So, after a whistle stop North American tour during which I nearly succeeded in having Sheetal and Hanan arrested in Tampa, Hanan nearly got us both arrested sending DVDs to the White House, and I went underwear shopping with Lisa Ray in Toronto, we landed back in London for 24 hours before seeing what mayhem we could wreak on Portugal. But wait, I hear you cry. We heard about the Florida cop and the DC cab driver, but what’s with Lisa Ray and the underwear? I know. After Toronto I gave you a heartfelt and meaningful encapsulation of the emotional landscape of our visit with Lisa, when what we all really wanted was to talk about bras and panties. OK, stop pleading, I’ll tell you how it happened.
We were wandering up the road with Lisa to have lunch when she spied an Apple store.
‘I want to get you something for your birthday, Shamimi,’ she said, pulling me inside. I declined politely, I chained myself to trees in protest, but she was adamant.
‘My present is being here with you,’ I said. She regarded me with all the baleful suspicion that this reply deserved and continued to drag me around pointing out things I might like. As a Libran, I cannot commit to buying a newspaper without thinking about it for an hour or so, so I was quite distressed.
‘I don’t want to buy things I don’t need,’ I insisted.
‘OK, then what do you need?’
The only thing I had come to North America determined to buy was underwear. It’s easier, somehow, and cheaper, frankly. A gleam hit my eye.
‘I need bras,’ I said.
Hanan saw through my evil plan as if my mind was cellophane. ‘You just want to be able to blog that Lisa Ray bought you underwear.’
Maybe I did. Is that such a bad thing? Wouldn’t you brag about that? Exactly.
Cut to the next day. Lisa and Shamim occupy adjoining changing rooms while outside Hanan runs with a trolley through the aisles and sweeps large black T shirts into it by the armful. Now that I was faced with myself wearing nothing but a (very lovely) new bra and my old jeans, in a huge mirror with frighteningly bright lighting, my bravado was seeping away. Next door, Lisa tried on tops then whipped open my curtain.
‘How’re the bras?’
I sucked my stomach in and hastily put on my clothes. ‘Perfect. I feel very uplifted.’
And so I did, and the uplifted feeling from my excellent birthday presents lasted all the way to the British Airways counter en route to Portugal. We checked in without incident (if you don’t count the kids trying to check themselves in as luggage on the baggage belt) and as we turned away to leave the counter a young woman stepped up smartly and flashed her badge.
‘Ms Kattan? Ms Sarif? Special Services. Step this way please.’
SPECIAL SERVICES?? STEP THIS WAY?? I’ve seen Hollywood spy movies, I’m a director for goodness sake! This was it. This was code. They’d discovered that I didn’t know Hanan’s favourite colour, that our life together was a sham, and we were being deported. That we had actually lived together for 13 years and were British citizens on British soil temporarily slipped my mind. All I knew was that we were headed to Guantanamo, and that orange jumpsuits didn’t suit me, no matter how sexy my bra.
Elaine had by now introduced herself with great charm (my first inkling she might not be with the CIA) and we followed her to security where with several crisp flashes of her badge, we sailed through. Of course, my Britishness meant I would rather be shipped to a hellhole than actually ask what was happening, but luckily I was travelling with Hanan, Interrogator Extraordinaire. She asked a few questions and Elaine told us her job was to help people who travel often with British Airways and also celebrities (with a nod to me) through the airport. Obviously I immediately thought that she had mistaken me for Angelina Jolie (stop laughing, I’ll do the jokes) but it turned out she knew The World Unseen and I Can’t Think Straight, and was there to make sure the director and producer were looked after. Now I could relax about it, I took a moment to feel like a rock star and enjoy the attention. The boys eyed our escort uncertainly.
‘Is she coming with us to Portugal?’ the younger one asked.
Frankly, as we were led to the business class lounge, I thought that would not be a bad idea. Sadly Elaine had a lot more work to do and had to leave us there. But I want to thank her for making our day, and also allowing me to leave you with this gem of wisdom. You never know when you’re going to be in a first class lounge, or strip-searched in a prison, but either way, it pays to have good underwear.