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He smiles. ‘I’ll make sure I allow more time next time, if there is a next time.’
‘There has to be at least one next time,’ I tell him. ‘You’ve got to experience the delights of the Bellavista in Corfu with me.’
Our conversation is cut short by the process of dropping our bags and making our way through security. I’m pleased to see that he’s organised enough to have his carry-on liquids already in a see-through plastic bag; I’m always amazed by the number of people who seem to be caught out by that, or try to take more than the allowance through.
I pass through security with no issues, but Toby has to have his bag searched. When he’s finally allowed to proceed, he zips it up and walks over to me.
‘Would you believe that happens pretty much every time?’ he says. ‘You would think they’d never seen a camera, or lenses, before.’
‘Have you ever been through security at Tel Aviv?’ I ask him, as we set off in the direction of the gate.
‘No, why?’
‘This is a walk in the park compared to there. They would probably have dismantled your camera, and they would definitely have swabbed every nook and cranny. I took a simple battery-powered alarm clock through there once in my hold baggage, and they went berserk. They swabbed the poor thing so much it never worked again. Israel is an amazing country though, you should go.’
‘Is there anywhere in the world you haven’t been?’ he asks.
‘Oh yes. Quite a lot of the Middle East, for example. I wouldn’t feel very safe as a woman travelling on my own there, although I’d love to go to Jordan and see Petra. I’ve also never been to Russia, China or Japan. I’ve seen quite a lot of the rest of it, though. You must travel quite a lot with your work too? All those bikini-clad girls on beautiful white sand beaches are hardly shot in Bournemouth, are they?’
‘Actually, I have done a few bikini shoots in Bournemouth,’ he replies. ‘With photography you don’t have to be in the Caribbean to make it look like the Caribbean, if you get my drift. You just need a nice sandy beach; careful lighting and Photoshop help with everything else. So I don’t actually do as much travelling abroad as you might think. Also, if a magazine likeVoyages Luxeswants stunning pictures of, say, New Zealand, they can just hire a photographer who lives out there and get the images sent across. Much cheaper than paying for me to go there.’
‘I guess I never really thought about it like that,’ I reply.
‘What about you? Do you ever have to fake it?’ he asks.
‘Of course! If the guy doesn’t know what he’s doing, I don’t want to be there all day,’ I say, before bursting into laughter as the realisation of his double-entendre dawns on him and he blushes furiously.
‘Sometimes, when I was just starting out, I’d research a place on the internet and then try to write about it as if I’d been there,’ I tell him, more seriously. ‘Nobody will fund your trips up front when you’re new, so either you have to fund them yourself and hope someone will commission your article, or you have to find a way to write convincingly without actually doing the travel. For me it was a mix of both in the early days. I did fall foul of one editor, because it turned out he had actually lived for a period in the place that I’d written about and he therefore spotted all the things I’d got wrong. The funny thing was that he was so impressed that I’d managed to get so much of a feel for it just from internet research that he became one of my first regular clients. For the first couple of years, he would always demand to see receipts as proof that I had actually been to the places I was writing about, though.’
We settle into a couple of seats near the gate and a companionable silence descends. From the number of our fellow passengers kitted out in thick, brightly coloured puffa jackets I deduce that most of them are also heading for the ski slopes. It’s still dark outside, but the first glimmers of dawn light are creeping over the horizon. I pull my laptop out of my bag and start reading the famil pack from the Mirabelle. Unsurprisingly, they want us to try the restaurant, which I’ve already booked for this evening, and the spa.
‘So,’ Toby asks, suddenly, ‘tell me more about this place in Corfu. Why do we have to go there?’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Earlier, when we were at the bag drop, you said I had to experience the Bellavista in Corfu with you. What’s that about?’
I explain to him about the mismatch between my review and TripAdvisor, glossing over the part where Mark was about to drop me, and tell him how it inspired me to come up with the idea of doing incognito visits.
‘So that’s what he meant about getting your fingers burned,’ he comments when I’ve finished. He’s obviously got an extraordinary memory for detail, as I don’t remember anything along those lines being said while he was in the room.
I grit my teeth at the memory of that meeting and bury myself back in the famil packs. After a while the flight starts to board and there’s the usual confused scrum where those who haven’t paid for priority boarding try to see if they can sneak on early. An attendant spots a man with two pieces of hand baggage and descends on him like a hawk.
‘I’m sorry, sir,’ she tells him in a tone of voice that indicates she isn’t sorry at all, ‘you’re only allowed one piece of hand baggage unless you’ve paid for priority boarding. One of those will have to go into the hold.’
He’s having none of it, though, insisting that it said he could bring two when he booked. The argument that ensues is predictable; she digs her heels in and just repeats the policy while he becomes ever more enraged. The whole area round the gate has fallen silent to listen, and I find myself feeling slightly sorry for him, as this is only going to end one way. Sure enough, the attendant’s immovable attitude wears him down eventually, and he hands over one of his bags. She marches off, clutching it like a prize, and he looks dejected. His jaw is still moving silently, and I’m fairly sure he’s muttering obscenities under his breath.
We file onto the plane and there is the usual scramble for the overhead lockers. Thankfully, there is space in the locker above our row and we hastily cram our bags into it before sitting down. I managed to get us aisle and centre seats, and Toby very gallantly takes the middle one. The window seat next to him is currently empty, and I find myself automatically scanning the other boarding passengers, trying to work out who is going to fill it. I’ve lost count of the number of novels I’ve read where the heroine finds herself sitting next to some gorgeous man on a plane, they strike up a conversation and end up getting married. I can safely say that nothing remotely like that has ever happened to me. Sure enough, a large, middle-aged woman stops at our row and indicates that the window seat is hers. Toby and I dutifully stand up and move aside to allow her access and, after fiddling around to get a magazine out of her bag, she heaves herself into position and flops down with a groan. Unfortunately for Toby she is overflowing the seat a little, so he’s forced to squash himself over towards me to make room for her.
‘Look on the bright side,’ I whisper in his ear. ‘We’re only going to Geneva. Imagine if it was long haul and you were going to be like that for eight hours or more.’
Toby smiles grimly. ‘I’ve just remembered one of the reasons I’m glad I don’t travel as much as you,’ he whispers, and I can’t stop a giggle escaping.
‘Well, look at the two of you! What a charming couple you make. Have you been together long?’ The woman has obviously mistaken us pressing our heads together and whispering as a sign of intimacy. I open my mouth to correct her, but Toby is too quick for me.
‘About six months,’ he tells her with a smile. ‘This is our first holiday together though.’
‘Aww, that’s lovely. I hope you’ll have a wonderful time. Where are you staying?’
