stole a critical glance at her guest’s profile. His features, particularly his nose and chin, were long and heavy and his eyes dark brown and slightly sunken beneath bushy brows. A fine head of chestnut hair had been whipped up by the recent wash and the wind. The overall impression was of strength and masculinity, rather than good looks, and his height, broad shoulders and narrow waist provided an innate impression of athleticism. This was the first time that Dana had met Marcus in an informal setting and she was already beginning to feel relaxed in his company. She was used to people talking incessantly about the minutiae of this or that aspect of the travel business. Marcus, although polite, seemed utterly disinterested, which inevitably fuelled a degree of fascination.

Later the pair decided to walk the furthest fringes of the resort, the last beach before semi-solitary bays and headlands reasserted their innate disinterest in all things human. Both figures clambered awkwardly over a low, half-hearted rope barrier and tottered in inappropriate footwear onto the wave-ravaged coral rocks beyond. Dana, tall and elegant in a knee-length orange striped dress, strode most purposefully ahead, having recommended their excursion. Marcus was less certain, in terms of his footing, where they might be going, and why. However, the cool sea air was a positive treat and he felt a renewed sense of relaxation seep into his forehead and sink slowly to release his hunched shoulders. He looked up as he reached a patch of fine white sand huddled in a rocky cleft and admired Dana’s long red hair. Its strands flicked backwards and forwards across her back as she balanced from boulder to boulder. He noted the long inward curve of her spine and wide, elegant shoulders as she stooped and partially disappeared from view behind a particularly contorted piece of geology. As he leant, a few moments later, upon this same obstacle, he thought for one unregulated moment that Dana must have lain in the sand beyond and performed a tropical version of snow angels. A series of deep, evenly-spaced grooves pattered the sand, some disappearing into play-pit sized holes. He looked enquiringly at Dana, who smiled a most fetching smile of enthusiasm as she realised she would not have to garner Marcus’ interest in this curious patina.

“We have turtles here” she explained and smiled a little bit more. In all her time showcasing CTG resorts, wildlife had rarely entered the conversation and it felt like such a release that, if she could have read Marcus’ mind, she may indeed have made sand angels.

“These marks are very old, but at night, during the egg-laying season, we have staff patrolling the beach. If they find a turtle they watch over it. If there’s already a nest, they dig out the eggs. They re-bury them in a fenced-off area which local naturalists oversee for us. There aren’t as many turtles now, but at least the hatchlings needn’t run the gauntlet of crabs and gulls. Most go by bucket straight into the surf. A few end up in local aquaria and marine parks.”

“So what’s happened here?” Marcus pointed to the scattering of concave leathery pouches close to Dana’s feet, which had obviously once been eggs.

“Some of the turtles are put off by the lights along the shoreline. They swim around the point and end up here on small patches of sand between the rocks. It isn’t really deep enough. Our local iguanas have no problem digging up the eggs - we have fat, overfed lizards everywhere - our guests love them, but they can be real pests.”

Marcus and Dana stood quietly and studied each other. Both found something different and refreshing in the other and both now savoured a moment of calm. It was not until Marcus realised Dana was shivering that he felt the need to speak.

“Perhaps we should get back?”

Dana nodded. “We usually don’t mention the turtles to our guests, but I thought you’d be interested, with your party heading off into the wilderness and all. You realise, when you’ve spent a little time here, that there’s a rhythm to this coast, a kind of magic, something that has nothing to do with the tourist trade. It makes you remember that we’re all just passing through.”

She shivered again. Marcus was uncertain whether to look interested or concerned.

“We haven’t had a week as cold as this for a long time” Dana explained. “The local hospitals are filling up with old people with pneumonia. Farmers are worrying about their crops. You can imagine how disappointed our guests have been, although the Brits are still hitting the beach. Apparently, it’s been worse in the north. There’s even been snow in some places. It’s all supposed to be getting back to normal in a couple of days: just in time for your visitors.”

Marcus awoke, rolled over and stretched each limb towards a corner of his king-size bed. The room remained dark, but slashes of light above and to the side of heavy curtains signalled that the sun was already climbing high. From the other end of the long, split-level accommodation there was the sound of a well-rehearsed, polite knock. Marcus slumped onto the floor and felt for his dressing gown and slippers. A few unstable steps later he was squinting into full sunlight and at the trolley laden with food that blocked the doorway. He picked up a piece of seashell imprinted notepaper and read the message from Dana - Good morning, Marcus. I hope you slept well. I’ll meet you in the main reception building at 11am. Enjoy your breakfast.

