Elvis had dressed ready for action in Greece. He was wearing old khaki shorts and a striped shirt unbuttoned at the neck. On his head he had a rather battered straw boater.
"Yes, most amusing, I see what you mean," Elvis said. "Bit of an emergency, forgot the long trousers, sorry."
The doorman was seeing out his time until retirement at this popular posting. Nevertheless, he took it seriously and saw his role as being akin to a concierge at an exclusive London members club. He regretted the lounge had no formal written dress code. In its absence he saw himself as the last bastion of decency. If he had his way, he would have required full suit and tie.
"Yes, we do prefer long trousers sir, but the real problem today is your footwear. Unfortunately for health and safety reasons, bunions, verrucae, corns, that type of thing, we cannot accept persons wearing....flip flops."
He emphasised "flip flops" with every ounce of distaste he could muster.
Elvis argued his case but to no avail. All he achieved was a red face and indigestion. Eventually he realised this was not an argument he was going to win. With a defeated shrug he turned and barked dictatorially at Naomi.
"Come on, we are clearly not welcome here today, I shall take this higher but for now we're leaving."
"You leave if you want," Naomi replied. "I'm looking forward to the sandwiches and cake, plus a glass or two of sparkly stuff. I might even take a shower and use those wonderfully fluffy white towels. I'm going in, I'll see you at the departure gate darling."
With that she smiled sweetly at the beaming attendant who opened the double doors for her, and she disappeared from view.
Chapter Six
Whilst Naomi munched on her first egg cress sandwich, and Elvis skulked moodily around the departure lounge, their clients were finally being called for boarding in the South Terminal. The announcer had gone straight from Flight Delayed, to Last Call, so there was now an unseemly dash to Gate 43, a distant outpost assigned to the lesser airlines.
"Come on, let's get there asap, we're priority boarding so we can make sure we get the best seats," Cynthia told her party.
"I thought the whole idea of priority boarding was that we didn't have to rush," said her red-faced husband as he struggled with Cynthia's shopping bags and hand luggage.
When they arrived at the gate however they discovered that they were far from the first.
Cynthia led the other three past the long line of passengers waiting impatiently.
"We need to get to the front, ignore the sour looks, they're only jealous," said Cynthia.
The others followed meekly.
Two minutes later they were heading back in the opposite direction.
"Well what's the point of priority boarding if every buggers going to buy it?" said Cynthia.
It was fair to say that the wait in the Departure Lounge had been a tortuous one for Anne. If Cynthia had remarked once that she had thought it would have been a good idea to book a place in one of the lounges where you could relax in comfort, she must have said it a thousand times. Nothing met with Cynthia's approval. The coffee was too hot, too cold, or too strong. The chairs were uncomfortable or not supportive enough. The Departure Lounge was too noisy and full of people. When Anne had suggested they moved to Chez Gerard, that had been too expensive (though Anne was paying) and apparently not a patch on Cynthia's local Chez Gerard which was "a real dining experience." When Anne had suggested a turn around the shops Cynthia had condemned "all the materialistic people buying things that they did not need, shopping is the new religion." Finally, Anne had given up and joined the others in silent contemplation of the wait and the week that stretched out ahead of them.
Keith and the gang, on the other hand, had been having a whale of a time. Drinking slowly but solidly now for several hours, they were merry. They met each new announcement of the continued delay with good humour. Tony was by common agreement in the group its "joker." He said it had always been that way ever since he had been at school.
"My nickname at school was Tosser," he told them proudly.
His humour was not always appreciated. He had an unhappy knack of saying the wrong thing at the wrong time. As the technical problems were repeatedly cited as the reason for the delay, Tony ran through his repertoire.
"The wheels are probably loose," he told those around him, "the wing nuts must have come off."
Later he suggested that the wiring had gone haywire, and then that the pilot might be drunk. The group began to attract first interest and then comment from other groups of passengers, who had been happy to let the lads enjoy themselves until Tony's comments started to cause nervousness amongst them. Eventually security was called in to have a word and they were asked to move on from the Queen Victoria.
"That's the first time I've ever been barred from a pub, and it's still only nine o'clock," Tony told his mates. "I'm loving this holiday already. Wow look at that!"
Keith and the others looked to where Tony was pointing and took in a tall slim dark-haired woman in her early twenties.
"Yep, stunning," said Keith.
"You can win her for only £50" replied Tony.
"You're sounding well dodgy now," said Mike.
"Look at that body, the shape, the lines. I could spend hours buffing that at the weekend," Tony said as he looked on longingly.
"Now you just sound plain weird mate," said Keith. "Anyway, she's out of your league," added Malcolm.
"Normally yes, but at £50 I'm in with a chance," said Tony as he walked straight past the girl to the gleaming Aston Martin behind her. Keith and the others read the promotional banner above the car as the assistant approached them.
"Good morning gentlemen," she said as she caught a whiff of their alcohol breath.
"You seem to be in a bright and breezy mood, fancy winning an Aston Martin," she chimed, "or similar car?" she added more quietly.
"Our mate does," said Malcolm.
"Stunning," said Tony.
"He's talking about the car," said Keith.
"Well, Alicia," said Tony peering glassily at her name badge, "do I get a bulk purchase discount?"
Alicia smiled thinking of the commission.
"I'm sure we can arrange that, Sir. Perhaps one free for every twenty you buy."
"Twenty? But that would cost…" he counted unsuccessfully on his fingers, "well, a lot. I was thinking more of two, maybe three at a stretch."
"If you're serious Tony," interjected Keith, "you'd best put the ticket in my name, given my luck at the hospice raffle and all. But I got to say mate think about it. You're chucking away a hundred and fifty smackers of drinking money. What's your chance of winning out of all the tickets they've sold?
"But that's exactly it mate," replied Tony, "I reckon I'm in with a chance. After all, how many people are stupid enough to buy tickets at £50 a throw?"
"Are you holidaying alone?"
Naomi looked up from her in-flight magazine. The speaker was male. About 65. Dyed hair going a little thin, but still with enough to form a quiff that probably took him hours to perfect. He wore beige slacks, an open necked YSL shirt, and had a blue Pringle jumper slung casually around his shoulders.
"I know Kerkira like a local and would be happy to show you around."
"Kerkira?" asked Naomi.
"Oh God I'm sorry, I used the Greek name for Corfu. I'm always doing that as I speak a little Greek. Was that pretentious of me?"
Naomi let the question hang unanswered.
"That's