The Perfect Girlfriend

by Karen Hamilton

  6

  My flight to Barbados is delayed after boarding. Two hours, so far. Initially I’m patient with the complaints, but before long I struggle to contain my frustration. There’s a problem with one of the cargo doors. Engineers are trying to fix it. End of. I – politely – explain that there’d be no point in taking off regardless, allowing passengers’ precious bags to fall out mid-air and rain down on to London. Dealing with hotel guests was easier. They weren’t trapped in their rooms, stuck in the hotel with nothing to do but demand my endless attention.

  ‘Excuse me?’

  I swing round, ready to bat away a request, but realize that the voice belongs to a girl, no older than nine or ten. The adjacent seat is empty.

  I crouch down to her level. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Is the plane going to be OK? I’m travelling by myself.’

  ‘Yes, it’s going to be fine. There’s a minor problem with a door that’s jammed, which is easily fixed. Why are you on your own?’

  ‘I’m going to visit my mum. I live with my gran, because my mum has a new boyfriend. But now she says I can go and have a holiday with her.’

  A familiar wave of rage hits me so savagely, I nearly lose my balance. I steady myself on an armrest and stand up.

  ‘I tell you what, I’m not allowed to take you into the cockpit during the flight, but after landing, whilst everyone is disembarking, I’ll take you up there, if you like?’

  She nods.

  ‘And during the flight, if you feel afraid, you come and talk to me.’ I point to my name badge. ‘Ask for Juliette.’

  ‘OK.’ She turns and looks out the window. ‘Thank you.’

  I seek out the crew member responsible for looking after the girl’s welfare and inform her I’ll take over.

  Finally, we push back from the stand. A large group of holidaymakers near the front start clapping. I nearly join in.

  Barbados.

  Hot. Sunny. Sandy. Relaxed.

  According to the hotel reception staff, this time of year – late April – is a great time to visit. There are nine hours of sunshine a day, and the hurricane season is still safely far off. I join everyone by the pool on the first morning and lie on a sunlounger, sipping a weak margarita. A rare sense of calm descends upon me. I close my eyes and allow the warmth to seep into my bones.

  Nate is in Shanghai. Wondering what he’s up to, I sit up, take out my phone and head for a shady spot beneath a nearby tree.

  I scroll.

  I keep expecting Nate to change his passwords. I’ll be pissed off when he does. But, as yet, I am free to keep tabs on him to my heart’s content. I don’t feel bad. All’s fair in love and war. Besides, he hadn’t been thinking about my feelings when he asked me to move out.

  I’d cooked him a special curry that night and it was then – seven months ago – that I started to have moments where I felt as though I was physically falling. At one point, I remember gripping the edge of the kitchen counter, as though it would save me. The strength of my buried feelings rushed to the forefront of my consciousness and threatened to overwhelm me. One thing shone through the jumble in my mind: I had made a misjudgement. I had thought that our future was a foregone conclusion, that we were merely stepping the stones in the correct order – live-in lovers, proposal, engagement, wedding and so forth.

  I’d been in the kitchen when I heard the front door shut. I rushed to greet him, but he didn’t reciprocate my hug.

  ‘It’s not that I don’t have feelings for you, it’s that I don’t think I can give you what you need from a relationship right now. I need some space,’ he said, after announcing that we were over.

  I locked eyes with him. ‘You’re going to have to do a lot better than “it’s not you, it’s me” . . .’

  ‘Well, let’s face it – even you must agree that it was all rather rushed. You . . . I . . . should’ve taken things at a slower pace.’

  I tried to breathe. To think. I could feel the evening I had planned slipping away to nothingness, and my brain hadn’t quite grasped it yet. I needed to pull it back together, make it all right. Behind him, I surveyed the open-plan dining area. All the feminine touches were mine. The shelves were filled with tasteful ornaments and vases. Pictures, drinks coasters, cutlery, crockery, wine glasses, a fruit bowl. Things. The scatter cushions in the living room. And a rug, rich with autumn colours. I’d turned this place into a home.

