by Paige Toon
Later, when I asked him about her, he told me he was embarrassed because he almost hadn’t remembered her name. She was new, he said, and didn’t have many friends. He thought she seemed nice, but she wasn’t his type. I asked, of course. I always ask.
I feel a shift in the atmosphere and look at the digital flight chart: only twenty-five minutes to go. A wave of nerves soars through me, followed by a quick throb of nausea. Seconds later the captain makes the announcement about landing. I fasten my seat belt, stow away my tray table and put my seat in the upright position. As other passengers switch off their electronic equipment, I clutch my mobile phone tightly–Singapore International Airport terminal is only minutes away…
Singapore
Singapore International Airport
Stopover time: 2 hrs 10 mins
My phone is in my hand as I walk through the gate towards the airport terminal. I can see that it’s busy up ahead so I do a U-turn and push back through the throng towards the emptying gate. Then I’m dialling his number and it’s ringing, ringing, ringing…
Voicemail.
I don’t believe this! I’ve waited thirteen bloody hours to make this call. It’s just after ten in the morning in England–where the hell is he? I’m not sure I want to know. I press cancel and try again, but then the sickness in the pit of my stomach engulfs me and I slump down into a seat and bury my head in my hands.
‘I wish I could come with you. I’m going to miss you so much,’ he murmurs into my hair as he holds me tight.
‘I wish you could come too.’
‘No Aussie blokes are allowed within a foot of my beautiful girlfriend. I’m issuing them all with a restraining order!’
‘As if, you nutter.’
‘I love you, Lucy. Call me as soon as you get there. And call me tonight before you board the plane.’
‘I will do. I love you too.’
He kisses me tenderly, then opens the door before pausing and looking down at my suitcase.
‘Baby, how are you going to manage that? Are you sure you’ll be alright?’ he asks anxiously.
I tell him that I’d planned to go to work as usual in Soho, then come back here later this afternoon to collect my suitcase and catch a cab to Paddington. I’m taking the Express to the airport.
‘I’ve got a better idea,’ he says, coming back inside and closing the door. ‘Why don’t you catch a cab to work and take your suitcase with you, then taxi it to Paddington later? That way I can carry it down the stairs for you now.’
‘Oh, James, it’s too expensive. Honestly, I’ll be fine.’
‘No, it’s not. I’ll pay, don’t worry about that. Come on, are you ready?’
I waver, as he looks at me with concern. I haven’t tidied up the flat after my panic packing but I don’t suppose that matters.
‘Well…okay.’ I smile at him gratefully. ‘Thank you.’
His face lights up as he takes my suitcase and leads me down the stairs.
I press redial.
‘Hello?’
‘James!’
‘Lucy! Hey, where are you?’ he asks me warmly.
‘Where were you? I’ve been trying to call!’
‘I was in the shower.’ He sounds confused at the angst in my voice.
‘With her?’
‘Sorry?’
Suddenly rage swells up inside me.
‘Were you in the shower with the bloody BITCH you were SCREWING last night who had the NERVE to text me from YOUR MOBILE PHONE?’
Silence.
‘JAMES?’
‘Lucy, what are you talking about?’
‘You know what I’m talking about.’
‘Lucy. I categorically do not know what you’re talking about.’
‘The girl, James, the girl you shagged last night. She texted me from YOUR MOBILE PHONE!’ But my rage is losing momentum.
Now he’s exasperated. ‘Lucy, what the—I can assure you, I did NOT shag anyone last night. I had a couple of Friday-night drinks with the boys from work and then I went home to bed.’
‘But—’
‘ALONE.’
‘So who sent—’
‘I still don’t know what you’re going on about! What text?’
‘I got it at nine o’clock, before take-off. It said, “Hi Lucy! Just shagged James in your bed. Thought you should know…Four times this month—’”
‘Those fuckers!’ James angrily interrupts.
‘What?’
‘It must’ve been the lads, trying to wind you up. They’ll have nabbed my phone when I went to the bar.’
Tears spike my eyes and I take a few deep breaths as I realise he could be telling the truth.
‘Lucy?’ he asks gently. ‘Are you alright?’
