Air Babylon

by Imogen Edwards-Jones

  ‘Gucci.’ They both nod.

  ‘Gucci it is then.’

  I walk them through passport control and wait the other side while security swab their Prada bags.

  ‘All right, ladies?’ I say as they arrive. They say nothing, but one of them hands me a £20 note. ‘No, really,’ I say, smiling, stepping backwards and holding my hands up in the air. She taps me vigorously on the chest with it, nodding away.

  ‘Take,’ orders the other one.

  ‘Oh, OK,’ I reply.

  We disappear off to Gucci where I watch them drop nearly £8,000 on four handbags, a watch and five pairs of shoes. They hand me the bags and we move on to Harrods, where they buy eight teddy bears, a tin of shortbread and a selection of Wedgwood cups. Again, they hand me the bags. We move on to Burberry where they buy two small checked handbags, a baseball cap and an extra-large checked shirt. In duty free they buy four bottles of Coco Chanel, a couple of YSL lipsticks they have smeared very discreetly on the backs of their hands, and then, after much to-ing and fro-ing, I understand that they want me to buy three bottles of Johnny Walker Blue at £99 each. In the space of about ten to fifteen minutes, on a small spree between check-in and the lounge, they have shelled out what Dave, Cathy or Debbie earns in a year. By the time we arrive at the first-class lounge I have requisitioned a trolley for all their purchases. There is only so much retail one man can carry on his own.

  We walk into the lounge and I show their passes and see them settled into a large, accommodating sofa. The taller of the two reaches into her handbag and pulls out a crisp £50 note. I have to admit that this time I make no show of not wanting to take it. My hand is out and it’s been trousered before any of the other staff notice me, the manager, pocketing tips. I wish them a good trip, bow obsequiously, then set about trying to find Andy.

  I walk the length of the first-class lounge that we, in fact, share with another airline. Full of red carpet, curved walls, comfortable sofas, glass tables and interestingly groovy shelves of untouched books and obscure cigar magazines, it also has a sumptuous stuff-yourself buffet laid with plates of smoked salmon, Parma ham, fresh blinis, stacks of fruit, croissants, Danish pastries, and every conceivable bottle of alcohol that the parched, weary tycoon/businessman/traveller could wish for before he begins his journey. Over in the far corner there are shower facilities, conference rooms, a massage area, a row of computers with free internet access, and banks of television screens all showing CNN. But Andy is nowhere to be seen.

  I look around the lounge again. I finally spot what looks like most of the band, up at the far end, surrounded by cans of Red Stripe and packets of cheese and onion crisps. They have clearly yet to get to the macrobiotic stage of celebrity. I walk up to them.

  ‘Evening, lads,’ I say. They turn and face me, their facial topiary and gelled fringes smacking of the same stylist. ‘Um,’ I continue, slightly wrong-footed by the cloning. ‘Have any of you seen Andy?’

  A slight snigger goes around the group.

  ‘Not for a while,’ says the one with black gelled hair.

  ‘Oh,’ I say, a bit confused. ‘He should be here with you.’

  ‘You could try the toilets,’ suggests the one with ginger gelled hair.

  Everyone sniggers.

  ‘Right,’ I say, turning around.

  I’m going to kill him. If I catch him shagging one of the members of the band in the toilet, birthday or no birthday, I am actually going to suspend him. He has done this one too many times. I know he thinks it’s all very witty and amusing to pull on the job. I know he thinks it’s one of his check-in perks. All part of the service, as it were. But it is not a good look for the airline. And to be frank, it’s a sackable offence.

  He is also beginning to develop a bit of a reputation. His favourite trick, in an overnight delay situation, is to invite a passenger or two back to his flat. He’s done it a few times. He suggests that there might not be enough room at the hotel where we are putting up delayed passengers and indicates that there might be room in his inn, which is handily near the airport. You’d be surprised how many takers there are for a night of tequila and sex round at Andy’s.

  As I walk into the men’s toilets, Andy and the one with blond gelled hair walk out. They both look flush-faced, bright-eyed and slightly dishevelled. They also smell of sex.

  ‘Ah,’ says Andy, stopping in his tracks and smiling, ‘I was wondering where you were.’

  ‘I was wondering the same thing,’ I reply, staring him in the eye.