  I turned my back on him and carefully put down the wooden spoon with which I’d been stirring – I’d spent all afternoon following the recipe to the letter, for God’s sake – and untied my apron in order to reveal my new, short, clingy dress. Outwardly calm, inside gut-churningly sick, I turned to face him.

  ‘You’re tired and jet-lagged. Exhausted even, poor you. Zigzagging between east and west isn’t healthy. I’ll pour you a drink whilst we talk and work things out together.’ Even I was surprised at my generosity of spirit, given the circumstances.

  ‘I meant what I said.’ Nate raised his voice several notches and made no attempt to accept the bottle of perfectly chilled beer I was trying to hand him. ‘Lily, Elizabeth . . . it’s not working. For me. This is all too intense. I want, no, I really need . . . space.’ He raked his hands through his hair, his eyes staring intently as though he genuinely thought I was going to acquiesce.

  ‘Is it another woman?’

  ‘No. No, there’s no one else. I promise you that.’

  I turned away again, not trusting myself to speak, and poured the beer into his curry. The sound of the waterfall was so momentarily satisfying. I added several more chopped chillies, including two whole Scotch bonnets. I stirred furiously.

  My thoughts galloped.

  I could refuse to move out. No way – no way! – was I going back to my mother’s. Richmond had become my home. Ribbons of anxiety knotted together, kneading my insides and evoking the familiar feeling of injustice. It wasn’t fair, I’d been the perfect girlfriend. He couldn’t do this to me. My dreams were slipping out of reach and I wanted to claw them back. However, in the midst of all this was a moment of stark clarity. If this did have something to do with another woman, if Nate was lying, then she’d better be afraid, very afraid.

  Because I knew that if I found out that someone else was the cause of my broken dreams, I’d have no qualms about breaking theirs.

  Anger is no use at present, not whilst I’m here, in paradise.

  The sun drops. Billy Ocean’s ‘Caribbean Queen’ blares from the loudspeakers attached to the side of the thatched bar hut. Cocktails are mixed, drinks are flowing. I inhale the smell of the sea and suncream.

  Laughter. Happiness. Fun.

  This is what I wanted to do with Nate.

  Travel.

  I need a moment alone, so I return to the sunlounger, put my phone in my bag and remove my sunglasses. I dive into the warm pool, then I float like a starfish. Water muffles sound. I love the sense of isolation and numbness, the sense of being alone and cut off from a distorted world.

  One of the few good things to come out of my years at boarding school was that I was forced to learn to swim.

  Three weeks after Nate and I split up, I bumped into a couple we’d chatted to in the pub once or twice.

  They appeared surprised when I broke the news of Nate’s decision.

  ‘But you seemed so happy,’ said the woman. ‘You were planning a holiday, weren’t you?’

  ‘Yes. To Bali.’

  I’d spent hours online, choosing the perfect place. Couples massages, romantic walks, secluded beaches. Yoga and meditation. It would have been an ideal opportunity for Nate to explore the ‘meaning of life’ that he now appears to be searching for. His fear-of-commitment wobble would have been done and dusted in a fortnight.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said. ‘He must be mad to let you go. We had such a laugh with you two. I thought he adored you.’

  I shrugged. ‘I have to respect his feelings. There’s nothing else I can do.’

  But it f
elt reassuring to know that I wasn’t the only one who had been blind.

  And I wasn’t completely blind, not really, because he didn’t act like he’d totally fallen out of love with me. We’d slept together once more before I’d moved out.

  I emerge from the pool, feeling refreshed. I comb my hair and settle down to dry off before I go and change for dinner.

  I pick up my phone and post several pictures of the pool area on my Juliette Facebook page.

  I check Nate’s freshly published roster. He and I are due into New York at the same time next month, thankfully on different flights. Nonetheless, I will have to remain on guard.

  Bella is quiet at the moment, which makes me wonder what she’s up to. She rarely takes a break from self-promotion.

  Amy is having a ball in Nairobi; her whole crew have gone on safari for two days.

  On the homeward-bound flight the following day, during take-off and the initial climb, I stare out at the brilliant blue above the carpet of clouds. I crave Nate. Not too long now until I can show him how well I have stuck to our bargain and given him space.