‘No! I’m not! I threw up on the plane!’
‘Oh, God. Lucy, I’m so sorry.’
‘It’s okay,’ I sniff. ‘It’s not your fault.’
After a moment he speaks softly. ‘Baby, you should have known. I would never cheat on you. I missed you so much when I came home last night and you weren’t there. I can’t believe you think I’d do that. It makes me pretty sad, actually.’
‘James, I’m sorry. I didn’t understand. I didn’t know what was going on!’
‘Hey, it’s okay. It’s okay. I love you.’
There are people heading down towards the gate next to me now so I dry my eyes and speak quietly into the receiver. ‘I love you too. I’m sorry for doubting you. I was just really confused.’
‘Don’t worry. If one of your friends did that to me, I’d hit the bloody roof! But look, Lucy, promise me you won’t let this spoil your holiday. You’re going to have such an incredible time.’
When we finally hang up, the relief is so overpowering I actually laugh out loud. A few passengers queuing by the gate turn to stare. I realise I must look a right state, so I head off in search of the nearest ladies’ loos.
It’s a hot and humid Saturday evening in Singapore and when I packed my hand luggage, I had the intention of making the most of every warm minute. In the cramped toilet cubicle, I change out of my jeans into an emerald-green summer dress and swap my trainers for cork-soled, black strappy wedges. Back out in front of the mirror I tie my just-below-shoulder-length chestnut curls into a high ponytail and splash my face with cold water. I’m not wearing any make-up, but I do apply some moisturiser and cherry-flavoured lip balm.
Feeling much more normal, I set off looking for Singapore Airport’s outdoor swimming pool. One of my work colleagues, Gemma, told me about it. I don’t want to swim, but there’s an outdoor bar area and I sure as hell need a drink. I’ve got an hour and a half to kill before the flight to Sydney.
The humidity hits me the second I walk through the electric doors at the end of Terminal One. I decide on a bar-side seat and order myself a cocktail, trying to ignore the terrible Singaporean pop music blasting out of the stereo. Excitement suddenly surges through me. I’m going back to Australia!
The last time I saw Molly and Sam we were all sixteen and still at high school. I can hardly believe that was nine years ago. Molly and Sam were on-again-off-again back then–something which caused me a lot of heartbreak. I had the most overwhelming unrequited crush on Sam, and every time he got together with Molly or cooled it down, my heart would sink or soar accordingly.
I’m so relieved neither of them ever found out how I felt. But life goes on, and now I can honestly say I’m thrilled that my two friends are tying the knot.
At least I think I am, although that could all change when I see Sam again. I sincerely hope not. What is it with first loves that you supposedly never get over?
As soon as Molly called me with the news of their engagement, I knew I’d have to go back. I left Australia when my English mum married for the second time. It seemed a bit silly, her walking out on my drunkard dad in Ireland and taking me to Australia when I was four years old, only to meet an Englishman and move back to England again twelve years later. I cried and
cried at the time. It felt like leaving was the most soul-destroying thing in the world. But it’s amazing how you adapt. I love England now. I love the city where I live and work and I love going home to Mum and Terry’s house in Somerset. I also love having two brothers–well, two stepbrothers–Tom, who is twenty-one, and Nick, who is eighteen. It was lonely growing up with just Mum and me.
There are kids with armbands splashing in the pool. A young couple appear at the top of the stairs. They’re both wearing jeans and carrying backpacks and they almost immediately wipe their brows. I’m glad I packed my dress.
I think I’ll have another cocktail. ‘Excuse me. Could you tell me what this is again?’
‘Singapore Sling, madam.’
That figures. ‘Another one, please.’ The bartender nods and gets to work. What’s in them, I wonder, grabbing a menu from further down the bar. Grenadine, gin, sweet and sour mix and cherry brandy…Mmm.
This Singaporean pop music is actually quite catchy. James would laugh if he could see me now, drinking cocktails and tapping my feet.
Maybe he did hide my chocolate cherry liqueurs as a joke. I still don’t accept his story that he gave them to a tramp.
