'Darling, you'll be surprised how quickly people forget. They have the attention spans of goldfish. We're yesterday's news. Trust me.'
He knew he was right. Twenty-four days ago his name had been dragged across the front pages of all the national dailies, but by now the press had already moved on to the next big scandal. He'd been in some tight squeezes before, but damage limitation was easy if you knew the right people, and no minister worth his salt got far in the cabinet without making decent connections. He made sure that the rumours about his private life could never be confirmed. The call-girl who had sold her story to the press about their sexual escapades had been paid to recant her version of events, and the whole thing had been parlayed into a photo opportunity featuring Trevor Colson, stalwart Conservative MP, hugging the loyal wife who stood by him. There had been the exposure of his vested interests with the nuclear lobby, the accusation of insider trading, and the homes-for-votes cover-up, but all of it had remained innuendo, and any journalist who had dared to suggest otherwise was vigorously pursued into the courtroom.
But this last business was a little more serious. Colson had acted as financial adviser to a banking syndicate that had run foul of international trading barriers. As an MP he had been expected to foresee such problems and remove them for his partners. But he had failed to read up on the new laws and take appropriate action in time to prevent the bank at the centre of the syndicate from going bust overnight. Investors had lost fortunes, institutions had collapsed, and the Right Hon. Trevor Colson and his wife had decamped to the sun, to spend three weeks incognito in their five star hotel waiting for the fuss to die down.
The taxi swerved on to the two-lane blacktop leading to the centre of the island, and the airport came into view. It consisted of little more than one runway, an oblong white box which housed arriving and departing passengers, a few concrete sheds and an unfinished air traffic control room with rusted iron rods sticking out of one end. There was also a dead pelican. It had been lying on the verge of the runway when they arrived, and was still there.
As the cab pulled up behind a cluster of hotel minivans, Trevor watched the disembarking passengers with a scornful glare in his eyes. Looking at their sunburned faces, their smutty-joke T-shirts, their shoddy luggage, their hideous screaming children, he almost felt glad that many were returning to find their savings wiped out. It would teach them to invest more wisely in future.
The collapse of the bank had affected the common man in the street, about whom he cared not a jot, but it had also damaged some businesses it didn't pay to annoy; the collapsed bank was, after all, built on Russian and Sicilian money, and the further back you followed the paper trail the murkier the finance connections became. Still, he was confident that his long-term prospects were unharmed; a few lunches with the right people had seen to that.
There were holidaymakers sitting on the airport steps, which seemed odd. It looked as if they'd been there for quite a while. Inside, Trevor's worst fears were confirmed; their plane had failed to arrive, and the ground staff had no information as to the current whereabouts of the inbound flight. Stephanie, the hard-faced little airline representative who was striding around the check-in area with her clipboard, informed him in the most extraordinary nasal voice that it was likely the flight had not yet left London, so the delay would be considerable, and as there were no other flights available they would just have to sit tight. Leaving the vicinity of the airport was impossible once they had checked their bags, and if the plane failed to turn up within the next three hours they would probably all have to stay overnight as the airport was not licensed for flights during the hours of darkness – but, she promised, they would be issued with vouchers for a free lamb stew and complimentary glass of house red.
Stephanie had a tough time making herself heard before the Economy passengers, several of whom had stripped down to shorts, climbed up on the roof of the departure lounge and were now dancing to blurred techno from their portable music system. The island had a healthy rave culture that attracted clubbable youngsters from across Europe.
'Look at this shower,' spat Trevor. 'The roof's covered in pirouetting queers. Presumably they have no future appointments arranged in their empty lives and don't need to worry about reaching Heathrow on time.' He mopped his forehead angrily. 'Stay here, Celia. I'll find out what the hell's going on.'
'You're entitled to a complimentary sandwich from the buffet,' promised Stephanie, her hard little face and voice hardening still further as Trevor glared at her. 'And a Sprite.'
Trevor looked suddenly lost. There was no social order here in the airport. There seemed to be no-one with overall authority, and there was no foreseeable escape route that could be accessed with the wave of a credit card.
'Well, we can't stay here,' he snapped, and found he was talking to himself. Celia had wandered over to the gift shop, which was selling mutated ceramic donkeys, headsquares printed with out-of-register pictures of the island's hotels, phallic bottles of sickly yellow liquor and week-old copies of El Pais. 'Celia, for God's sake!'
'I was looking for stomach pills. If we're going to be eating- '
'We're not going to be eating anywhere,' hissed Trevor. 'That stupid girl has no idea what's going on.'
'So what do you suggest we do?'
'Excuse pliz?'
A short, overweight taxidriver was standing behind them in a sweat-stained tropical shirt. 'Are you speaking to me?' asked Trevor, horrified.
'There will be no plane here tonight.'
'What do you mean?'
'This happen every week.' He held his thumb and forefinger together, counting out the words. 'There – will – be – no – plane – tonight. It come in morning, eleven or twelve, not before. Never before this hours.'
'Are you quite sure?'
The taxidriver smiled, revealing an unbroken row of gold teeth beneath his ratty moustache. 'You smart gentleman. Would I lie to you?'
Trevor queued to use the only pay-telephone that was working, and eventually managed to speak to their hotel manager. 'But you must have a vacancy,' he shouted, 'if my plane doesn't turn up, you'll have no guests arriving on the incoming flight, will you?' The argument ended with Trevor slamming down the receiver.
'What did he say?' asked Celia, fanning herself with a postcard.
'They're overbooked. Some sort of conference. He's already installed new guests in our room.'
'You should never have tipped him so much,' she sniffed. 'It gives them airs.'
'Don't you see, if our own hotel can't put us up for the night, that ghastly woman will try and put us in one of her disgusting tavernas.' Suddenly aware that their conversation was being overheard, they turned to find the little taxidriver watching them happily.
'And what on earth is he grinning about?' asked Celia loudly.
'Pliz, I have a cousin.'
'How very nice for you.' Celia snapped her sarcastic smile off and turned back to her husband. 'Well? We can't just stand around here with all these appalling people.'
'Pliz, I have a cousin who has hotel, very nice, very clean. Everything else booked.'
'We're not interested in your – '
'Wait,' said Trevor, gingerly touching his sweat-slick arm. 'Why is everything else booked?'
'Start of high season,' came the reply. 'School holidays.'
'Why isn't your cousin fully booked, then?'
'Hotel not finished yet. He can't get his licence until government inspection.'
'Then he's not supposed to take in guests until then.'
'He needs the money. Don't worry, no-one knows you stay there.'
'Where is this place?'
'Trevor, you're not seriously thinking of – '
'Do you have any better ideas?'