It’s a functional space: grey carpeting and chairs, white walls, flashes of red from the large Chinese good-luck charms of knotted string suspended by the booths.
After half an hour we get seats. Tom occupies himself with his phone, answering emails, but I can’t shake off the sense of unreality: any minute now I’ll get a text from Lori – So sorry Mum, just bin havin the most awesome time w no internet Lxxx
Conversation from the brief interviews up at the front washes over me. Two-thirds of the people waiting are European, mostly English. There’s a man whose passport has been lost in the post and he’s panicking about getting the visa in time to start his job in Beijing, then a young couple, who are sent away because they’ve not brought proof of their return flights. There’s an old woman, who is going to visit her newborn grandson, and a student, who has a place on a master’s degree course in Shanghai.
Penny messages me. Anything I can do? When u go? Thinking of u. Px I know she means well but I hate that last phrase. Trotted out for bereavement and terminal illness, whenever it’s hard to know what to say. It makes Lori’s absence and our plans feel more sinister.
Go Thurs, I text back. Will keep in touch x.
Our number flashes up on the kiosk at the end to the left. I hand over the visa forms, the letter of invitation from the British consulate, the hotel confirmation, the flight details – all arranged by Edward at Missing Overseas – and our passports. A small sign in the corner of the screen shows the prices for the visa service. Three rates. Rush, Express, Standard. We are Rush, next day pick-up, the fastest possible way to get the documentation. The highest fee. The clerk reads carefully through Tom’s application and checks his passport. Then she picks up mine. My mind is dancing about. I need to buy hand wipes and medicines to take, organize after-school club for the boys for the next three weeks, get some Chinese currency.
The clerk looks at my passport and the form, then says, ‘The photo here on passport is more than six month old and you have same on visa application. You need more recent one. Less than six month.’
Oh, God. I’d hoped to save time using the spare photo left over from last time I renewed my passport. The whole edifice of plans teeters. The office shuts at three for applications. Coming back tomorrow will mean…
‘You can do one here.’ She points. At the back of the room is a photo booth. Tom has change. I sit in the booth and follow the instructions on screen.
