Writers Abroad Magazine Issue 3 September 2015 | Page 28

WRITERS ABROAD MAGAZINE

A Pinch of Salt
A Short Story by Vesna McMaster
Hell hath no fury like a celebrity unshod. Security at Kuala Lumpur International Airport
blinks impassivity in the guise of a round-faced, shawled Malaysian woman who says
little, but insists upon the de-shoeing process. Red patent leather six-inchers are
placed into the plastic tray of ignominy and Izzie LaRoux’s bare toes traverse the tiles.
Scanners bleep. Film crews and celebrity all bleep—in the figurative sense. A gannetcalling of remonstrations later, baggage, special baggage, oversize egos and items
are docketed and tagged and conveyor-belted over to the gate.
One woman extracts a folder while the others argue or stare at their phones. She
makes notes on the pages, checks boarding passes, buys and hands out new bottles
of water, counts heads. She bears more than a passing physical resemblance to the
great Izzie LaRoux with the slim build and the smooth olive features, but she is clothed
not in Gucci but a plain white t-shirt and blue jeans.
“Thank God we’re out of here.” Izzie extends arms across top of chair and throws
her voice across the maximum distance possible without downright shouting. “Please
tell me they don’t have beggars and mud in Australia. Not sure I could cope.” Her legs
stretch out, rubbing against each other with ostentatious sensuality. The woman in the
white t-shirt shoves a water bottle into her hands.
“Mud and beggars are not restricted to Southeast Asia, I believe. Hydrate, Izzie.
We’re still filming today and you drank an awful lot last night.”
Izzie ignores her but when she sees a camera pointing in her direction she sits up,
crosses legs, shakes out the black curls and lifts the water-bottle to carmine lips. Nine
hours later Australian Customs at Brisbane are less docile than the round-faced
Malaysian woman.
“Cooking show? You don’t have any food with you, do you?”
“I’m a professional. Not some Indian smuggling in curry paste and chicken feet.”
Two perfectly pert breasts heave over a 50s floral dress. “How do you expect me to
do my work?”
The Customs official’s eyes pop and he catches a breath. The blue-jeans woman
jumps forward. “No, we don’t. We’re quite aware of the rules. Besides, we’re cooking
local.” She leans forward and up towards him, whispering. “Take what she says with
a pinch of salt. She’s OK really. Doesn’t mean half of it.”
He exhales slowly and flips through the passports. “You tell your sister to watch
her mouth.” He hands the documents back to her. “Could get her into a lot of trouble.”
The day ticks on in a steady march of travel, complaints, check-ins and driving. The
sound man is putting up a single tent in a clearing that overlooks part rainforest, part
ocean.
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