Jane Bites Back_ A Novel - Michael Thomas Ford [63]
—Jane Austen, Constance, manuscript
JANE WATCHED THE BAGS GOING AROUND ON THE CONVEYOR BELT. One by one they were picked up by waiting passengers and wheeled away. They had stopped coming out from the depths of the airport’s underbelly some time ago, and now only three forlorn bags and one box marked FROZEN FISH remained. They slowly circled the baggage claim until with a chunk-chunk-chunk the machinery ground to a halt.
“Looks like we’ve been stranded on the Island of Lost Luggage,” said a man standing next to Jane. “Might as well get in line.”
He turned and walked away. Jane followed his path and saw that he was heading for a line of about twenty people. They were queued up outside the airline’s baggage claim office, and all of them wore a look of resigned frustration on their faces. Scanning the remaining bags once again in the hope that she’d somehow overlooked her suitcase, Jane gave up and joined them.
Half an hour later she stood in front of a grim-faced woman who didn’t look at her as she said, “Claim ticket.”
Jane handed over the sticker that was stapled to her ticket folder. “Do you know when I can expect my bag?” she asked.
The woman’s grunt held more than a hint of mean-spirited glee, Jane thought. She wondered what kind of person could do such a job day in and day out, dealing with miserable travelers and wayward luggage for hours at a time. Sadist, she thought as the woman typed something on a keyboard with undisguised hostility.
“There’s no record of it,” the woman said. “Sorry.”
“No record?” said Jane. “I don’t understand. I have a claim ticket.” She nodded at the ticket, which was still in the woman’s hand.
“There’s no record of it,” the woman repeated.
Jane gave the woman her sweetest smile. “Surely there must be some record,” she said.
The woman sighed deeply. “It could be anywhere,” she said in a weary voice. “Albuquerque, New Delhi, Paris. Take your pick. If it’s not in the system, it officially doesn’t exist.”
“But surely—” Jane began.
“Fill this out and send it in,” the woman interrupted, sliding a form toward Jane. “We’ll reimburse you up to a hundred and fifty dollars.” She looked past Jane. “Next,” she said.
Jane started to argue but, sensing the growing irritation of the people behind her, decided there was no point. The woman was clearly not going to be of any further use. Besides, Jane was already going to be late getting to the hotel. It was half past nine, and her interview with the Entertainment Weekly reporter was at eleven. Feeling more than a little put out, she headed out the door to the taxi stand.
The trip from O’Hare to the hotel took much longer than Jane expected, and when she finally reached her room after ten minutes at the registration desk it was a quarter to eleven. She barely had time to use the toilet and wash her face before there was a knock on the door.
She opened it to find a woman who seemed impossibly young to be a journalist. Thin as a willow, she was dressed impeccably and her makeup was flawless. Her auburn hair fell about her shoulders in waves and perfectly complemented her green eyes. Jane hated her immediately.
“Hi,” the woman said cheerfully. “I’m Farrah Rubenstein.”
“Farrah,” Jane repeated.
Farrah laughed. “I know, right? My mother was a huge Charlie’s Angels fan. My sisters are Kate and Jaclyn. It’s all too retro.” She entered the room without further invitation. “What a great room!” she enthused. “It’s so red!”
“Yes,” Jane said. The young woman’s manner had caught her off guard. She’d been expecting someone older, someone more reserved. I probably should have looked at the magazine, she thought. She’d bought a copy to read on the plane, but had fallen asleep shortly after takeoff and woken up just before landing in Chicago.
“I was so excited when I got this assignment,” Farrah said as she removed her jacket and sat down on one of the chairs in the suite’s living room area.