  Senior crew report to your stations.

  The announcement blares over the public address system, shattering my fantasies. It is the emergency alert call to warn the rest of us to be prepared for something out of the ordinary. I’m not in the mood to a) die today, or b) evacuate a load of disobedient, panicked passengers down the evacuation slides. I look out into the cabin. Passengers have sensed something is wrong and have actually removed their headsets. Some are looking expectantly in my direction. My colleague at the opposite door looks at me. Her face is white. The interphone rings, emergency colours flashing on the panel above. It is the in-flight supervisor.

  ‘We have a suspected engine fire on the right-hand side and are returning to Bridgetown. The captain has indicated that this may take up to thirty minutes whilst we dump fuel. Although that engine has been shut down as a precaution, due to another potential complication, we are to prepare passengers for a possible land evacuation. Any questions?’

  Silence.

  ‘Right, starting from Door One, repeat back your instructions . . .’

  As I slide my interphone back into its slot, Anya, my fellow Door Four colleague, starts crying and shaking in the galley.

  ‘I’ve only just come back from maternity leave,’ she sobs. ‘I don’t want to die.’

  ‘Well, don’t then. Pull yourself together. You’ve been trained in what to do. Mentally get a grip, then get out there and do your job. Time will pass more quickly. Be ready to open your door when we land and, if needs be, save yourself. Don’t worry about anyone else.’ A morbid thought suddenly flashes through my mind – I too could get injured – and so I add, ‘Unless it’s me who needs help.’

  She looks at me, wipes her eyes and trots off to her allocated position in the passenger cabin. We both stand like traffic policemen as the pre-recorded emergency procedure announcement booms over the public address, before launching into our passenger preparation drills and briefings. I force myself to concentrate on my job, so that I don’t let myself be sucked into any kind of panic. I know what to do and I have the advantage of sitting near a door. I am pleasantly surprised that, on the whole, people are generally calm and willing to listen for once. We practise adopting the brace position – seat belts tight, passengers bent over, hands over their heads – and everyone points to their nearest exit. All the endless, repetitive drills and practice seem to have come into use. I secure the cabin by putting away bags and loose items. I double-check all the catches on the galley canisters and trolleys.

  Cabin crew. Seats for landing.

  I strap myself in tight. Anya’s lips are moving as though she is praying.

  I wish Nate was in the cockpit. He’s too selfish to die. The plane rocks from side to side. A wind must have picked up. It reminds me of a local fairground ride that my mother and one of her boyfriends took me to one evening. I loved the exhilaration, the giddiness of the roller coaster and wanted to go back, but we never did.

  We break through the clouds. The ground is in sight. The announcement comes from the flight crew: One thousand feet.

  Navy sea appears in the distance, as do houses with aqua-coloured pools among patchworks of greeny-brown land.

  The whining of the engines heightens.

  In the cabin, I can see some passengers holding hands.

  A child cries.

  There is silence from the galley apart from the rattle of the coffee pots in their metal holders.

  One hundred feet.

  ‘Brace, brace,’ I yell, adopting the forward-facing brace position myself, my hands protecting my head, for what it’s worth.

  ‘Brace, brace,’ yells Anya, with a force I didn’t think she’d have in her.

  The harness is taut against my torso. The ground is coming up to meet us as I catch sight of the runway and we whack on to the tarmac with a deafening roar. The plane begins to reduce speed. The pressure of my harness begins to ease as we slow down a little more. The aircraft makes a sharp turn before coming to an abrupt stop.

  We are safe. Drama over.

  Until . . . the shrieking of the evacuation alarms shatters the calm. Red emergency lights flash on all panels.

  Smoke. I smell smoke.

  I unharness my straps and pull open the heavy door, standing back into a gap so that I am not pushed out in the stampede. A grey slide unfurls for several seconds as it inflates. Hot outside air blasts me; a sharp contrast to the air conditioning.

  ‘Come this way and jump,’ I shout. ‘Keep moving.’

