The California Club: LoveTravel Series - USA

by Belinda Jones

  'You go first, Zo,' I nod ahead, still in a tangle.

  Zoë steps forward through the archway, instantly setting off the bleeper.

  'Bugger!’

  Retreating, she clunks her charm bracelet and fake Gucci watch into the plastic tray then tries again.

  It bleeps again.

  'Do you think it's my belt buckle?' She rattles her midriff.

  'Worth a try,' I shrug.

  She tugs her belt through the loops of her Earl jeans and coils it into the tray.

  Still she bleeps.

  The security man beckons her over and, starting at her heels, strokes her aura with his bleeper-wand, mentally eliminating possible causes as he goes – no steel toecaps, ankle chains, pins holding her knees in place following a serious netball injury, no bellybutton ornamentation and definitely no nipple rings – he lingers a while to make absolutely sure and moves on with visible disappointment. As soon as the wand reaches ear level it bleats frantically.

  Zoë raises her hand to her scalp in confusion, then blanches and looks back to me with an, 'Oh god!' expression.

  I frown back a 'What?'

  She's already removed her earrings and unless she's had a ton of rapper-style gold caps since I saw her last I can't imagine what it could be.

  She leans forward and whispers to the security man. Behind me the line gets impatient. The security man shakes his head and sends her back through to my side of the arch.

  'I can't believe it!' Zoë hisses. 'Is he looking?'

  'Who?'

  'The stud.'

  I turn back to check on the one good-looking guy in the line. Everyone's looking.

  'No,' I lie. 'What's wrong?'

  'I got these new hair extensions, you just clip them in place at your roots …' Discreetly she lifts a flap of hair and reveals one of the troublesome metal grips.

  'He's not making you take them out?' I gasp.

  She nods again.

  'No!' I cry, giving the security man a stern look but he remains resolute.

  As the next person in line is summoned, I help Zoë molt.

  'Just bend the clips back on themselves and they'll pop open,' she instructs me.

  Poor Zoë. She's no stranger to striptease but this is humiliating in the extreme.

  I sneak a peek at the stud. He's making no attempt to disguise his disgust. I give him a withering look and wish him halitosis and a lifetime of uncomfortable shoes. As he reaches for a dish to offload his pocketful of coins, one of the grips catches on his sleeve. I go to grab it back but he's too quick for me and strides on through the arch.

  Beep-beep-beep!

  The security man points to the cause and the stud freaks, batting it off like a hairy caterpillar and stamping it into the carpet. Then, instead of doing the decent thing and picking it up and returning it to Zoë, he simply grabs his rucksack off the conveyor belt and heads straight for Costa Coffee.

  Zoë looks crushed.

  'I thought you were saving yourself for Will Smith,' I remind her.

  Zoë brightens. 'He'd laugh at this, wouldn't he?'

  I nod. 'He'd just give you a big grin and say, "You'd make bald look good!",

  'Yeah!' she high-fives me.

  ‘That's the last one.' I hand Zoë a scarlet streak last seen on the Little Mermaid.

  She fluffs her remaining hair, now shrunk up to her jaw, and sighs. 'I feel like one of those dolls with hair that grows, only in reverse.'

  I take her arm and whisper, 'You still look discoverable!'

  'