‘You very late, Señora Jackson,’ he says by way of greeting. ‘Where are your suitcases?’
I shrug and he appears to know instantly that they are still sitting on the tarmac back in Manchester.
‘Let’s go!’ He hurries me over to a waiting limo and screeches away at high speed, through the spaghetti-like mass of roads and roundabouts and onto a near-empty highway. Soon we’re on a narrow track, travelling through a jungle abyss. Dense, impenetrable walls of tropical forest, tangled with shrubs and compacted vegetation, line the way. They loom above us, blocking out the fading light. Even if another car was coming towards us, I fail to see how we’d be able to pull over to let them pass.
My heart is racing, and not in a good way. The time has come to dig deep for that resilience within.
I have no idea where I am going.
I have no luggage.
I have a huge orange stain down the front of my cream shirt and, because I have nothing but a hospital gown to change into, I will look like a patient fresh from surgery for the foreseeable future, until my suitcases arrive.
I also failed to brush up on the language on the flight over, because I was daydreaming about Cam and what he would say when he sees my new beach wave highlights and glossy nails, and now, regretfully, I can’t understand a word that the taxi driver is saying.
Deep breaths.
I am living the dream. Living the dream.
5
Thirty-five minutes later, we arrive at the holding villa. It is such a relief that I climb out of the car and stumble over to the door, dragging my carry-on behind me as though the driver has been holding me hostage. In all fairness, that is exactly how it felt. CHAP 3, my chaperone, did not reply to a single one of my texts. Not even when I said that I had been successfully picked up but was unsure if it was by the right person as he was not forthcoming with his information, and would they kindly confirm that I have not been accidentally abducted.
Nothing. Not one word. My nerves are already shot to bits what with the stress of travelling alone to the other side of the planet, only to navigate my way through a hall full of aggressive timeshare and car-hire touts. I hammer on the door until an unimpressed Mexican woman answers.
‘Hello, I’m Libby,’ I say, exhausted. ‘Are you my chaperone?’
She says, ‘Oh, you’re here.’ Almost as though she’s forgotten that her ward, her top-secret person of importance, her one and only job, has arrived.
Oh, you’re here?Is that it?
‘I thought you’d be longer,’ she says, looking past me. ‘Did you tip the driver?’
‘Do I need to tip the driver? The TV company have paid him already.’
‘Yeah, of course you should still tip. Otherwise, he’ll refuse to drive you anywhere ever again. Tipping is a huge part of our culture. Since the Americans started coming.’
‘That would have been nice to know.’
I don’t mean to bicker, but I am jet-lagged and hungry and ready for a shower then bed. I’m not really in the mood for some social commentary.
‘All Americans know about tipping, don’t they?’
‘I don’t.’
‘Why not?’
‘I’m from England.’
‘Oh, yeah. You’re the British one. That’s right. Well, you have to tip. Just give him ten dollars or something.’
I dig around in my bag and pull out some coins. ‘Will one pound fifty do?’
She rolls her eyes. ‘Leave it to me.’
She marches over to the poor driver who is watching our heated exchange, motor running, anxious to get to his next fare.
‘You owe me twenty dollars,’ she says, walking past me into the villa.