  On autopilot, I push a man who hesitates a fraction too long. He shouts all the way down. In hardly any time at all, the passenger cabin is empty.

  There is no sign of fire and I can no longer smell smoke; however, I am not going to hang around any longer. I’ve done my job. I grab my bags. I know I’m not supposed to, but if we’re going to be stuck here for a while, I’m not leaving my stuff to be burned or lost. I’m glad I kept my flat cabin shoes on; I bet that tarmac is scorching. As I slide down, my polyester skirt gives my thighs friction burns.

  It takes forty-eight hours to complete endless paperwork, be interviewed, give statements and refuse counselling. Every time I think my role in the non-drama is over, I’m summoned from the pool by someone with a clipboard or a tablet and questioned about something I’ve already answered.

  I cheer myself up by reminding myself that, whilst I am here – working on my tan and spying on my enemy and my beloved – I am earning huge amounts in overtime.

  We position back to Heathrow two days later, meaning that we travel as passengers, not operating crew. I watch two of the latest films – a comedy and a horror.

  Upon landing, I feel a sense of restlessness. The first May bank holiday is approaching and I will be trapped at home because I have four days of standby duties. This means that I can be given just two hours’ notice if they need crew cover due to illness or flight disruptions. Babs has gone away to the Lake District with some tennis friends. I don’t want to go back to my claustrophobic place. Nate is back home, so I can’t stay there.

  But . . . I have Amy’s key.

  I keep tabs on her rosters so I know that she’s still in Kenya and that Hannah has gone to New Zealand for three weeks to visit family. I could go to their flat. If I water a house plant or two, then it won’t be so bad. I’d be doing something useful. Mind you, I’m not sure if they have any plants.

  Instead of making my way to the bus station, I head for the tube. I’m feeling pleased with myself, intermingled with the constant sickness that comes with jet lag. I drag my suitcase and wheelie bag towards the tube. They bump over the cracks in the pavement.

  Alighting at Amy’s station, warm sun beats down on me as I walk to hers. Summer is not far away. I feel optimistic that the perfect time is imminent for me to break the news to Nate that I’m once again a presence in his life.

  7

  My phone is ringing
. At first I don’t realize because I recently changed the ringtone so that my heart doesn’t jolt in the vain hope that it’s Nate every time I hear it. It cuts off to voicemail. It rings again. I don’t recognize the local number. I am in Amy’s bed. It is briefly disorientating. Pale sun forces its way around the rectangle of the blind.

  I answer. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Elizabeth?’ says a jolly voice.

  ‘Who is this, please?’

  It’s hard work at the best of times, remembering who people are and what my relationship is to them. I need coffee. I step out of bed, still clutching the phone, and make my way to the kitchen.

  ‘I’m Lorraine,’ the voice continues. ‘Your new work team manager. We’d like to invite you in for a chat about your Barbados trip.’

  ‘Hi, Lorraine. I use my middle name for work, Juliette. It’s in the system. I’ve told every department there is, but still my name comes up as Elizabeth. Please can you change it? It’s very confusing.’ I flick the switch on the kettle.

  ‘I’m afraid that’s a matter for central admin. I’ll give you their email address.’

  ‘Don’t worry, thanks. I’ve emailed them at least ten times. As for a chat, that sounds great, but I’m afraid I don’t think that I can help any more than I already have. Sorry about that.’

  I will her to go away. I have so many things to mull over. I need to seriously consider and narrow down the ideal time to approach Nate. There is Amy’s friendship to maintain, my social media accounts to keep updated, and Babs wants me to visit soon. On top of all that, there are driving lessons and flat-hunting to shoehorn into the schedule. My life is really quite full and exhausting, and I now fully sympathize with the whole work–life balance debates I’ve heard discussed on radio shows. I pour water on to the coffee granules. I’m not a fan of instant, but needs must.

  ‘Elizabeth? Sorry, I mean Juliette? We must insist that you come in for a meeting at your earliest convenience. Four o’clock today or eleven tomorrow morning? Your time will be paid and it will be worth your while.’ She lowers her voice. ‘I don’t want to give too much away on the phone, but I promise, you will be delighted.’