Next morning, I woke with a head that felt like the Yankees had been using it for baseball practice. I groggily looked at my watch, surprised to see that it hadn’t been lost or stolen in my stupor of the previous night. Nine o’clock. Well, so much for my early-morning jaunt to the park. Coffee and bacon sandwiches, I thought, and don’t spare the calories.
I dressed slowly, each movement threatening to relieve me of my stomach. I descended in the lift, face pressed against the cold steel doors for comfort, removing it just in time to avoid falling flat on my face as they flew open at the ground floor. I staggered out and looked around for the exit, having left my sense of direction and memory at the bottom of a vodka glass.
I stopped in my tracks. Holy shit! I clasped my hands to my head. I was hallucinating. All around me were grotesque figures – men with huge deformed ears, others who were half-human, half-beast, children with two heads dragging mangled limbs. I’d died and gone to hell.
I looked around frantically, bile rising in my throat. I could see hotel staff behind reception, going about their normal business, not batting an eyelid at this horror in front of them.
Deep breath, deep breath, stay calm. This was obviously a figment of my imagination. What the hell did I drink last night?
I edged my way around the foyer, head down, lest I make eye contact with one of the beasts and be beamed up to their planet where I’d be impregnated by a predatory creature. Watching Alien 2 in my room a few nights before had clearly left scars and I was no Sigourney Weaver.
I occasionally peeked up to see if the monsters had gone, but no, they were getting closer: chatting, milling around, interacting with each other like they were normal beings.
I finally reached the door, but a huge board blocked it. Standing in front of it, I was deafened by the roar of my beating heart. Panic was rising. I squeezed past the obstacle. I was almost there. The automatic doors gradually opened. Free! I burst out into the morning sun. Holy Sigourney, the relief! I was never drinking alcohol again.
I turned around to check that I hadn’t imagined it all, but I couldn’t see past the board. The board. What did it say? I squinted, trying desperately to focus, before emitting a cackle so loud that passers-by crossed the street to avoid me. In huge letters it read:
HERE TODAY – NATIONAL STAR TREK CONVENTION.
I smiled all the way to Pierre’s and stumbled in the doorway.
‘Ma chère,’ he chided gently, ‘you look, how you say, like sheet.’
That evening, I called Kate.
‘Just wanted to check that armed guards haven’t been posted at the airport to prevent me re-entering the country,’ I explained.
‘They have,’ she quipped, ‘but we’ve formed an underground resistance and we plan to create a diversion while you commando crawl through Arrivals.’
My head still hurt when I laughed.
‘Anyway, down to the important stuff. Did you meet Mr Tall, Dark and Handsome?’ she asked.
It took me a moment to suss what she was talking about. I’d completely forgotten about Mighty Romano’s prediction. Kate, however, was obviously still clutching on to the prospect of a fairy tale ending.
‘No,’ I replied, ‘but I did have a run in with Dr Spock and a Klingon. It’s a long story.’
Bewildered silence.
‘I’ll explain when I get home,’ I promised. ‘Can you collect me at the airport, please?
‘Of course. I’ll bring a banner saying, ”Congratulations, you managed to stay out of trouble for a whole three weeks” I’m proud of you,’ she teased. ‘No men, no disasters, and you haven’t been arrested.’
She was clearly forgetting that I still had a whole day left to go.
I checked in at the British Airways desk with a heavy heart, then trudged through security and on to the departure lounge. I consulted the screens and saw my reprieve – the flight was delayed for six hours. Yes!
I made for the bar. As I waited to be served, my eyes fell on a sight of unrivalled gorgeousness. At the other side of the L-shaped marble counter was a real, live Ken doll (without the peanut bosoms), crossed with the Marlboro man. I looked him up and down, feeling the old twinges of attraction that had got me into so much trouble before.
I looked away quickly, remembering that I was to men what the Colorado beetle was to potato crops. I would NOT be tempted again, EVER.
Okay, just one more peek…
He was about twenty-five, over six foot tall, with black hair, piercing green eyes, eyelashes that you could dust furniture with and a burnt wood tan. He was broad, with hands like shovels and biceps bigger than rugby balls. And the whole package fitted perfectly into a black T-shirt and jeans. I stared, mouth open. Was he Mighty Romano’s tall, dark guy?
He spoke to the barman, asking for change for the telephone, then disappeared out the door.
No, no, come back, I silently pleaded.
But he didn’t return.
‘Bollocks,’ I fumed, making a mental note to give Mighty Romano a swift kick in the nuts when I got home.
I passed the six hours with four lads from Birmingham and an old lady from Hull who proceeded to Tequila slam us under the table.
As I boarded the plane, I realised that I had acquired a Stetson and double vision. I squinted, as again I tried to focus. I definitely need my eyes checked, I thought. 52C. 52C. I struggled to spot the position of my seat. My
