I zone out and focus on the positive news Reyansh revealed earlier.
Around me, plans are made to visit the Taj Mahal the following day. I don’t want to go. Not only is it a long journey, but the thought of being faced with a monument which took over twenty years to build as a show of love is more than I can bear. Because that’s what I want: Nate to love me that much.
The flight home is full and busy.
During the first meal service, a little girl sitting in an aisle seat chokes. I automatically slap her on the back and, thankfully, a piece of bread dislodges, but the sound of her crying gets to me. Her mother remains in a panic and although I try to reassure her, I need to get away from the scene. I go to the galley to get extra bottles of water and try to block out all the general mayhem and noise from the cabin. I look at my watch hopefully, but there are hours left until landing.
The service eventually ends without further disruptions. I sink down into my crew seat after the galley is finally cleared up and sip a black coffee.
I stare out the window into the vast nothingness and think about how much I’ve achieved, rather than lost.
My session with Reyansh, if nothing else, has helped me to remind myself to stay focused. And try to keep my belief that all will end well.
We land on a boiling afternoon.
Nate’s Lusaka flight is due to land in two hours’ time. I check. He is delayed by a further ninety minutes. Even better.
I change out of my uniform in the airport toilets and drive to Richmond. I manage to find a parking space only two streets away. Despite the heat, I slow jog there. My running outfit is my best summer disguise because I can legitimately wear something with a hood – which I can yank up, if need be. I walk up to the communal doors and collide with someone. It’s an older woman I don’t recognize.
‘Sorry,’ she says.
‘Me too! Must look where I’m going in future,’ I mutter as I walk on and don’t look back.
Hopefully she’s just a random visitor to one of Nate’s neighbours.
I sit down on his sofa whilst I ponder. Katie and Nate were back in touch yesterday by phone so I’m clueless as to what was discussed. A twenty-three-minute chat the first time, a seventeen-minute one next. Then a text from her to him, confirming that she’ll be down to stay at his tomorrow night. This probably means he’s wriggled his way out of her suspicions, so she needs another nudge.
I’ve narrowed down my objects to four choices: a hairband, a mauve rose-scented candle, an old photo and a pink toothbrush. Which and where? More than a couple could be suspicious, but they have to be things that could have feasibly been left by someone, at some point, and somewhere Katie may look.
It proves harder than I thought, but I decide upon placing the candle above the fireplace – if Nate notices it, hopefully he will think that his new cleaner found it in a cupboard and decided to put it to good use. I take a quick glance out the window; no sign of a returning Nate. I leave the hairband on the floor, poking out beneath the bed on the opposite side to Nate’s, and then, taking the toothbrush out of the packaging, I conceal it in the medicine cabinet.
Nate has some random photos stuck to his fridge door and I return one that I removed ages ago, adding it among the others. He is in front of a Japanese temple, his arms around a woman on each side. He looks happy, which is why I stole the photograph. When we were together, I hated being reminded of his female colleagues. On the back of it, someone had written: Good times xx. It’s not Nate’s handwriting.
I check the wine rack. He has not touched his birthday wine.
Back at home, I decide to risk adding my own trip-swap request for the Vegas, offering up my San Diego. It’s snapped up within an hour. Now that I have a confirmed reunion date, I need to prepare and I start online. But as soon as I begin my search, I feel a slight niggle. There is always a risk with certain types of research, and I don’t want anything coming back to haunt me later. So I stop myself. Perhaps I should go and use a public computer, like in the library, but still . . . if I buy what I need online it needs to be delivered, which poses a different set of problems.
I think whilst I scroll through my social media accounts, pressing ‘like’ several times on random posts without properly taking anything in, until I hover over a post of my long-ago film extra friend, Michele Bianchi. He is no longer a vet’s assistant in a TV drama and has now landed a part in the chorus of a well-known West End show. Michele wasn’t against breaking the law when it came to recreational drugs or buying electronic goods from dubious sources. He could be useful to me now.
