Mile High Guy

by Marisa Mackle

  I sit up in bed and wonder what I will do with myself today. The curtains are drawn so I’ve no idea what the weather’s like. In fact I don’t have the slightest clue what time it is either. Flying really does mess up your sleeping pattern. I don’t even know whether it’s day or night. Stretching myself like a cat in the sun, I contemplate my options. If it’s still morning I think I’ll go and have some breakfast but if it’s evening, I’ll have some lasagne and a nice glass of wine. Or a bottle. Why not? I could murder a good bottle of Chablis just now.

  I pull back the bedclothes, so thrilled that I actually have a couple of days off to look forward to. My uniform is flung on the floor so I’d better take it to the dry cleaner and get that boring task out of the way. Then maybe I’ll have some time for me and get cracking on my script. Hmmm. Maybe not though. I’m too tired to have to think about something as depressing as that just now.

  I wander down to the kitchen to see if I can look up any more info on Adam on the computer. I kind of like him a bit more now because of my dream. And there’s a lovely photo of him on his website. It’s probably airbrushed but who am I to complain? I wonder has Dad fixed the printer so I can print Adam’s mug out and stick it on my bedroom wall?

  As luck would have it my Dad is glued to the PC looking up something trivial as usual. He’s always going on about the Internet being so wonderful with all the information on it. Then again, the local library has always had lots of information in it and he never used to go there. How much information does one person need anyway? Oh well, I shouldn’t criticise anybody for surfing the net. I mean it’s not like I don’t spend hours looking up my horoscope, and wait till I tell you about the time I joined that online dating agency . . . then again, maybe I’ll wait until I know you a bit better.

  ‘Hi Dad,’ I call breezily.

  ‘Hi Katie, good trip?’

  He doesn’t turn around.

  ‘Great,’ I tell his back.

  I don’t say anything else because I know he doesn’t want to hear about bargains in New York or passengers who wreck my head or God forbid – the screenplay that I’m supposed to be writing. Dad just thinks that’s the biggest joke going.

  I grab a coffee and pop some bread in the toaster when I realise it’s not even lunchtime yet. Then I sit down to read the Irish Independent. When I open it up my heart does a mini somersault. There, in the middle of page five, is a huge photo of Adam. And he seems to be smiling back at me with eyes that just seem to say ‘got ya’. I just keep staring and say nothing, although part of me would love to show his picture to Dad and say ‘Dad, see that man? He gave me his phone number and he’s like, really famous in the States.’

  But I’ve spent my whole life trying to earn Dad’s respect so it wouldn’t make any sense to start backtracking now. Dad has about as much interest in celebs as I have in politics.

  ‘Tim phoned,’ Dad says suddenly.

  Great. So Tim was on to my father too. Oh dear he really is like part of the family now. Maybe he should just move in permanently with us. After all, it’d save him a small fortune in telephone bills. I sip my coffee and wonder why I’m so reluctant to ring Tim. After all, we’ve been together almost three years. On and off. More off than on to be perfectly honest.

  When I first met Tim he was really rather attractive, although he isn’t any more. Not really, although, as I said before, shaving off the beard was a major step in the right direction.

  I do find though that men are often more attractive when they’re single and taking care of themselves. But then when they get a girlfriend they feel they can give up exercising. Just like that. And start ordering take-aways the whole time. Mind you, if Tim were going out with a girl who could cook (unlike me) well then maybe he wouldn’t have put on so much weight recently. So it’s partly my fault.

  I, like most women I know, have a love-hate relationship with the weighing scales. You see, my weight tends to go up and down. Up more than down really. And I’m constantly on some kind of diet. I’ve tried them all. Even the cabbage soup diet, which I really didn’t enjoy and didn’t lose any weight on either. I wouldn’t really recommend it. Calorie counting is a pain too. There’s nothing more tedious than writing down every single morsel that passes your lips. By the time evening comes around you realise you’ve written so much that you might as well keep eating.

