by Parks, Adele
‘Sorry, sorry, sorry,’ I yell as I approach. I always think it’s best to get in there with the apologies as soon as possible; it disarms people, because we live in a world where no one takes responsibility for anything and so saying sorry has the surprise effect of being at least novel. No one acknowledges my apology but no one actively shouts at me, so I’m relieved. In silence one woman takes my boarding pass and starts to type something into the computer. The other three share looks of irritation. The run through the airport has left me breathless; I try not to show that I am panting but I can feel the beginnings of a stitch in my waist and sweat is trickling down my back. It’s not a good look or a good feeling. Welcome to my world.
‘I’m sorry, but there’s a problem with your seat,’ says the chilly airline lady at the computer.
‘What problem?’ I ask fearfully.
‘You were allocated the bulkhead seat but we’ve given that to a passenger who is travelling with an infant.’
I feel a surge of indignation. It isn’t fair. The woman with the infant is in a relationship (or even if she isn’t in one right now, she has been; after all, that’s how babies are made), and yet she has my comfortable bulkhead seat too. Some women have all the luck.
‘In fact, I’m afraid we’ve completely oversold in the economy section of the plane.’
‘But I just booked that seat a couple of hours ago; they said they released it last minute. I’ve got a ticket. It was a really expensive ticket.’
The airline woman holds up one beautifully manicured hand, which effectively silences me. She continues to type something with the other hand. ‘And we’re also oversold in World Traveller Plus.’
‘This is exactly why we advise our passengers to build in plenty of time at the airport,’ adds one of the other members of staff stiffly. I glare at him but don’t bother to mention that I sneaked out of Lisa’s at 5.30 this morning and have been here since 6.45. It took me three hours to gather the courage to call Martin and buy the ticket; I’ve spent another two hours in the terminal shops. I know he doesn’t care.
‘I have to get on this plane,’ I insist. ‘I’m going to a wedding. It’s vital I get on the plane.’
I slam my book down on the counter. I’m not particularly trying to make a statement or a commotion, that’s not my way. I’m simply exasperated. The woman behind the computer fidgets from one foot to the other, anticipating a row. She looks to the counter in an effort to avoid my gaze and then she clocks the title of the book. Suddenly her chilly manner shifts, like a glacier cracking, and her face collapses into a broad beam. Not a mocking grin, but a wide, warm, sympathetic smile. She puts her ringless hand on my arm and I recognise her as a sister; we both know it can be cold out there. She says, ‘I don’t think we have any alternative; we’re going to have to upgrade you to club class.’
14
Dean
Dean had hardly been aware that there was a delay in the scheduled departure, although he had felt the rumblings of low-level dissatisfaction in the passengers surrounding him. They’d shuffled in their seats, glugged back more free champagne than was wise at this time of the morning and rattled their newspapers impatiently. Dean had stayed dead still in his chair, drained beyond an ability to fidget. He was just glad to be back in his comfort zone. This was where he belonged, a plush business-class seat rather than an unyielding hospital visiting chair. When the tardy passenger who’d caused the delay finally stumbled through the aircraft door, there was a furtive chorus of fractious grumbles. Dean didn’t contribute. It seemed petty.
Hers was the seat next to his. No sooner had she sat down than she leapt up again and started to bundle her bags into the overhead locker. He’d planned on ignoring her completely, but as she struggled to put her luggage away, she lost her grip on her book and it fell, hitting his shoulder. As he retrieved it, his eyes slipped over the blurb.
What to do if your man has a roving eye … How to cheat-proof your relationship … The top three things women do that irritate men and kill confidence.
Dean had been drowning under a tide of anguish and trauma, but he came up for air and thanked God that at least he wasn’t a woman. He wondered who published this crap. Who read it? As he handed the book back to the person who’d dropped it on him, he was surprised to discover that extremely attractive women – with great tits, cute smiles and straight teeth – read this crap.
‘I am so sorry, did I hurt you?’ she asked.
‘I’ll live,’ replied Dean. Not unpleasantly, but in a tone that he hoped would end the exchange.