I private message him, asking if he’d like to meet up for a coffee.
He is online and replies within seconds. Perfect timing – I’m bored in between rehearsals. Will be good to hear all your news. Tomorrow? PS: I’m broke, hint hint, so somewhere cheap and cheerful.
I respond with a smiley face, a promise of cake with his coffee (my treat) and a cheery Ciao Bello! X.
It is good to see Michele again. I spot him before he sees me. He is sitting on a stool in the window of the café. I wave through the glass and he grins back with his perfect white teeth. We give each other a brief kiss hello on each cheek, and he envelops me in a big hug.
He is comforting, like a protective brother. It is nice. There was never any hint of a romance between us, he just always felt . . . safe.
It is so pleasant catching up that I wait until we finish our coffees before I make my request.
‘So, there’s no such thing as free coffee and cake?’ he says, folding his arms. ‘What would a gorgeous lady like you need with a date-rape drug?’
‘Don’t call it that. I’ve told you; it helped my friend through a difficult patch. With sleeping. I’m heartbroken. Heartbroken. I thought that Nick and I—’ I break off, as though tears are about to threaten.
‘Can’t you get sleeping pills, like, from a doctor or something? I’m really not sure.’
‘I’m happy to pay over the odds. It’s just this once. I promise. My friend swore by them. And . . . I’m desperate.’
‘How do I know you won’t do anything stupid?’
‘I just want to sleep. This new job, it takes its toll. It really does.’
He doesn’t make any promises, but we arrange to meet in the same place in two days’ time.
That night, whilst Katie is at Nate’s, I make three silent calls to his phone from a withheld number, starting at midnight.
The first two calls, Nate answers.
On my third attempt, it goes straight to voicemail.
My next meeting with Michele proves successful – apart from another brief lecture – and over the following days, Katie and Nate appear to hit a rocky patch.
Her messages to him indicate neediness and a lack of trust:
What are you up to? Sounds like you’re having fun without me.
No kisses.
His, in turn, are defensive, take longer, are guarded:
I wasn’t out that late. I’m just with the guys.
It goes silent between them. Nate is not a man who cares about unfinished business.
The evening before I leave for Vegas, there has been no further contact between them.
I dare to hope that it’s over.
Two hours prior to departure I walk into the briefing room and pick up a spare hard copy of the crew briefing sheet; I forgot to download it on to my phone.
‘Hi, everyone. We’ll go straight into introductions and working positions,’ says the in-charge crew member. ‘Some of you may have flown with me, but for the benefit of everyone, I like to be called Stuart – not David, as it says on the crew list.’
I chip in that I use my middle name.
‘We’ll discuss a fire scenario today. Juliette, if you are the first person to discover a fire, what is your immediate action?’
We are interrupted by the captain opening the door.
‘Morning, all. Barry Fitzgerald’s the name. It may get a little rough mid-Atlantic. R
emember to be extra vigilant when performing safety checks as the terror threat has been raised from substantial to severe. Any questions?’
I raise my hand. ‘Can I sit in the flight deck for landing, please?’
He glances at Stuart/David, who looks disinterested; rumour has it that he’s cruising to retirement. He nods his permission.
The captain disappears and the briefing continues. It’s difficult to concentrate on the safety and medical questions as I’m so electrified, but I force myself to think and respond correctly.
It would be a disaster if I were to be off-loaded from the trip for failing routine questions.
The aircraft pushes back. The exterior world shrinks to the size of the plane’s interior. A mini world, trapped and cut off from the outside for the next ten hours and forty-five minutes.
We join the queue for the runway, edging along. I am strapped into my jump seat, staring out the window at the overcast summer’s day. As it starts to drizzle, drops dot the windows. The plane swings round to face the runway. Stillness. A roar of engines and a surge of power. My harness is tight against my body. My stomach lifts with the aircraft. We shake and bump as we break through clouds, before levelling out.
I inhale and psych up my air-hostess self.
As I prepare the trolleys, I run through the plan in my head. This is it. This is the day my life begins again. I push through the galley curtains.
