He is not interested in my lost luggage or the imminent lack of day-into-nightwear options. Not in the slightest. In fact, it is almost as though I’d not even mentioned lost luggage.
‘Open,’ he barks.
I hump the carry-on onto the desk and open it up. I’m as surprised as he is to see a huge first aid kit lying on top. Lois. He lifts it out to discover a mountain of bacterial wipes, rubber gloves, packets of clinical NHS-badged adult paper knickers, a surgical gown, tape, a packet of plasters, extreme jungle anti-mosquito sprays, small bottles of Dettol, a year’s supply of Imodium and face masks. Everything a serial murderer would need to take their victims apart limb from limb, deposit them deep in the jungle and tidy up neatly afterwards.
‘Ah, you doctor?’ he asks.
‘No.’
‘You nurse? You no have visa. You here working illegally? Take our jobs?’
‘No. Absolutely not. I’m a Love-on-the-Islander,’ I say without thinking.
He looks at me, confused.
‘I’m here for a TV show,’ I explain. ‘LoveIt Television?Love on the Island?’
I have never seen anyone look so disappointed in my life. He shakes his head. ‘My children watch this show. Is terrible.’
I have to agree. ‘Yes, it is. I’m very sorry. It’s going to be even worse this year because I am on it.’
He looks at me for a few seconds as he discernibly translates what I am saying in his head before he breaks into a wry grin. ‘You take selfie?’
‘You want me to take a selfie?’
‘Yes. For my many daughters. They think I’m not cool, but I show them.’ He chuckles to himself while he holds up his phone.
If it will get me out of here, why not? So I take a selfie with him and within seconds he repacks my case for me and sends me on my way with a promise to investigate the whereabouts of my missing luggage. I hurry towards the exit, hoping and praying my driver is still there. To my delight there is a drinks machine selling cold cans of pop. My phone pings again as a gulp of delicious cold liquid is running down my throat. It’s my chaperone.
Do not get stopped by the people in the airport asking who your transfer is with!
What?
Then another text.
They are timeshare bandits. They rent the space in the airport to trick people into going with them to talk about buying timeshares. Do not stop. Keep walking all the way through the concourse to the exit. DO NOT STOP!
If I wasn’t nervous before, then I am bloody nervous now. At the far side of the concourse, I can see a whole line of people almost blocking the path to the exit. They have clipboards. They are wearing suits. They look very officious. They have stopped people to talk to them.
Just as I am feet away from the sliding exit doors, a man pounces, causing me to spill the rest of the pop down the front of my cream-coloured top. ‘Hello. You are from England, right? Who is your transfer with? Let me see if I have you on my list.’
He sounds so convincing. He is checking his clipboard and smiling broadly at me. It feels rude not to acknowledge him as I desperately try to dab myself down. I’m soaked through. I have a huge orange stain spreading outwards across the material.
‘No thank you,’ I say firmly as he follows me along without a word of apology for causing me to spill my drink.
Dab, dab, dab.
‘Wait just a moment,’ he says, still smiling. ‘I have you on my list.’
‘Oh. You’re my driver?’
Dab, dab, dab.
He raises his eyebrows as though in answer. ‘Yes. What is your name please and where are you staying?’ he asks.
Good job I have no idea. But he’s answered my question and that’s all that matters. ‘You would know my name if you were my driver,’ I say firmly as I dab at the awful stain and push past him. I head out through the exit to see a small, sweaty man wearing a shirt and tie with socks and sandals. He is waving a large card with my name on it.
‘Please don’t be a con man,’ I plead silently as I make my way over.