‘I’m really nervous,’ she gabbled. Oh great, he was sitting next to a nervous flyer; just what he needed. As though reading his mind, she corrected herself. ‘Well, not so much nervous, I should probably say excited. I’ve never flown club class before.’
Then the woman did the most extraordinary thing. She jumped up and down on the spot and clapped her hands together, like a child. Dean looked on, bemused. He doubted he was ever up to this level of excitement, and he knew for certain he wasn’t up to it today. ‘It’s amazing, isn’t it?’ she went on. ‘Look at these magazines and this blanket and these headsets!’ With each object listed, she grabbed and caressed it as though the magazine was a lover and the blanket was a dear family member. ‘Do you think we get to keep them?’ Before Dean could say no, you didn’t get to keep them, the woman started to talk again; he thought he was probably going to need the headsets she so admired, to lock her out. ‘And it’s ridiculously roomy! We can lie flat! And look, I can turn round in the aisle without bumping into anyone!’
The woman then chose to demonstrate just how open the cabin was by doing exactly that. It was indeed spacious, but because she decided to wave her arms while rotating, she immediately bumped into the flight attendant, who was carrying a tray of champagne. Even though the attendant did his best to right the tray, three glasses clattered to the floor. The sly grumbles from the other passengers were replaced by sudden blasts of outright disgust.
‘For fuck’s sake.’
‘Who the hell is she?’
‘Is she drunk?’ people demanded of no one in particular.
‘Oh my gosh. I’m so sorry.’
Just as Dean was wondering who said gosh any more, she started to wipe his arm in an attempt to mop up the champagne that had soused him. Dean tightened his bicep a fraction; he couldn’t help himself, it was just a reflex under an attractive woman’s touch. She pulled her hand away as though she’d been scalded. And blushed.
‘It’s fine,’ Dean muttered. What did he care? In the grand scheme of things, this mishap didn’t even register in his disastrous twenty-four hours. He wouldn’t give the irritable and spoilt passengers any satisfaction; he knew they were all hoping he would tear a strip off her.
The champagne dripped down his arm and leg and on to the floor. ‘Is your suit one of those washable ones? The type that you can just pop in the machine?’ she asked hopefully. Her gaze lingered on the quality fabric and the elegant cut; she looked crestfallen. ‘No, I don’t suppose it is. I don’t suppose there are many of those sorts of suit in club.’ She paused. ‘Can I give you some money for the dry cleaning?’ It was clear from the way she chewed on her bottom lip that she was really hoping he’d say no.
‘It’s fine,’ repeated Dean. He hoped his curt response also said, ‘Now please sit down, shut up and stay silent for the next nine hours.’ It didn’t, at least not to this ebullient woman. She did at least finally sit down, but only because the flight assistant insisted on it, so that the spillage on the floor could be dealt with.
‘Do you travel club class often?’ she asked. Dean stared at her with something between incredulity and a reluctant admiration. Even he wouldn’t think to hit on someone after delaying their flight, assaulting them with a book and then drenching them with alcohol, but this woman had just tried the aviation equivalent of Do you come here often?
‘Yes.’ One-syllable answers surely said, ‘Shut up, I’m not interest
ed.’ Dean wasn’t interested in talking, to her or anyone. He just wanted to get home. It had been a mistake to come here. A huge, hideous mistake. The sooner he was back in Chicago, the better. He’d put it all behind him. He’d pretend it had never happened. He didn’t want to linger a moment longer; he hadn’t even found the energy to visit Zoe or meet with Rogers.
The engines started to rumble, filling the cabin with a sense of purpose and progress. Having checked their phones were turned off, people finally settled into their seats, tightened their belts and then – all but the truly neurotic – steadfastly ignored the flight attendant who was earnestly demonstrating the correct use of oxygen masks and pointing out the emergency exits.
‘This is just amazing,’ said the woman, looking around in wonder. ‘Isn’t it?’
As another flight attendant passed through the cabin, checking that people were fastened into their seats, Dean caught her eye and said, ‘I’ve changed my mind. I will take a newspaper, please.’
‘Which one, sir?’
‘The biggest.’