  Some people swear by the Atkins diet but since I’m a veggie that’s a no-go area for me. Unless I want to stuff myself with cheese, eggs and nothing else all day. Could you imagine it? Diets don’t work anyway. It’s a well-known fact. Yeah, you can lose a half a stone in a week but you’ll put it all on the following week. Much the same way as you can cram for an exam but remember nothing once you leave the exam hall. The best diet is the no-food diet I find. It genuinely works. But it’s very boring and doctors definitely don’t recommend it.

  However it does make sense, doesn’t it? The no-food diet. Think about it. If you don’t eat, you simply don’t put on weight. Ask any successful model who’ll probably agree. As my dad always points out, there are no fat people in Ethiopia so you can’t exactly go around blaming genes, metabolism, big bones or whatever.

  The main reason I remain trim enough, is that I know I have to do the safety demonstration every day with at least fifty passengers staring at my tummy as I raise my arms to put on my life jacket.

  There’s nothing like a live daily audience to put you off stuffing your face from morning to night. Anyway I’m not dieting today, I tell myself as I smother a piece of toast in butter.

  I sip my coffee and stare at Adam’s photo again. As I’m doing so, I just know that I’m going to phone him. I won’t have the strength not to. My willpower isn’t strong enough. Well maybe I won’t quite phone him but I’ll text him anyway. Aren’t texts just the best invention? Because of them, you could go through life speaking to almost nobody at all. Wouldn’t it be great if you could just get passengers to text you when they wanted something? Instead of pressing that annoying call bell all the time?

  Incidentally did you know when passengers in the main cabin press the call bell, the annoying BLING cannot be heard up in first class? Oh the joy of being able to fly in complete luxury! If I had the money I would only ever fly first class. I bet ‘my Adam’ has never known the horrors of flying all the way to LA with some annoying little brat kicking his chair for over eleven hours!

  One day I hope I’m rich and famous and that I’ll be able to sit in first class while some handsome steward pours me coffee. Or something stronger. Maybe when I write my script and Hollywood comes knocking on my door, my life will change dramatically.

  Hopefully the dream will work out. I’m planning on writing something about the Great Irish Famine so that it’ll appeal to the Americans. Maybe I’ll become the female version of Frank McCourt and people all over the world will know my name. Wouldn’t that be cool?

  I’m imagining it now. I’m in Sak’s Fifth Avenue, carrying an armful of designer gear to the desk. I plonk down all the clothes at the cash register, and I’m so rich I haven’t even bothered checking the price tags. The assistant is looking at me curiously because she thinks my face is very familiar but still she isn’t one hundred per cent sure. I hand over my credit card and she glances at the name nervously. Then she recognises my name and her face breaks into an excited smile. ‘Oh my God,’ she screeches, as nearby shoppers stop in their tracks wondering what all the fuss is about. ‘It is you. I knew it. I just love all your films. Listen, could I have your autograph? Wait, could I possibly get my photo taken with . . . ?’

  ‘Katie, the phone’s ringing.’ The sound of Dad’s voice startles me. How could he? He’s just killed my daydream. Reluctantly I get up.

  ‘Hello?’ I answer.

  ‘Hello baby.’

  Oh no. It’s Tim. And he’s calling me baby again even though I’ve asked him to stop. A zillion times. But Tim’s memory isn’t the best.

  ‘Hi,’ I mutter unenthusiastically.
<
br />   ‘What are you up to?’ he asks. ‘Baby.’

  ‘Nothing. And you?’

  ‘Not much. I’m in work. Listen what are we doing tonight?’

  Do we have to do something?

  ‘Don’t mind. You decide.’

  ‘No. You decide.’

  ‘I’m easy.’

  ‘I’m easy too.’

  Only I’m not really. I’m never easy where Tim is concerned. Because Tim’s suggestions are never that great. He always says things like ‘I’ll call over and then we’ll take it from there’. But we never do take it from there. Because when he calls over, Mum puts on the kettle and basically we do nothing. Because Mum always ropes him into a conversation about old Irish castles, or plants, or George Bush or traffic or whatever.

  Please don’t think I’m a moany old cow. I might sound like one but come on – surely you’ve gone out with someone like Tim too. A well-meaning chap with good intentions that never really lead to anything.

  ‘How was New York?’ he asks.