Deciding that food was a more pressing concern than a shower, Marcus wheeled the trolley as far as he could into the room. He threw open the curtains and arranged the table and chairs on the balcony. As he removed the tray and carried it outside, he remembered the data stick that Steven had thrust into his palm at Heathrow Airport. He spent the next three-quarters of an hour sifting through its contents on his laptop, between mouthfuls of fried food and sips of strong coffee. Steven had, as usual, conducted most of the reconnaissance for the new itinerary, and had also hired the local agents who would support the trip. Marcus was slightly nervous about leading a tour he hadn’t himself undertaken, but also knew he could trust Steven’s judgement. The notes were extensive and Marcus felt guilty about failing to study them sooner. He logged into the hotel network and checked quickly whether the forecast for a steadily improving weather picture still held true. It did, information reinforced by the small clusters of early risers meandering past his balcony towards the sea, bearing armfuls of towels and blow-up toys.

Dana was stood chatting languorously to a receptionist when Marcus arrived freshly showered, shaved and for once splashed with a small amount of Cologne. She raised a freckled arm from the desk and greeted him with a lazy wave. It was already hot, much hotter than the day before. Marcus was relieved when - having followed Dana down a spiral marble staircase - they entered an air-conditioned staff office. Dana smiled at the two Mexicans in linen suits who stood up as they entered. To Marcus their matching garb, tans and grins, but entirely different physiques, gave the pair the air of a comedy couple. A few pleasantries later, all four were sitting around a circular table covered in numerous documents, including information about each of their expected guests. A small ceiling-mounted projector illuminated a nearby wall, the group occasionally looking up to consider the next map or picture on display.

Midway through the meeting, Carlos Rivera glanced at his son, pushed back his chair to make more space for his portly frame then coughed for dramatic emphasis. “When we reach Punta Allen - Cesar will show you where that is on the map - we will be on the edge of wild country. Few tourists make it that far: the road is in poor condition and hazardous. Some rich people come in by boat to fish, but there are strict controls and it is hard to gain a permit. We, and a few other companies, do boat tours for day trippers. There’s a lot of indigenous wildlife and also a number of Mayan ruins. These are the reasons why the area is a biosphere reserve and a World Heritage Site.”

Dana interjected, “Carlos is a modest man. His company is the longest established in this region and the most professional. It is fully insured and all guides and instructors have international qualifications. As you’ll hear, he’s been able to put together a very interesting programme.”

Carlos beamed at Dana then turned his attention to Marcus. “I have special permission from the state governor to lead a group into the heart of the reserve. Travel in this part of the biosphere is very difficult and there is no proper accommodation. We will travel by canoe and spend four nights camping.”

Marcus nodded his approval, relaxed further into his seat and sipped at a glass of water. Cesar took over from his father and talked through a series of images of likely wildlife encounters in a heavily Americanised English voice which seemed too big for his short and slender frame. The meeting was to prove a long one. Eventually, Dana leaned forward to remind the group that their first guests would be arriving shortly. “We could continue the conversation over lunch on the terrace,” she suggested. “Carlos and Cesar, I hope you’ll be able to join us?”

Father and son again smiled identical broad polished smiles as confirmation and Dana skipped out of the room to make the necessary arrangements. As the door closed behind her, Marcus felt Carlos’ powerful hand grip his forearm. He looked around enquiringly and sank reluctantly back into his seat. Carlos leaned towards him, still gripping his arm tightly. “You know,” he began, “everything is changing in this area. The drug cartels are moving south. You’re probably aware of the violence in parts of this country?”

Marcus nodded, but in truth had only the vaguest notion.

“Here is supposed to be different. Here everyone wants to look after the tourists. The drug bosses also want somewhere to launder money, to go on holiday and to show off their wealth. Still, friends in other travel companies have been asked to carry packages or to pay for protection, recently. You must be careful who you work with.”

In some indiscernible manner Marcus felt he was being threatened. He fought to keep his breathing regular and his voice calm. “Are you saying, Carlos, we should not be doing this tour?”

“I am saying that the more time tourists spend outside the main holiday region of Cancun and the Riviera Maya the more there may be variables which are difficult to control. I would not encourage your visitors to go anywhere without a guide. They’ll also need to get used to police and military patrols and checkpoints.”

Marcus was momentarily overwhelmed. He stared at his fingers as they drummed soundlessly on the table. “Perhaps,” he suggested, uncertainly, “we should continue this conversation after the first tour?”

“Perhaps,” Carlos repeated, sinking into silence for several seconds. “Cesar will be your guide,” he rallied. “You can ask him anything about our business and about the region. Here is my card, with my personal cell-phone number. Contact me if ever you have a question Cesar cannot answer.”