Okay, here’s the thing about my boyfriend. He is prone to the occasional crazy white lie. But I genuinely believe he doesn’t mean any harm. For example, at the party on the night we met, he told me his mum was once offered £10,000 to sell her chocolate cake recipe to the boss at Mr Kipling. He no doubt assumed I’d forget, but a few months later I went for afternoon tea at his parents’ house and his mum, a tiny little sparrow of a thing, happened to be serving chocolate cake.
‘Is this the infamous recipe?’ I asked her knowingly, and she replied, ‘Oh, no, dear, this is from M&S. I burn everything I bake!’
When I questioned James about it later, he cracked up and asked me where on earth I’d got that idea. I told him and he denied it, laughingly insisting I must’ve dreamt it. I don’t know, maybe I did.
There have been other lies, which I know I didn’t dream–some of them quite inventive. Like the one about his grandpa snogging Marilyn Monroe when she sang for the troops in Korea. I found out from James’s dad later that the old guy didn’t even fight in the Korean War, and anyway Marilyn had just married Joe DiMaggio at the time. I Googled it and everything.
But his mum selling her chocolate cake recipe to Mr Kipling…That’s my personal favourite. Little ratbag. Sometimes I think James could be an actor. But no, he’s far too good as a lawyer.
And he really is. He was promoted six months ago and got a massive pay rise. That’s how he could afford to buy me those earrings for my birthday. Knowing James, though, even without the promotion he would have saved up for six months to get them for me. He spoils me rotten. I get flowers at least once–sometimes twice–a month and he’s always taking me out to dinner and buying me presents. My friends think I’m ludicrously lucky.
There’s a high-pitched buzzing and I can hear a plane taxiing by. It’s noisy, as if we’re going through a car wash. I watch as a balding forty-something man makes his way down the steps into the swimming pool, his pot-bellied stomach shuddering with every step. Three young guys are sitting at a table on the other side of the bar, drinking beers. One of them looks over at me and then turns back to his mates and says something. All three turn round and grin.
I feel so much happier now. Damn it, I’m going to have another one.
‘Singapore Sling?’
‘Yes, please.’
I’m feeling a little tipsy. I know you shouldn’t really drink on your own but, bugger it, I’m on holiday. And I’ve been through a lot in the last, how long has it been? Fifteen hours or so? I wonder if I’ll laugh about this in years to come. It’s starting to seem pretty funny now–but I imagine the three Singapore Slings help.
The thought of poor James going home to an empty flat, sleeping in an empty bed and missing me…I wish he could’ve come to Australia as well. If he hadn’t received that promotion he would have asked for the time off, but at the time I was booking my flights, he felt it was too soon. I really wish Molly and Sam could meet him.
There’s a couple in the spa and they’re kissing. The balding forty-something is doing breaststroke and he keeps copping an eyeful every time he swims past. You don’t very often see guys do breaststroke, do you? I kind of wish I had my swimming costume with me now, but then I wouldn’t be here, swinging my wedge-clad feet on this lovely high bar stool.
‘Would you like another, madam?’
Is he flirting with me? That was definitely a twinkly grin. Can you have twinkly grins or is it just twinkly eyes and cheesy grins? I mean cheeky grins. God, I’m pissed.
This is definitely, definitely my last one. Whoa! Almost slipped off my stool. What time is my flight again? There’s a TV screen with the flight times behind the bar and I struggle to make out the numbers. No, I’m not looking at you, pal. Where’s my flight? Sydney, Sydney, Sydney–ah, there it is. Last Call.
Shit, does that say Last Call?
Bollocks! I slide, almost fall, from the stool and, practically tripping over my wedge sandals, make for the exit. Then I realise I haven’t paid. I rush back, see the relief on Twinkly Grin’s face after he must’ve figured I was doing a runner, throw down my credit card, will him to get a wriggle on and then turn and run. Where the hell is Gate C22?
Singapore to Sydney
Saturday: Depart Singapore at 2000
Sunday: Arrive Sydney at 0650
Duration: 7 hrs 50 mins
Oh dear, those air hostesses do not look happy. They’ve called for Lucy McCarthy twice over the tannoy in the last ten minutes as I’ve zigzagged my way here. I try to apologise for being late but ‘sorry’ comes out like ‘shorry’ and it doesn’t help that I’m unable to walk down the plank in a straight line.