Dean looked meaningfully at this strange woman as he unfolded the broadsheet and effectively created a barrier between them. He wanted to be alone. Under other circumstances he could imagine himself chatting to her, seducing her, even making her fall in love with him, because that was what he did. He flirted and dated, seduced and left. This woman had pert tits and long legs and she was certainly worth noticing. She wasn’t young, but she definitely still had something about her; not the flush of youth, it was more of a wash of experience, but that could be attractive. Yes, he might have, probably would have, under other circumstances. But not today. Today, he just wanted to be alone.
The woman popped her head around his paper and hiss- whispered, ‘Do we have to pay for the champagne?’
‘No,’ he replied firmly.
‘Not even the ones I spilt?’
‘No.’
‘Wow. That’s good, isn’t it?’ Dean shook his newspaper pointedly, but she carried on, ‘It’s very different from back in cargo, isn’t it? As I mentioned, I’ve never flown club. Even with my parents. On family holidays they used to put us kids in the back and sit up front themselves. I used to worry what would happen if the plane snapped in two, but they gave us a hundred quid spending money each, every hol, which eased any qualms I had. But it’s another world, isn’t it! Champagne on tap, none of that endless waiting for the drinks trolley to come creeping down the aisle. I promise you, no matter where I sit on a plane, I am always the last person to be served a drink. It’s like some form of torture listening to the bottles and cans clinking merrily against one another, a siren’s call, and having to patiently wait my turn.’ She glanced at her full glass of champagne. ‘This is heaven.’
Dean remained mute. Finally, thankfully, she stopped talking for a few minutes as the plane slowly lumbered along the runway and then, quite suddenly, picked up speed and height. Their seats were in the centre of the cabin, but the woman strained to see past the aisle and out through a window. Dean didn’t look up. He couldn’t wait for the ground to disappear, for the plane to push through the clouds and get into the vast blue sky. He was more than ready to leave it all behind him.
The moment the plane levelled out, she started to talk again. ‘And the nuts?’
He understood her immediately. ‘They’re free too.’
Encouraged, she thrust her hand around the newspaper and held it out for him to shake. ‘My name is Joanna Russell, but everyone other than my mum calls me Jo.’
Dean didn’t accept her hand but felt he had no alternative but to nod. ‘Dean Taylor.’
‘Pleased to meet you.’ She smiled, but he didn’t reciprocate the joy; couldn’t she tell? ‘It’s a long flight, so I thought it would be more fun if we got to know each other a bit,’ she added.
Dean sighed. He was going to have to spell it out. ‘Actually, the etiquette is no talking. There’s a screen here, which will divide us, and now we’re in the air I’m going to put it up. No offence. It’s been a long couple of days. I just need some rest.’ He pressed the button that made the dividing screen rise. The annoyingly gregarious woman instantly hit the button on her side and it dropped down again.
‘You don’t sound American. Are you? A bit? You have a twang. Do you live in Chicago?’
Dean lowered his newspaper and considered. ‘Really, no, not a bit, really and yes,’ he replied. He was careful not to season his voice with any intonation as he answered her questions.
She smiled at him, a broad beam that flooded into her eyes, which Dean respected as it was rare and candid, but he just didn’t want to be social. Couldn’t be, even if he tried. She obviously thought he was hoping to be funny, because she giggled. He honestly wasn’t.
‘I’ve never been to Chicago.’ She paused, clearly hoping for a murmur of ‘Fancy that!’ or something. He gave her nothing. She ploughed on regardless. ‘I’ve been to New York once, a long time ago. I liked it. A lot. Are they similar places?’
‘A little.’
Silence. Then, ‘Really, in what way?’
‘They both have shops, clubs and restaurants. They’re both full of busy, private people.’
This Jo woman had the hide of a rhino. The emphasis Dean had placed on the word private sailed way above her head. ‘A bit like London in that respect,’ she commented. She paused again, and Dean allowed the hiatus to stretch. He really did hope it was a full stop rather than a breather this time. It wasn’t. ‘I desperately need to get away. I’m going through what’s known as a rough time.’ She used her fingers to draw speech marks around the words. ‘Wow, I honestly don’t know why I’ve just done that strange inverted-commas-with-my-fingers thing. It isn’t a gesture I’ve ever used before. Promise. And having done it once, I doubt I’ll try it again. It isn’t as though I’m a children’s TV presenter,’ she gabbled.