  See? I told you he was just like Mum. If he’d met her when she’d been my age, they’d be married by now. Or at least engaged. They’d have been perfect for each other. Instead she married my dad whom she constantly refers to as ‘Oh silent one’. Not that he takes a blind bit of notice though.

  Eventually we agree to go and see some action film out in Liffey Valley Shopping Centre. It’s what we usually do really. Tim doesn’t like pubbing or clubbing. He doesn’t like pubs because he says they’re just full of drunks talking shite. And he hates clubs because the music is too loud and they make him feel old.

  We used to get invited to a lot of dinner parties, but after a while I refused to go because people kept asking us when we were getting married. They seemed to think that was funny. At first I used to smile shyly but now I just can’t be bothered. Anyway, the other reason why I hate dinner parties is because I don’t cook very well, so we always have to invite couples to restaurants as a return. And Tim complains that it costs him an arm and a leg. It’s not that he’s mean or anything but he is saving for a house. And you can’t save for a house in Dublin and also take random couples for expensive meals every second weekend. Especially the type of couples who go mad on the drink when someone else is paying. And unfortunately for Tim, most of our friends are that type.

  If I were in love, I’d start getting ready now for our big, ahem, night out. But because I’m not, I just hang around the kitchen eating more buttered toast out of boredom and wait for Dad to get off the computer so that I can look up more info on Adam. Oh God, I know I said earlier that I wasn’t going to ring him or anything, but you really should see him!

  I can’t not contact a guy who looks as divine as Adam Kirrane. I’d only torture myself for the rest of my life wondering what might have been.

  How can I describe Adam to you? Well, he’s a bit like Ben Affleck with a smaller jaw. And he’s probably more down to earth. And he hasn’t gone out with J-Lo as far as I know. Hmm. I wonder whom he has dated. I mean, I wonder has he dated anybody famous? How could I compete with somebody famous?

  I bet he has a string of girls after him. Of course he has. In fact I bet the only reason he gave me his number is because he’s sick of being accosted by groupies. Well, at least I’m not like that. I don’t care who he is. I’d like him even if he was the gardener. Yes, really. Even if he hadn’t a bean I’d probably still find him very attractive.

  And if you believe that, you’ll believe anything!

  CHAPTER FOUR

  We’re sitting in the cinema and I wish they’d turn on the lights so I could see which Revels I’m eating. My favourites are the orange ones but I keep biting into the coffee ones by mistake and it’s so annoying. The film is unbelievably boring but I can’t say anything because Tim would take it as a personal insult. As if he personally wrote the script. Or starred in the film or something. He’s a bit funny like that.

  There doesn’t seem to be a storyline or anything. Just lots of special effects and martial arts stunts. Basically it’s the type of film most girls wouldn’t go to see in a fit.

  I’m really tired now and my contact lenses are irritating me. I close my eyes hoping that it will make them less dry. And soon I’m dreaming. Yes, I’m dreaming I’m at the premiere of a film. It must be in LA because it’s warm and balmy and all the women are wearing off-the-shoulder dresses and they’re all tanned and very thin. I myself am wearing a lovely silky red Versace dress that I’ve been given for free and I’m gliding down the red carpet, my arm linked to Adam’s. I spot Halle Berry, Kate Hudson and Tom Hanks and I give them a courtesy nod, but I don’t have time to speak as the photographers are all calling out my name. I’m not sure why I’m this famous but I give them all a smile because basically I know they’re just trying to make a living and I would never punch a photographer or stick up my middle finger. Or grab their camera and smash it on the ground. No. I would never do anything like that. Not like some rude celebrities.

  ‘You’re not eating all those Revels, are you?’ an eager autograph-hunter asks as he thrusts a pen in my hand.

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘Here, come on, don’t eat all those Revels or you’ll get fat, hahaha.’

  I’m about to call security, as I don’t much like this guy’s attitude.

  ‘Wake up. God Katie, I can’t believe you’ve fallen asleep again.’

  It’s not a fan after all. It’s Tim looking for Revels.

