Draft first chapter of a novel

Andrew Taylor felt like a complete twat. Everybody in the queue for the airport check-in seemed to be dressed entirely in pastels. In the midst of a sea of pale pinks, baby blues, yellows, beiges and whites, he alone was wearing black. Actually, to be accurate it was a combination of charcoal grey and black, but it still made him stand out like the only grown-up at a childrens’ party or a drug squad officer at a rock festival. His face glowed at the thought.

What made his embarrassment particularly annoying was that he had made a real effort to look cool. A couple of hours before he had posed in front of the mirror in his trendiest suit. Okay it was from Marks and Sparks, but obviously the mandarin collar and purple satin lining had been too much for the high street. That was why it had been such a bargain in the sale. With a collar and tie it looked businesslike, without making him look like a businessman. With the black tee-shirt he was now wearing it was part of the perfect smart, but casual, combination. It really was the suit that was right for any occasion. Well, almost any occasion.

But what do you wear to a funeral in Ibiza? Maybe everybody would be dressed in colourful holiday gear. He had a bag full of that, if necessary, but he wasn’t going to crush his best suit in there. All that mattered was that he didn’t look conspicuous. He prided himself on his ability to fit into any situation, even if the price of that was to be ignored sometimes, or a lot of the time.

Now he knew it was a mistake. Actually he had begun to have misgivings in the taxi on the way to the airport.

“Where are you off to?” the cabbie asked, in the way that hairdressers feel obliged to find out what your up to that evening.

Andrew toyed with the idea of lying and giving the name of somewhere that sounded less downmarket to him. But his mouth reacted faster than his brain and he said: “Ibiza.”

The cabbie laughed. “Well you’ll not be off clubbing every night, will you?”

He didn’t like being laughed at. Anyway, how could somebody he’d never met before make assumptions about what he might do? But Andrew had the perfect retort for the cabbie.

“I’m off to my wife’s funeral,” he said.

His cheeks glowing slightly from having said what he thought was unsayable, he waited for silence. But the cabbie did reply. Unfortunately it coincided with the cab pulling on to the M8 motorway and his story was drowned out by the rattle of the diesel engine. Not that the noise deterred the driver, he just kept on talking. So, for the next ten minutes, Andrew perched uncomfortably on the edge of his seat, leaning towards the glass partition, saying “Aye” or “No” as the story seemed to demand.

Finally the cab pulled up outside the terminal. “So you see it worked out okay for me,” said the cabbie. “Just remember, life’s not a rehearsal.” Andrew handed him £16 for the £14 journey and took his place in the queue that snaked from the only two open check-in desks.

He looked round at his fellow passengers to see if there was anybody he could hope to sit next to on the flight. There wasn’t. Harry, the Glaswegian business editor at The Standard, had been spot on. “You’re going to Ibiza at 11.30 on a Friday night on a charter flight? It’ll be like a fucking cooncil hoose wae wings. They’ll be smashing the windaes, shagging in the aisles and flogging the Big Issue as you get on.”

Now a small child was entertaining herself by rhythmically bashing a luggage trolley into the back of Andrew’s legs. He turned round and fixed her with what he believed was his most evil stare. She looked at him and smiled, then stuffed one grubby finger up her nose. As soon as he had his back to her she started again, but with renewed vigour. In retaliation he raised a heel so that the trolley banged into that and with a little flick he knocked it back so she went sprawling. He was sure nobody had seen his neat trick and he smiled to himself at this small victory as the girl bawled behind him. But he couldn’t resist sneaking a glance at the child’s discomfiture. As he turned the father showed Andrew just how evil a stare can be, when it’s done properly.

A strong believer that you are what you read, Andrew buried his face in the dance music magazine he’d lifted from the arts editor’s desk as he left the newspaper office. The cover line about the summer’s best Ibiza clubs had caught his eye along as had the free CD. A quick bit of homework and he could talk to his daughter like an expert. That’s one thing about journalism, you learn to make a little knowledge go a long way. He also hoped that his fellow travellers would notice what he was reading and realise how hip and trendy he was despite the dodgy suit.