“Thank you, Carlos.” Marcus offered his hand then swung around to shake Cesar’s also. “Shall we go and look for Dana?”

Lunch on the terrace sounded idyllic, but proved to be blisteringly hot despite the shade and cool marble. Carlos and Cesar sank jovially enough into their beers, whilst Dana fanned at her neck with a brochure. Marcus wasn’t hungry, so picked randomly at a salad. He and Dana stole occasional glances, as both could tell the other was uneasy. With their clients now imminent, there was little opportunity for further discussion.

“No need for me to meet our guests yet,” confirmed Dana. “Your new young lady, Laura, can help to settled them in. We’ll liaise with her sometime this evening, depending upon how she’s coping. I’ve got an appointment now, but if you ring my office around five, we’ll arrange where to meet. Until then I suggest you make the most of the facilities.”

As neither Carlos nor Cesar showed any inclination to move, Dana and Marcus made their excuses and wandered back up the few stone steps to Reception. They parted silently, with the merest nod and wave. Marcus went for a swim then sat by the beachside pool, listlessly watching the aqua-aerobics that had taken his place. Several times he decided to call Steven, but each time, as he rehearsed his words, they sounded either neurotic or just plain silly. These perspectives were reinforced by the tranquil, family-friendly scene around him. Eventually he decided he would speak with Cesar, to see if he could elaborate on his father’s concerns. Then he would know what to do.

Chapter Six

In transit

Laura stood in the middle of the Departure floor at Bristol Airport, reflecting on possibly the most stressful eight days of her life. She had already waited there for forty-five minutes, feeling superfluous and increasingly self-conscious, as nobody had yet responded to the Tailwind Adventure sign that she held. Was she actually employed? She had signed and returned a contract earlier in the week, but there had been no personal contact with anyone from the company. By contrast, everyone else in her life had descended all at once. Her father felt the need to drive up from Taunton to express his displeasure at his daughter’s decision to abandon a promising career. His concern had turned to near apoplexy when he learned Laura had accepted the position on a trial basis. Less stereotypically, Simon had become awkward when the reality of Laura’s imminent departure sunk in. Fielding his increasingly panicked questions had been difficult, as she couldn’t help but feel guilty. Laura was well aware that she had neither consulted him as a friend about her decision, nor considered the impact of her leaving the agency so suddenly upon his own role. The agency response had been predictable - she would lose her final month’s salary due to lack of notice and could no longer rely on a strong reference. Only Katie and George had been supportive, but still their determination to invite everyone they had ever known to a farewell party at the apartment made it even harder for Laura to pack, or to draw breath before her departure. At least, she reflected, with these two there had been a degree of serendipity. George could now move temporarily into Laura’s room. She smiled to herself as she recalled them cuddling and waving by the front door earlier that morning, as an airport taxi had swept her away.

“Hello.”

A woman was talking to Laura. Automatically Laura’s smile grew wider and, moments later, she was positively beaming with relief as she realised she actually had a role to fulfil.

“Welcome to your holiday,” she gushed at Phoebe, dropping her sign to reveal the clipboard behind it. Laura stared quizzically at her list of names, having noticed Phoebe’s son, Adam, standing beside her.

“Oh, we’re not going... Laura,” Phoebe paused to read the name badge on Laura’s blue cotton jacket. “It’s my partner, David.” She looked around her then threw a knowing smile in the direction of Adam. “I think he must have gone to the toilet.”

“David Seymour?”

“That’s him. He hasn’t done anything like this since he was a young man. He may need a degree of encouragement,” Phoebe concluded.

“That’s what I’m here for,” Laura replied as breezily as possible, realising the tone of the conversation suggested they were talking about a child. She noticed a young couple striding purposefully towards her and, glad of the distraction, hailed a greeting.

It took David a few minutes to relocate Phoebe and Adam, as they were now part of a tight huddle standing around a young and pretty travel representative. A few moments in a bookshop had helped to settle his stomach and he was now almost happy, having located a guide to the Yucatan region of Mexico, which combined a Spanish phrase book.

“Hola.”

Everyone looked around as David squeezed into the group, his indeterminate form framed on either side by two youthful couples exhibiting expensive and sporty-looking outdoor gear.

“Hola, David, nice to meet you and good to hear you’re getting into the spirit of things,” responded Laura, as casually as she could muster, sensing that Phoebe was trying hard not to look embarrassed.