  ‘I was just helping Chase here,’ he says, indicating the one with the blond gelled hair. ‘I spilt some beer down his trousers and I was showing him how to dry them before he got on the flight.’

  ‘Yeah, that’s right.’ Chase slips past me. ‘Thanks for that, man.’

  ‘Pleasure,’ Andy says with a smile. ‘Any time.’

  I know that Andy is lying. He knows that I know he is lying. But his story has been corroborated by a passenger and there is very little I can say. I could accuse them both of lying, but what is the point? The truth is I like Andy very much and I would be loath to let him go.

  ‘Now that you’re here,’ I say, moving on, ‘I have a problem with the boarding passes that I need you to sort out.’

  ‘Right away,’ he says, running his thumbs along the waistband of his trousers. ‘Anything you say.’

  I talk him through the seating changes, explaining that much as I would love to put the boy band at the front, the sheikh kind of takes priority. He does, at least, have the decency to look slightly embarrassed. But we both decide not to downgrade the boys. Well, there is only a finite amount of room in club, and quite frankly Andy, Sue, Rachel and I rather have our eyes on those wider leather seats ourselves. We are all flying standby, with space-available upgrades, so it’s rather in our interest to make sure that there is actually space available.

  ‘That’s all sorted then,’ I say to Andy.

  ‘Yup,’ he says. ‘So I’ll meet you at the gate?’

  ‘Not long to go now.’

  ‘Can’t wait,’ he says, rubbing his hands together again.

  ‘I’m just going back to make sure that the last passengers check in OK.’

  ‘OK.’

  I turn to go. ‘Oh, Andy,’ I say.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Don’t do that again.’

  ‘Do what?’ he says, coming the innocent.

  ‘You know what.’

  He smiles. His earlobes turn red. He knows exactly what I’m talking about.

  7–8 PM

  COMING OUT OF the first-class lounge, I run slap bang into a group of some of the sickest-looking people I have ever seen. It is a shocking sight, like some sort of weird hospital breakout of the living dead. There’s a whole convoy of them shuffling slowly past with zimmer frames, sticks and crutches; some are in wheelchairs, others are sporting portable drips. They all look terrible, with white skin and rheumy red eyes. I stand back, leaning flat against the corridor wall, making room for them as they go by. They are accompanied by a small attachment of concerned nurses and a flurry of benevolent-looking nuns.

  ‘Lourdes?’ I ask one of them as she walks past.

  ‘That’s right,’ she smiles.

  ‘I hope you have a successful trip.’

  ‘Oh, it will be.’ Her eyes glow with all the certainty of a believer.

  It’s been a while since I’ve seen a Lourdes flight leave the airport and I had forgotten quite what a sobering and depressing sight it can be. A couple of my friends have done the flights themselves, when their plane has been wet-leased by some charter company. They said that the flights were quite hairy; they packed extra oxygen on the plane and crossed their fingers, hoping for the best. Fortunately, France isn’t that far away.

  As wet-leasing gigs go, Lourdes is not one of the most popular runs to be on. Then again, wet-leasing is a precarious business. A way for airlines to make their planes and crew work for them when they are supposedly on the ground
, wet-leasing is when one airline hires out its plane, crew and pilots to another for a short charter. It’s the closest a charter company comes to being a virtual airline. So, a company like Thomas Cook can wet-lease a Qantas plane that would otherwise be sitting on the tarmac all day (having arrived early in the morning, it won’t be leaving until later that night). Qantas supplies a crew who have been downroute for a couple of days who fancy earning some extra cash doing a day trip to Greece. Thomas Cook stocks the plane with its own catering and duty free, and provides its own tickets. And everyone makes money. There are plenty of travel companies or organizations at it, like P&O, who wet-lease planes to ferry their passengers to and from Mediterranean cruises. There are also some who dry-lease. They supply the crew and the pilots but they effectively rent the plane for the day from another airline. It’s one way to keep the accountants happy.

  The Lourdes party eventually pass and I wander back through the inappropriately festive duty free towards check-in. ‘Jingle Bells’ is on a loop and the purple and silver Christmas tree parked outside Harrods is flashing away at full wattage. It really does depress me that they bring Christmas this early to the airport. We spend so long getting into the spirit of things that by the time the big day arrives I find it quite hard to give a shit.