‘Would you like red or white wine with your meal?’ I smile.
We run out of chicken casserole within the first six rows. Several people claim to be vegetarian – arms folded, lips pursed – when they discover there is only lasagne left.
I can’t face going into my ‘it’s possible to pre-order a vegetarian meal’ line. The complaints continue.
‘Why is there never enough choice?’
‘This happened on my last flight and the one before.’
‘It never happens on other airlines.’
I try to explain about space constraints but realize I am wasting my breath. I crouch down beside a particularly grumpy couple – the type who probably paid the cheapest fare and will spend their entire holiday grumbling – and whisper conspiratorially. ‘Don’t sit in the middle on your return sector. The service starts from the four corners of economy, front to back, so those in the middle rarely get a choice.’
They both beam. ‘Thank you,’ they whisper back.
The man accepts the lasagne without further complaint. The woman won’t give in that easily and takes the tray on the condition I find her an extra bread roll and some ‘decent wine from first class’. I pour a small bottle of economy red, which she turned her nose up at earlier, into a business-class glass and present it to her. She takes a sip and nods approvingly.
I sink down into a hard crew seat when the service finally ends and pick at a lobster salad I took from the first-class galley, but I find it hard to swallow.
During afternoon tea service, I feel weak and dreamlike. I’m so close. I cannot mess this up. All that separates me and Nate is a mere steel cockpit door.
I jump as his voice fills the cabins. Ladies and gentlemen, this is your first officer, Nathan Goldsmith. We have approximately half an hour until we land in sunny Las Vegas, which is a sweltering thirty-eight degrees Celsius. Despite this, it may still feel a little bumpy on landing, as there are strong winds.
I stand still, trying to distance myself from the chaos of the galley, and close my eyes, savouring the memory of his arms around me and his smile. But an unwanted memory sneaks in – his anger when I initially refused to move out. And the time when I hid his passport so that he couldn’t go to work because I just needed him to talk to me.
But that was then, and this is now.
I was a different person back then, driven demented by rejection. I’ve now obeyed his wishes and given him space. He has to – surely – make allowances for that. There were lots of happy times. He loved my sense of humour.
The standard pre-landing announcements begin. I secure the cabin and remind people over and over to fasten their seat belts. The plane begins to rock and sway as we dip beneath the clouds. Cabin crew, seats for landing.
It’s time.
The crew member taking over responsibility for manning my door appears. I thank him and make my way forwards, then climb the stairs. The aircraft makes a sudden drop. I clutch the handrail. The engines are whining. On the upper deck, I walk slowly down the aisle past all the business-class passengers, as nervous as a bride. I almost scream as an old lady grabs my arm as I pass her seat.
‘Excuse me,’ she says, letting go. ‘Do you know if this turbulence will get any worse? I’m not a good flyer.’
‘It’s all going to be fine,’ I say, walking on, whilst tugging at some loose strands of hair to partially hide my face.
I stand outside the cockpit door and wave at the camera. The green light illuminates. I push open the door and dart in, shutting it firmly behind me. I slide into the seat behind Nate. He is too busy to acknowledge me, we are almost on final approach. The captain points to some headphones. I put them on. I listen to air traffic control as I study Nate’s neck. I can see the hairs on his exposed skin.
Outside, the Vegas skyline rises up to greet us. An alarm sounds above the constant stream of words from the ATC tower. The automated voice counts us down.
One thousand feet. Five hundred.
The rocking and swaying are less noticeable in the cockpit.
One hundred feet. Fifty, forty, thirty, twenty, ten.
We touch down.
My chest swells with pride in Nate.
As we decrease speed, I remove my headphones whilst the roar of the engines subsides. I observe Barry and Nate complete their routines and checklists.
As we turn off the runway, Nate turns round, a smile on his face.
I smile back.
He freezes, as though he’s seen a dead person, then turns to face the controls again.
The terminal comes into sight. Welcome to McCarran International Airport.