Phoebe was fighting off the realisation that she may have made a dreadful mistake. She decided to say her farewells and ferry Adam to her mother’s as soon as possible. It was, after all, not just David who was going away. She had, at great expense, arranged a week at a health spa with two girlfriends and was determined to make the most of the opportunity. It was therefore something of a surprise, a few minutes later, to find she was standing in the middle of the car park in a flood of tears. Why had she needed to get away from David to cry for her dead father? Her son understood, though neither she nor Adam spoke. They stood hugging and sobbing for some time before either regained the capacity to move on.

David followed Laura and the other clients about the airport and onto the plane, as if in a dream. He almost jumped out of his seat in consternation as it finally took off. By mid-flight he was spurred on by a rising sense of panic to seek Laura out again. Soon he recognised her dark bob from behind and, fortuitously, the seat next to her was unoccupied. Laura was genuinely glad to see him, as she too had been feeling isolated and overwhelmed within the cramped confines of the Airbus. As David sat down she thought how incongruous this rather tubby middle-aged man looked in a grey marl tracksuit. Her proximity instantly calmed David’s nerves and a whole series of practical questions flooded back to him. He retrieved Laura’s briefcase for her from an overhead locker and soon both were poring over the itinerary, Laura trying hard not to reveal that she knew little more of what was to come than David. The Kalumal Beach Hotel, where their shared adventure would begin, looked vast in photographs and prompted very different responses. Laura looked forward to fine food and pampering, whilst David baulked at the thought of displaying his inadequate physique beside the pool. Fortunately, he reflected, it would only be a day before they would move on to more intimate surroundings.

Laura quickly discerned that David was most anxious about the level of physical challenge. She reassured him that a more mixed family group than the couples he had already met would be flying in on a separate flight from Manchester. Then she decided to pursue some personal information, gleaned from a snatched airport conversation with Phoebe.

“Your girlfriend told me that we may have a mutual acquaintance?”

David instantly recognised the observation as one related to mysterious cats and unexpected requests to take telephone calls. Why did others seem to know more about his life than he did? He forced himself back into his seat, hoping Laura would not catch his moment of panic. The unfortunate consequence of this sudden change of position was that his legs pressed further into the magazine pouch in front of him, dislodging the open bottle of water that Laura had stashed there. Laura felt the cold, damp stream soaking through her tights and filling up her right shoe. David sprang forward again, managing to spray more water onto Laura’s lap and her folder, as he fumbled to right the bottle.

“I’m terribly sorry!”

“Don’t worry, it’s only water. I shouldn’t have left it there in the first place. I’d better go and dry off.”

David struggled from his seat into the aisle, smiling a wan smile at Laura as she squeezed past him and calmly handed him the folder. He stood dabbing various damp documents with a handkerchief as she headed slowly for the front of the plane, with a slight apparent limp.

Ten minutes later Laura returned feeling considerably drier. She sat in the seat David had occupied, her own remaining damp. He had disappeared, but after a short while a stewardess leaned forward to hand over a bone-dry, if slightly crumpled folder, an extra blanket and a glass of Champagne. Laura giggled, but gladly accepted David’s little gesture. Awkward, but well meaning, she concluded.

To a person predisposed to anxiety, there is little as relaxing as a genuine worry of only mild proportion. Back in his own seat, David drew his belt across his ample stomach in compliance with the Captain’s request. He waited for the predicted turbulence, which duly shook the airplane a few moments later. Satisfied there was nothing in the intensity of the shaking to cause concern, he drifted towards sleep. The overdeveloped part of his brain alert to the dangerous and the unusual was just sufficiently occupied to crowd out the thing he was desperate not to think about.

An indeterminate amount of time later, a sudden bounce shifted David back towards consciousness. He struggled to a more upright position, aware that his head was resting upon someone else’s shoulder.

“Hello.” The person was speaking to him.

“Hello,” David mumbled.

“My name is Ethan. I’m part of the Tailwind group. We didn’t have time to talk at the airport. Felicity - she’s my sister - wanted to watch a movie. I thought I’d be sociable and you were the only one with an empty aisle seat.”

David coughed in response to the aridity in his throat. “Pleased to meet you, Ethan,” he rasped.

“I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve been studying your guidebook. I don’t really know much about Mexico.”

“Me neither, I’m afraid.”

“It’s larger than I thought. The Yucatan Peninsula’s a couple of thousand miles from the US border. Flick and I - that’s my sister - are from Hampshire. I thought that was big enough.”

“Where we’re going is mainly jungle,” David added. “I’ve been trying not to think about that.”