  ‘Sorry,’ I mumble. I’m so tired. I really am. Not just because I was up all last night serving passengers. No. I’m tired of my life. And Tim. And my parents. Suddenly I realise I’m tired of just plodding along without much purpose in life. Tired of flying to places and coming home again and then doing the same thing the next day all over again. Wouldn’t it be great to have some excitement in my life? Wouldn’t it be nice to have fun? For once? I swiftly make up my mind that as soon as I get home I’m going to ring Adam Kirrane. Maybe he’ll end up breaking my heart but I’m prepared to take that chance. At least it’s better than dying of boredom!

  ‘That was brilliant,’ Tim says as we queue to leave the cinema complex. ‘Absolutely class.’

  I just nod in agreement because, as I said earlier, Tim takes it personally if you don’t like the films he chooses.

  ‘Do you want to go for something to eat?’ he asks me.

  I shake my head.

  Tim wants something to eat though. He says he’s famished even though he demolished half my packet of Revels earlier. We head for Eddie Rockets. His choice, not mine. I’m not a bit hungry. As we sit by the window I stare at the jukebox in the corner and wonder what my life would be like if I was the girlfriend of a really famous guy. A guy like Adam. Wouldn’t it be a dream? For a start, I know if I was with Adam we wouldn’t be sitting here eating garlic mushrooms and chips. No. I’d probably be in The Ivy over in London. Or Browne’s in Dublin. Or anywhere but here.

  Back in the car, Tim asks if I want to stay the night in his place. To be honest that’s the last thing I feel like doing. I tell him I’m too wrecked but agree to meet him again tomorrow. He leans over and gives me a kiss. His breath reeks of garlic. I wonder whether I should just break up with him now and save us both a lot of heartache in the long run. But I’m much too much of a coward to suggest breaking up so I smile, get out of the car and bid him goodnight.

  I’m in my bedroom about two minutes when I have my mobile phone out and I’m punching the digits of Adam’s number. My heart is racing but I don’t care. This is what I want. I’m craving excitement. I’m thinking although I’m a big girl now, I still feel like fourteen. And I’m thinking how much easier it is now that people have mobiles.

  Remember when you’d ring some guy and their mother would answer the phone with a chilly ‘Who is this?’

  God, that was a bit horrible, wasn’t it?

  Thankfully I’m not a teenager anymore.

  ‘Hello?’

  Yikes, that was quick. I was k
ind of hoping Adam would have the phone switched off so I could just leave a message. Don’t you just hate when people answer their phones?

  ‘Adam?’

  ‘Yep? Who’s this?’

  His voice is deep and sexy. No wonder millions of women turn on the telly each week to hear his voice.

  ‘It’s Katie.’

  I’m not going to tell him where I work. Or how he might know me. No. I’m not going to make it easy for him. For all I know he asks several women out every week. Or every day.

  I wait for him to say something and try to convince myself I’m not at all nervous. The palm of my hand feels clammy.

  ‘Katie, the air hostess,’ he says and I can visualise him smiling. He sounds like he’s smiling anyway and suddenly I’m glad I met him in first class on a plane and not in some nightclub locked out of my head.

  ‘That’s right.’ I’m smiling back but he doesn’t know that of course.

  ‘I wasn’t sure I’d hear from you,’ he says but his voice is warm.

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘Oh, I’d say I’m not the first passenger to ask you out.’ He laughs.

  I laugh too.

  He’s not completely wrong of course. I once had a stunningly beautiful Brazilian man leave his phone number on his tray for me. He was going to be in Dublin for one night. But one night with a Brazilian wasn’t exactly what I was looking for so I declined his invitation for dinner. And whatever else he had in mind.

  Then, there was that other time, when four very drunk teenage guys on their way to Gran Canaria, kept asking for more beer. When I made it clear I didn’t want to serve them any more, one of them told me I was by far the most beautiful air hostess on the flight and asked if he could go out with me sometime.

  I was flattered because he was a bit of a cutie, albeit a drunken cutie. But the flattery vanished as soon as I remembered I was the only air hostess on the flight; the other three crew members being male stewards.

  ‘There’s been a few but nobody like you,’ I answer truthfully.