I fixed him with my most glacial stare. ‘Jolly good. Should keep the riff-raff out, eh?’ I stalked past him to collapse into a monstrously overstuffed blue leather armchair.
George virtually sprinted across the room and was about to forcibly evict me when a tall young girl in AlbionAir livery appeared at his shoulder and had a quiet word in his ear.
The magic wand of Celebrity was duly waved. I was no longer some scruffy little plebeian polluting the hallowed ground of the First Class Lounge, and George was transformed. ‘Miss Bresson! How delightful. Always a pleasure to have an artist in our midst…’
‘Don’t be a star-fucker. Sparkling mineral water – please – then keep the hell out of my way.’ I retrieved a copy of Private Eye from my hand luggage and engrossed myself in Pseud’s Corner, surreptitiously watching George trying to recover his dignity as he scurried over to the bar.
I reached the centre pages of my magazine, and a piece of embossed ivory paper slid onto my lap. An understated, discreet font proclaimed, Albermarle Hall – A Greeting, and underneath was a photograph of the woman I was unwillingly travelling to meet.
The pose was a clever, if obvious, mirroring of a Renaissance portrait: Blaine Albermarle stood in front of a fireplace that had been filled with a florist’s entire stock and smiled warmly out at me in welcome. She was a tall, handsome woman in her mid-forties, with an immaculately made-up face and long auburn hair piled in a perfect chignon. She radiated the effortless style that came from excellent breeding and vast wealth, and in her dove-grey silk trouser suit she looked like the progressive headmistress of a girls’ boarding school.
I wondered if it was my own dark mood that projected a subtle arrogance onto her confident stance. I doubted it. ‘You’re going to be a nightmare,’ I muttered. I folded the page and read on.
At the exclusive island retreat of Albermarle Hall, your comfort and privacy are our twin priorities. We guarantee a place where you can rest undisturbed by the countless demands of the outside world.
In order to maintain this tranquillity, we respectfully request that you leave behind any recording and electronic equipment, including laptop computers, cameras, mobile phones and music-playing technology. Please note that to this end,
there is no electrical supply to any of our guests’ suites.
Although we acknowledge that this may initially involve a tearful separation, we assure you that the ensuing harmony with your environment will prove a more than adequate reward. Why not take the time to discover the romance of candlelight and open fires, and explore a life free from the constraints of the Twenty-First Century?
We look forward to welcoming you to Albermarle – A World Away.
Blaine Albermarle and Staff.
I ripped the paper in two and said ‘fuck’ loud enough to receive irritated glances from the businessmen twenty yards across the lounge.
Normally the first to read the small print, I had deliberately hidden away any paperwork that referred to this ridiculous task, and now I found myself kissing goodbye to a laptop, a mobile phone and two fully-loaded MP3 players, not to mention the halogen light that allowed me to work through the night if I so desired. I stared disconsolately out over the shimmering tarmac and wondered if I might be granted permission to shave my legs.
*****
Once on board, I took refuge behind the First Class curtain. I retrieved a sketch pad and a pencil from my hand luggage and fell back into my seat, kicking off my shoes again and pulling my bare feet under my thighs. Only then did I glance around to see who my travelling companions were.
The early flight was almost deserted. My only company was a black-clad young man sprawled across two seats directly across the aisle, and I recognised him immediately: Gabriel James was the singer-songwriter whose face was plastered across every music magazine as the Next Big Thing. A mop of chestnut pre-Raphaelite curls fell over a delicate, arrogant face and Ray Bans hid his eyes from non-existent glare, or more likely sheltered pupils dilated by whatever he had necked on the way to the airport.
‘God, aren’t you pretty?’ I found a clean page to capture his profile.
We had been in the air for no more than fifteen minutes when Gabriel pulled a duty-free carrier bag from his overhead locker, ripped open its seal, and extracted a litre bottle of Bourbon. He had just poured a half a pint into a plastic cup when a flight attendant with a face like a granite slab approached.
‘Excuse me, sir, but I’m afraid you’re not allowed to open your duty free whilst airborne.’