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ Dean said dutifully.
‘You’re sorry I’m not a children’s TV presenter?’ She looked confused.
Dean was beginning to think she was unhinged. He glanced around to see if there were any spare seats that he might be able to swap into. There weren’t. ‘I’m sorry you are going through a rough time,’ he clarified. He didn’t want to get into it. He had his own rough time to deal with, if dealing with problems was what he wanted to do, and he wasn’t sure it was. His head hurt. His eyes stung. His belly felt hollow. He’d need some calm and quiet if he was to process all that had passed in the last few days. He wished this woman would just shut up.
‘Yesterday I discovered my boyfriend was married.’
Yup, certifiable. Must be. Otherwise why would she be so candid, and why had she chosen to be so candid with him? He wasn’t the sort of person who invited familiarity. He was a good-time guy. Women told him what they knew he wanted to hear – that they were footloose and carefree (whether they were or not) – and blokes told him about business deals and the football results (but only if they were on winning streaks). Dean didn’t do deep and meaningful. He didn’t know what to make of this stranger who was prepared to pour out her misery for close inspection. Did it show she had guts, or just a masochistic streak? It was hard to know.
She shrugged. ‘Yeah, stuff happens. So, now I’m going to Chicago for my ex-boyfriend’s wedding.’
‘But didn’t you just say your boyfriend is already married. You mean yesterday you discovered he was about to get married?’ Dean honestly didn’t want to get involved, but he was confused, so against his better judgement he found he was being drawn into this conversation. She had a pretty mouth. Plump lips.
‘No. Yesterday’s guy … well, he wasn’t really a boyfriend,’ she admitted. ‘Not really. More of a …’ she paused, ‘an encounter.’
‘I see.’
‘Yeah, you probably do,’ she said with a defeated sigh. ‘The ex whose wedding I’m going to was my fiancé a while back.’
Dean had been invited to a number of weddings of women he’d prev
iously dated. He knew that these scorned and spurned women invited him to their big days to show him, the world and themselves that they were absolutely over him. Sometimes they were. Other times he knew they weren’t; they just wanted him to see them looking good in a three-thousand-dollar dress. Either way, he never accepted the invites. He simply didn’t do weddings. He didn’t like them. He didn’t believe in the whole marriage thing, his parents had seen to that. But even if he’d been the biggest romantic on earth, he doubted the sanity of going to an ex’s wedding. It had to be awkward, didn’t it? Dean thought back to the woman’s reading matter that had fallen out of the locker and on to his shoulder and felt bad for her. He was pretty sure that she was too fragile for such a social occasion; then again, he was also absolutely sure it wasn’t something he should worry about. He scrabbled around in his head for something to say that wouldn’t be too cold or cutting but would draw the conversation to a polite close. He did pride himself on being polite, even charming – just as his father had suggested (it grated that his father could assess his character so accurately; surely nothing more than a lucky guess) – so he had no desire to be unnecessarily harsh, but he really, really wanted to be left in peace.
‘Wow, that’s fun.’ He meant brave or idiotic. ‘Good for you.’ He was pretty sure he’d hit the right note. Once again he shook out his newspaper, raised it and pretended to read.
‘I’m not actually going to go to the wedding. There isn’t going to be a wedding,’ she added.
No, no, no, no. Dean fought his own curiosity but lost. He lowered the paper and folded it into neat quarters. ‘Now I’m really confused.’
‘I’m going to stop it.’ The Jo woman strained her neck in an effort to catch the eye of a flight attendant. She waved her empty glass, which she wanted refilled with champagne, and then looked at Dean. ‘Will you join me?’
She had huge brown eyes. Despite her cheery chatter, he noticed that they hinted at another story. They looked like the eyes of a baby harp seal, the type you saw on animal rights posters; baby seals that were pleading not to be clubbed to death for their skins. She looked weary. That was something he recognised. What the hell.