Chapter 4
I am jolted awake to the sound of the captain announcing in a thick Spanish accent that we are about to make our descent into Meh-hee-co.
I blink myself fully awake. This is probably the third time I’ve woken during the flight in a cold sweat.
The first time, I woke yelling, ‘I’ve got a text!
’ which seemed to confuse a lot of people, and the cabin crew came running over to make sure my phone was in flight mode.
‘This is happening,’ I mutter. ‘This is really happening.’
The past week has felt like a bizarre dream.
And when I found myself at the mercy of the Love on the Island glam squad in London posing in a series of awkward angles for publicity photos, hands on hips, twisting this way and that, pretending to laugh, pretending to look seductive, pretending to care about something meaningful, all I could think was, What will Cameron think of these pictures?
Even when the photographer said, ‘Can you look less dreamy, as though you have something really, really important on your mind?’
I answered, ‘No problem.’ After all, my generation has literally everything to worry about, but it was still a struggle not to think about Cam and his kind eyes and lovely smile.
‘I’m anxious about global warming, never owning my own home and my massive brand-new credit card bill because of all the outfits you want me to bring to the villa,’ I told them.
To which they looked confused and said, ‘No. We meant just like what sandals are you going to wear tonight.’
In the end, they got fed up and told me to think about my moustache.
Then they ordered me to go to ‘Faces R Us’ beauty salon nearby as a matter of urgency to get my upper lip threaded.
They also advised me to get my roots touched up, my nails done, some Tatti Lashes glued on, and my eyebrows shaped before they could go any further.
‘Will that salon do all of those things?’ I asked.
They sniggered as though I’d asked the most ridiculous question.
‘You’ll have to make appointments at lots of different salons, but tell them LoveIt sent you and they’ll squeeze you in.
But tip big or they’ll do a crap job on you.
’ They handed me a pile of flyers with salon after salon offering to transform my hair, nails and ability to lure men.
It took a dark-haired, ponytailed Lothario all of twenty seconds to chop off a third of my hair and snip, snip, snip into it.
He fanned it out over my shoulders, making cooing noises as he admired his handiwork, and then clicked his fingers for someone else to come and finish it off.
I had little time to feel bereft at the clumps of hair lying around my feet because I was wheeled over to the sink and plonked on a vibrating chaise longue to have my head yanked back, massaged and conditioned.
All for only ￡300.36, which included a tiny paper bag, plus a tiny ￡30 bottle of hair rescue serum to put in the tiny paper bag plus a ￡40 tip. Poor, poor credit card.
So here I am, hurtling through the northern hemisphere on my way to see Cameron in real life.
All waxed, plucked and with a brand-new haircut (a long choppy bob enhanced with the eye-wateringly expensive beach waves and highlights).
My stomach is full of butterflies and for the entire flight I have been imagining there will be an attraction between us. A bond. A special thing.
I am also hoping that Arrogant Josh will see me on TV and regret treating me so badly and I will be forever his ‘the one that got away’.
I bring up the list of information Cameron has sent through.
Even just saying his name in my head is making me feel excited and nervous all at the same time.
The thought of us together on a stretch of deserted white sand, turquoise water, warm sea breeze making our sarongs flap, cocktails in hand, is sending quivers up my spine.
I scroll past the information telling me that, this year, the Love on the Island experience will take place deep in the sweltering rainforests of Mexico.
I try not to think about dense tropical jungles, man-eating snakes, spiders the size of my own face and permanently damp, sweaty hair.
Because on the positive side, Mexico is the hummus capital of the world.
I find the information telling me that, prior to the show, all potential contestants will temporarily stay in a holding villa on arrival.
We will each have a chaperone to keep us company while we acclimatise to the hot weather.
In bold letters there is a reminder that even though we have been selected, there is no guarantee that we will be picked to start the show as part of the original line-up.
It all sounds very uncertain. But even if I only get to meet Cam face to face so that I can make a good second impression, the trip will be worth it.
Whatever happens after that, I suppose, is down to fate.
* * *
As the plane shakes its way down to the ground through a series of air pockets and light, feathery clouds, the lush expanse of tropical forest comes sharply into view.
The coastline is striking because there’s barely any difference between the vivid cobalt blue of the sea and the sky.
They are separated by a thin strip of sand and what look like high-rise hotels.
Then the sheer size of Cancún city appears below me and it is breathtakingly enormous.
We swing out to sea and circle back around, flying low above the white beaches and dark green forest. There are perfect circles of vibrant turquoise waters dotted across the landscape that look other-worldly.
The country is vast. Simply vast. As we touch down on the runway, the captain says something rapidly in both English and Spanish and, before I know it, passengers are jostling to get out of their seats.
Once the jet bridge is fitted to the plane and people start to get off, I ease myself out of my seat and reach up for my travel case.
Lois insisted I take some hand luggage, in addition to my two massive suitcases crammed full of clothes and impractical, sky-scraping sandals.
It is all far too excessive, but she was adamant that I go prepared for any eventuality.
At the thought of our teary goodbye, my soul splinters.
We have not been separated like this since she was sent to Leeds for a nursing post, and I was shipped off to Durham on a teaching placement, during our university days.
I follow the crowd along the narrow bridge into the main terminal, tracking the signs to Immigration and Passport Control, down an escalator and across a large concourse that is rapidly filling with people making their way over to join the incredibly long queues.
It takes me nearly an hour to get through to the baggage claim area where I look for the carousel with my flight from England on it.
Every carousel is packed with people grabbing at luggage.
I cast my eye around for a trolley and spot one in the far corner.
It has been abandoned for a good reason, wonky wheels, but there doesn’t seem to be another one available.
I half drag and half push the trolley over to the carousel.
Suitcase after suitcase spills out onto the conveyor belt.
Soon, everyone has claimed their luggage but me.
I am hot. I am sticky. I am tired and I am on the verge of a major emotional outburst. I need those cases.
They have all of the clothes, the sandals and the make-up I need to make myself look Love on the Island ready.
I cannot go on the show without them. A message pings into my phone.
It is from my chaperone, CHAP 3, saying the driver is waiting for me at the exit and can I please hurry up or he will leave without me as he has another pickup to do, and I am making him late.
I explain to CHAP 3 that my bags have not arrived yet, and they reply to say that always happens, and that they will arrange for my suitcases to be delivered to the villa if they turn up.
If? If? If?
This is doing nothing for my sky-rocketing blood pressure. CHAP 3 says the main thing is that I do not miss my lift and become stranded at the airport. The holding villa is in a secret location and only my driver knows how to get there.
Oh. My. Word.
I swallow a lump of panic and clutch my carry-on case tightly. Thank goodness Lois insisted I take it. I make my way through the ‘Nothing to Declare’ doors where I am greeted by a serious-looking officer. He takes one look at my upset face and beckons me over.
‘You have things to declare?’ he says sharply.
I shake my head. I am struggling to hold back my tears as they pool in my eye sockets, ready to spill out.
‘I don’t even have any luggage to declare,’ I say mournfully.
‘My two suitcases, with everything I need to survive, have not turned up. I waited and waited and now my driver is going to leave without me. What will I do? I have nothing to wear. I need my suitcases.’
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.
‘You very late, Senora 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.