14
I recently came across a quote: People will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel. I want Nate to feel unthreatened as he digests the situation, so I decide to retreat.
‘Thank you,’ I say and leave, quietly shutting the door behind me.
After the sanctuary of the cockpit, the cabin is hectic. Manoeuvring my way through the mass of bodies pulling bags from overhead bins and bending over whilst gathering their belongings, I squeeze downstairs.
‘Excuse me. Excuse me, please,’ I repeat, making my way through the debris: headsets, discarded earplugs, eyeshades and newspapers.
I am numb. I thought I’d feel terrified, elated, overjoyed, some strong emotion. Instead, my feelings are frozen; my senses dulled. Noise is muted, apart from the loud voice inside my head.
Focus. You cannot fail.
On automatic pilot I pack my flight apron and flat shoes into my bag. Standing on the edge of a seat, I check the hat racks are empty and scan the seats for the bright-orange infant seat belts. I gather two and return them to the sliding stowage behind the last row.
Keeping my eyes ahead, I disembark with my economy-crew colleagues. We pass slot machines situated below a bombardment of advertisements – hotels, car hire, clubs, bars, restaurants, weddings – before reaching crew immigration. The passenger queues are long and bulging. A weary-looking yet resigned mismatch of people shuffles forwards, dressed in everything from summer dresses, three-quarter-length leggings, baseball caps and T-shirts to those who are more cautiously dressed in trousers, with jackets or jumpers folded over their arms.
The crew suitcases have been off-loaded and are by the side of the baggage carousel, lined up neatly in a row. I select mine and continue through Customs, not looking any of the officials in the eye, as though I have nothing to hide, until the automatic doors part. Pulling my bags behind me, I emerge into the arrivals lounge. Among
the balloons, flowers, signs and other paraphernalia dotting the awaiting crowd, I seek out the exit signs.
I escape.
Late afternoon heat hits me, but it is strangely sobering and my head clears.
Deep breaths. Faint dread forms a hollow in my stomach.
As I approach the crew bus, I keep my eyes down. I wait my turn, whilst the driver heaves the bags into the trailer attached to the rear. I can see that the three flight-crew bags are already loaded. I stand, rooted to the spot, trying to work out the best time to board.
Generally, the first officers tend to gather near the front rows, as it is a courtesy to leave the first seat free for the captain. In all likelihood, I can’t avoid walking past him. I wait until the last few crew trickle out of the airport building before I step on to the bus.
I catch Nate’s eye immediately. I smile and say, ‘Hi,’ as though we saw each other only recently, and continue walking towards the back without waiting to see if he returns my greeting. I sink down next to Alex, one of the guys I’ve been working with in economy. He is wearing reading glasses and is busy looking down at his phone, but I engage him in conversation, regardless. I need a social prop.
‘What are your plans?’
Alex looks up, peers through his glasses and shrugs. ‘Not sure yet. Gym. Pool. Meet up in the bar. The usual.’
‘It’s my first time here. Any suggestions?’
He smiles. ‘Loads. If you meet up for drinks later, I’ll take you to this incredible club afterwards. We can see if any of the others are up for it, because we’ll need to book tickets. Or you could take in a show, but they can be really expensive.’
‘Thanks.’
He looks back down at his phone.
I take mine out too, but not before sneaking a quick glance at Nate. He is looking ahead and is not in conversation with anyone.
The journey is brief – too brief – and I swallow hard as I step down off the bus. But I keep focused and retrieve my wheelie bag as the porters hurriedly load the suitcases on to the trolleys, in an obvious attempt to keep the porte cochère clear. I hang back, remaining on the outskirts of reception and pretending to deal with a phone message, as the flight crew and the supervisor sign for their rooms. Tourists wearing holiday uniforms of T-shirts decorated with random slogans navigate the lobby area alongside more formally dressed business people and uniformed hotel staff. I feel as though Nate’s eyes are upon me, but I don’t think it’s a good idea to check.
The Perfect Girlfriend Page 13