Did I just say plank? I meant aisle, of course.
The other passengers are looking at me. Yes, yes, I’ve had a couple of drinks, but what am I, a total freak? Ah, here’s my seat. Window again, fab. Yep, you’ll have to move. And I’m not so drunk that I can’t see you raising your eyebrows at each other, either. Bet you thought you had a nice empty seat next to you–too bad! I think I’ll take my carry-on bag with me to my seat this time.
I plonk myself down and try to locate the seat belt from under my bum. Blanket…No. Pillow…No. Where is the bloomin’ thing? Ah, seat belt. I tug, tug, tug at it. Why won’t it budge? Oh, okay, that seat belt belongs to the man next to me. Sorry, mate. I’ve found mine. Click. I do feel woozy.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, would you please fasten your seat belts, stow away your tray tables and put your seats in the upright position…’
Yeah, yeah, heard it all before. Blahdeblahdeblah.
‘…mobile phones must be switched off until you’re safely inside Sydney International Airport…’
Yep, I know that bit too. Been there, done that. Oops, I haven’t switched it off yet actually.
Can’t…quite…reach…bag…
Seat belt…too…tight…
I eventually unclick myself and grab my bag, finding my phone. No messages, thank goodness. I switch it off and chuck it back into my bag. Then I buckle myself up again and breathe a nice big Singapore Sling sigh of relief.
My tanned legs are peeking out from underneath my sundress and I admire them happily. I do like this fake tan–it’s a nice, natural-looking one. But it is such a pain in the arse having to use old sheets on the first night that you apply it. And then you have to wash them and put your good ones back on again…So it’s two loads of laundry in two days. Well, I had to leave James to deal with the washing this time as he hurried me out of the flat.
NICE SHEETS!
The memory barely registers before my stomach freefalls and I ask myself: how the hell did James’s blokey friends know about my shitty fake-tan sheets?
Oh, no…They didn’t know. Because they didn’t send that text.
I hurriedly unbuckle my seat bel
t and reach for my bag, giving the seat back and the person in front of me a big, solid head-butt. I fumble around for my phone and switch it on.
HI LUCY! JUST SHAGGED JAMES IN UR BED. THOUGHT U SHOULD KNOW. 4 TIMES THIS MONTH. NICE SHEETS! XXX
‘Miss–you need to turn that off.’
What, do they have eyes in the back of their bloody heads?
‘I can’t! I have to make a phone call!’
‘Miss, the other passengers on this flight have already been held up enough, don’t you think?’ She looks at me meaningfully. ‘So you’d better turn that off, right now.’
‘Is there a problem?’ Another bitchy air hostess arrives to join the party.
‘No, Franny, we’re alright here. This young lady was just about to turn off her phone.’
With a deep fury bubbling away in my very core, I comply. Power trip over, they smugly sashay off down the aisle. I’m tempted to hurl my phone at the back of Franny’s frickin’ head.
That lying, cheating son of a bitch. I’m going to kill him.
The plane takes off and I’m so full of rage that I barely notice. The forty-something man and his wife/girlfriend/mistress (most likely) next to me shift uncomfortably in their seats. And while I’d like to think I have a certain amount of self-control, at the moment I’m not entirely sure I do. It’s just as well I’ve been given a window seat–I’d probably be rampaging down the aisle, screaming like a banshee, if I could get out. I can’t handle another eight hours of this.
The sun is setting as we start our journey through another night. It calms my mood somewhat and it occurs to me that I haven’t actually eaten anything since leaving London yesterday evening. Four cocktails on an empty stomach–oh, dear. I suddenly have an urgent need to go to the toilet. The people next to me are only too eager to oblige, standing up and eyeing me warily as I squeeze past them.
The nasty fluorescent light in the bathroom flickers on. I clock my diamond earrings in my reflection and seriously consider tearing them from my ears and flushing them down the toilet. Ha! Knowing how the bastard lied through his teeth to me, they’re probably not even real. Lucy in the sky with cubic fucking zirconia. That’d be about right.