“Flick’s nervous about the same thing. She doesn’t like the idea of biting insects. The area was in the news a while back, too: lots of New Age types standing around an old stone pyramid, waiting for the apocalypse, as I recall.”

“Any excuse for a party and a tan, I suppose,” David chuckled.

“Yes, but some say one version of the world ended then and another is yet to begin - all about cycles of life, apparently. Someone in my local, who knows about such things, said we’re in a state of flux right now; that just about anything could happen until a new path gets set. He sounded quite convincing after a couple of beers,” Ethan noted.

“That would explain why my life is so weird,” David observed, ruefully.

Purposefully ignoring a surge of introspection, David turned to take a closer look at Ethan. He was probably in his late twenties, of medium build, and beneath a colourful shirt and burgundy shorts his legs were toned and hairy. He had short, slightly wavy straw coloured hair, blue-green eyes and thin lips which were quick to broaden into a slightly self-satisfied grin. David thought he could discern a slight foreign drawl to his otherwise southern English accent.

“Would you like a drink?” Ethan enquired. He waylaid a passing stewardess and each opted for a gin and tonic.

“It’s good to chat with someone else,” he continued. “Felicity’s just split up with her boyfriend and that’s all she can talk about. That’s why we’re here, really. I’m between jobs, so was looking to make the most of my free-time, anyway. I’m a solicitor and one of my clients recommended Tailwind. Then I looked at their website and saw this little jaunt.”

“Do you two travel together often?”

“We’ve never really done it before, not since we were kids. I divorced a year ago and haven’t bothered with a girlfriend since. Flick seemed the obvious person to ask along. At this time of year most of my friends are too busy to do anything, anyway, or they’re waiting for those Christmas credit card bills to arrive.”

“Do you know,” mused David, “I still haven’t a clue what this trip costs. My girlfriend booked it for me and for some reason we never got around to talking money.”

“That’s some girlfriend - but why isn’t she here?”

David stared blankly at the small TV in front of him. None of the on-screen options could help him answer that question.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to get personal.” Ethan tried to outwait any embarrassment by drawing a particularly long sip from his glass.

“Don’t worry; it’s just that a lot of things are going on in my life at the moment. I haven’t had time to think through any of them. If you don’t mind me saying, it sounds like you’re in a similar situation. Actually, I think that’s why Phoebe - my girlfriend - organised the trip for me. She knew I needed time out. I think she does too. Her father died suddenly this autumn. He was a really nice bloke.” David paused again and stared out at a bank of towering cloud some distance from the plane. “Hopefully, getting me out of the way will give her time to grieve.”

Ethan took a closer look at David. “You come across as a very honest bloke,” he observed.

“Thanks - if it’s true I’m not sure it’s done me any good. I upset quite a few people. In any event, another thing that’s dawning on me is that I’ve probably not been very honest with myself.”

“Is anybody?” enquired Ethan. “We all rationalise our actions to protect our egos. I didn’t have a good word to say about my wife when we split up, but my life was all about me, my mates and my career. She did well to stick by me as long as she did - we were married nearly seven years.”

“Any kids?”

“No, thank goodness. That was never part of my plan, although I suppose that shows a lack of maturity. I’m still not sure, but maybe it was the issue of children that finally made Silla, my Ex, walk out.”

The cabin radio crackled into life. The co-pilot announced they would shortly begin their descent into Cancun. “You may have heard about the unusually cold weather affecting much of North and Central America over the last few days. The good news is that this now seems to have passed and the long-range forecast is for bright and sunny conditions.”

There was a ripple of applause, followed by an outbreak of sudden fidgeting and the adjustment of seats.

“You know,” confessed Ethan, “I’ve really enjoyed our little conversation. It’s reassuring to get to know someone so early on.”

“Funny, isn’t it, how much easier it is to talk about your life when you’ve left your troubles behind. It’s the opposite of what you said before. Perhaps, on holiday, our egos are pampered anyway, so there’s no need to hide behind rationalisations.” David paused to check whether he could see anything bar cloud beyond the scratches in the perspex window. He couldn’t. “I would imagine,” he observed, “that this is going to be a journey in more than just the literal sense. Exciting, isn’t it?”

Ethan grinned broadly and winked at David. “I’ll see you in the terminal. I can see Flick looking for me, so I’d better get back. Perhaps we can meet for a drink later, at the hotel?”

“I’ll look forward to it.” David reached around and shook Ethan’s hand, then distracted himself from a bumpy descent by scrolling through to the flight map on his screen. He became aware of a sudden and unfamiliar sense of stillness. For reasons he had yet to divine, this was where he was meant to be.