Page 6 of Harper's Holiday Romance
Bring on Mexico.
2
When we left the air-conditioned confinements of the airport, we were swarmed by over twenty different representatives for private taxis and package holiday transfers. A long line of drivers stood firm with their handmade paper signs, none said Harper Fox. We undoubtedly looked clueless. I’m sure we screamed,Come and take advantage of me. I’m just a dumb English tourist. The crowd of locals honed in on us. I turned to Sarah who looked just as confused as me.
“Surely there’s a BA rep around here somewhere,” I said.
“I don’t see one,” Sarah observed.
“Did you book a transfer?” Billie asked. The question was directed at me, rightly so, because I was the one who booked the holiday.
“Transfers are included in all package holidays, aren’t they?” I frantically searched through my emails. Why did I assume that? I was a serial double-checker, and a triple-checker. I would never book a holiday without a transfer, would I?
There was no service. My phone provider kindly advised me via a text that the rates in Mexico were extortionate, and if I didn’t purchase an add-on that cost double the price of my actual phone bill, my next bill would be more than my mortgage payment—in so many words. I bought the cheapest add-on option which I assumed would give me enough data to access mydocuments and solve the problem. Five different people approached me within sixty seconds.
“Ma’am where are you going?”
“Señorita, do you want a taxi?”
“Do you need a taxi? I have a good price.”
My brain was so overwhelmed with questions, scenarios, and uncertainty it felt like it might implode. I could feel my heart pounding from every possible pulse point. I felt disorientated. The sense of impending doom might seem like an exaggeration to some but not me. No transfer meant no way of getting to the hotel safely. We were about to get ripped off by some sweet-looking Mexican man with a moustache and a Hawaiian shirt who was secretly working for the cartel and about to take us to some drug lord and hold us for ransom.
Especially Billie, apparently they liked blonde girls. Nobody could tell me my fears weren’t 100 per cent inaccurate, so I panicked.
“I don’t know what to do,” I whined.
Billie double-checked the transfer signs again. “Oh wait—”
My whole body froze.
“Nope. It says Miss Roxy.” She shrugged.
I could’ve cried. If I wasn’t surrounded by a multitude of strangers I would’ve sat on the floor and sobbed.
“Did you seriously not book a transfer?” Sarah accused.
“It’s not always my fault. You guys could’ve checked.” The tightening in my throat increased. I tried to regulate my breathing, one deep breath after another. The email detailing our holiday information described no such transfer.
“What are we going to do now?” Sarah threw her hands up in the air; her attention span was like my anxiety—easily triggered.
Billie strolled over a few seconds later with a man to her left wheeling her suitcase along. She grinned. “Fixed it, one hundred dollars private transfer. Let’s go.”
“Do you even know this man?” I questioned.
“Well, no, I just met him five seconds ago, but he seems legit.” Billie shrugged.
“You hope.” Sarah scoffed.
“What’s the worst that could happen?” Billie whispered as the gentleman walked on ahead. I didn’t answer. Instead, I remained silent, rolling my suitcase along the concrete floor, focusing on the wheels as they bumped up and down on the cracked slabs below. My grey suitcase was now shaped like Gru fromDespicable Me. The weight of all my belongings had pushed the front compartment forwards, so the luggage strap looked like a belt cutting off circulation.
Fernando seemed professional enough. Once we got closer to the company’s designated bays at the far end of the carpark, his colleague ran towards us and kindly wheeled my luggage to the vehicle. They wore uniforms and lanyards with IDs and several well-kept vehicles plastered with a name I couldn’t pronounce on the side. The chances of the company not being legitimate had to be slim; that’s what I told myself.
The transfer was approximately forty-five minutes. We raced down a selection of dual carriageways flanked by grand hotel gateways. The majority had armed personnel guarding the entrances—gulp. Despite my panic, I was in awe of each complex, and that was purely from seeing the exteriors. There were grand waterfalls, fire displays, and marvellous sandstone walls twenty-five feet tall, but the luxury architecture didn’t stop my heart from sinking every few miles when I saw a set of hazard lights in the distance or a police car with the lights flashing.
I couldn’t stop my brain from conjuring up every possible bad scenario. Whilst Fernando sped wildly down a highway with faded road markings, all I could think about was a truck of men with guns stopping traffic with one of those tyre popping spike things you see on TV and stealing all our valuable possessions. I had seenTakenone too many times, and Liam Neeson’s deep and precise voice was all I could hear ringing through my ears.
“Do you ever just feel like something bad is going to happen?” I whispered.