  Ahead of me, struggling with what looks like a heavy suitcase, is a pilot. I can’t work out which airline he is from, but his suitcase looks cheap and his uniform is shiny and shoddy. I wonder if he is carrying cash for the BAA. There are some airlines whose credit rating is so bad that they have to pay their BAA landing rights and fuel bills in cash. This bloke is certainly a likely-looking candidate.

  Turning left as I come through the other side of security, I can see that there is something odd going on at our check-in desk. As I get closer, I can see that Cathy’s check-in desk seems to be covered in toiletries. She has bottles and bottles of shampoo, conditioner, soap, bubble bath and shower gel, in fact a whole Boots counter, laid out in front of her.

  ‘Good evening,’ I say.

  ‘Hi.’ She smiles and rolls her eyes as the passenger in front of her hauls out another three bottles of body lotion from her bag.

  ‘Overweight?’ I ask the woman who is rattling around in her luggage.

  ‘It seems so,’ she puffs, bringing out a giant pot of Marmite and placing it on the counter. ‘I’m moving to Dubai for a couple of months, and I just wanted a few of my home comforts with me.’

  ‘I’m sure you can get shampoo out there,’ I reassure her with a smile.

  ‘Yes,’ she agrees. ‘But not lemon fresh Head and Shoulders.’

  ‘Oh, right,’ I say.

  ‘My mate who organizes the ex-pat hash runs and stuff warned me that it’s ever so difficult to get exactly what you’re used to,’ she says. ‘So, you know, I’ve been to Marks and stocked up’ – she pulls out six pork pies and a packet of scotch eggs – ‘on the little things that remind me of home.’ She then places a family-size jar of pickled onions on the counter. ‘That should do it, don’t you think?’ she asks Cathy.

  ‘I’m sure it will. Put the bag on again.’

  The woman drags her bag back onto the scales. Cathy and I take a look. It’s still a good seven kilos over, but I don’t really have the heart to ask her to unpack more.

  ‘That looks fine,’ I say.

  ‘Oh, really?’ says the woman, her fat cheeks bright red with exertion. ‘I’ve still got a Battenberg cake I could take out.’

  ‘No, don’t worry,’ says Cathy.

  ‘Or the Jaffa cakes?’

  ‘No, no, that’s fine,’ I say.

  ‘That’s a relief. I promised Pauline a proper English tea when I got there.’

  ‘Looks like you’ll keep that promise,’ says Cathy.

  ‘Um, what would you like us to do with all this?’ I ask, gesturing to the small market stall in front of me.

  ‘Oh,’ she says, ‘you’d better have it.’

  You’d be surprised how often the check-in girls go home with bottles of shampoo and conditioner or jars of face cream as they are usually the first things people take out of their suitcases when they are overweight. Though we have been left with stranger stuff – whole hams, boxes of toilet paper, tins of peaches, electric irons, and packets of dried-up meat.

  Chanel, Cathy, Debbie and Trisha gather around like gannets and in a matter of seconds have selected the best pickings. Dave has a little more dignity and doesn’t seem that interested. I pool together the leftovers and take them into the back office to give to Barry for the Church. Although quite what he will do with a giant pot of Marmite, two bottles of Head and Shoulders and some scotch eggs is anyone’s guess.

  Back out front there are still a few more passengers to check in. A couple approach and then split up as soon as they reach the desks, pretending that they don’t know each other. I walk up and down behind the check-in just to make sure they are who I think they are – a couple of middle-aged adulterers off on a long dirty weekend. They do this sometimes. They buy their tickets together and then pretend they don’t know each other when they arrive at the airport. I don’t know who they think they are kidding, because as soon as one of their names is typed into the computer, the other name automatically appears alongside it. It’s very strange. The only thing that does happen as a result of this is it makes it more difficult to work out who is travelling with whom in the event of a crash. And it’s not just men and their mistresses who do this. I can recall a supposedly very heterosexual pop star arriving with a handsome young man in tow. They booked into separate seats on the plane and the singer proceeded to ignore his ‘special friend’ throughout their time in the first-class lounge. Not even so much as a glance in each other’s direction. The sad thing is, if they had booked in together and sat together on the flight, no-one would have given it a second thought. It was the subterfuge that aroused suspicion.

  Mr and Mrs Illicit Weekend check in and make their separate ways towards security just as Susan and Rachel arrive. You can always tell an air hostess a mile off, even when she is off duty, and these two are no exception. Despite the jeans, the shirts and the jackets they are both sporting, there is something about the way they apply their make-up and do their hair, that sort of extra-soignée appearance they have, that non-flyers simply don’t possess.

  ‘Recovered from the snake debacle?’ asks Rachel, as she puts down her passport.

  ‘Yes, thank you,’ I say, stepping behind the desk to check them both in.

  I can feel my face getting hot under Susan’s gaze. I look down at the screen and feign interest in it. This is pathetic, I think, looking up and trying to smile at her. My cheeks twitch. What the hell do I think I am, some sort of love-struck teenager?

  ‘Looking forward to this?’ I ask Susan, desperate for something to say.

  ‘Well,’ she says, sounding dubious. ‘I hope my liver can cope.’

  ‘Yeah.’ I laugh with far too much enthusiasm. ‘Mine too!’

  ‘Andy at the gate?’ interrupts Rachel.

  ‘Um, yes,’ I reply. ‘He’s escorting some boy band onto the plane.’

  ‘That’s his idea of heaven,’ she says.

  ‘I know.’ I nod, smiling at Susan.

  ‘So, are we all in club?’ Rachel asks.

  ‘What?’ I say.

  ‘Is there room for us all in club?’ she asks again, looking down at the check-in computer.

  ‘Oh, sorry. I’m sure there is. I think Andy blocked off the whole of the front row.’

  I look down and start to type. The whole of club-class seating comes up in front of me. It looks remarkably full. Andy has blocked off the front row as promised so we are all OK to fly, but the rest of the compartment is packed.

  ‘That’s odd,’ I say.

  ‘What?’ asks Rachel, always the first to pick up on anything resembling a weakness.

  ‘Club class is full.’

  ‘I knew it! One simple thing like flying a small group to bloody Dubai and you an
d Andy can’t even manage that! Come on, Sue, let’s go, because there’s no way I’m flying steerage.’

  ‘No, it’s not that,’ I reply.

  ‘Oh,’ says Rachel.

  ‘We’re all fine to fly.’

  ‘Oh,’ she says again.

  ‘Good,’ smiles Susan.

  ‘It’s just that club looks very full indeed. I don’t remember it being that fully booked. Dave?’ I turn towards Dave, who already has his coat on at the end of his shift. ‘Do you know anything about this?’

  ‘What’s that?’ he says, sounding excessively nonchalant.

  ‘Do you have any idea why there are so many people in club?’

  ‘No idea, mate,’ he replies. ‘I just checked them in.’

  ‘Right,’ I say. Something is not quite right here. ‘Are you hanging around for a while?’

  ‘Me, mate?’ he asks, like I might be talking to someone else.

  ‘Yes, you.’

  ‘No, mate. I’ve got to shoot off.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘See you around,’ he adds as he walks off, putting his hands in his pockets and pulling his coat collar up around his ears. He disappears off into the crowd, his bald patch shining under the strip lighting.

  ‘What do you think has happened?’ asks Susan.

  ‘I’m not sure yet,’ I say as I watch him go. ‘I’ll know more when I get to the gate.’

  Susan and Rachel disappear off into the club-class lounge while I pack up the check-in and see off the girls. The hatchets of earlier in the day seem well and truly buried now as they clatter around in the back office, reapplying make-up and spraying themselves in clouds of perfume, discussing going out for a drink locally or perhaps meeting up in town later. Cathy’s the only one who is back on duty with us tomorrow; all the others have different shifts starting at different times for various other airlines. Chanel, if I overhear correctly, doesn’t appear to be working at all. She’s got the day off and is going to spend it having her hair dyed. I can’t think why, I muse while looking at her, it looks yellow enough to me. I thank them for their hard work, and they all pocket their free toiletries and disappear off in a whirl of blue uniforms, red and white striped scarves and high heels, and a cloud of strong, sweet-smelling perfume. All except Cathy, that is, who is also boarding the passengers on to the Dubai flight. She makes her way towards the gate and I tell her I’ll catch her up in a minute before turning to lock up the back office. The next time I open this door I am going to be feeling very unwell indeed. The idea of my impending hangover and enforced jolly drinking makes me want to run for it. But I can’t. I can’t let the side down. I can’t let Andy down. And more importantly, when am I ever again going to get the opportunity to spend any time alone with Sue?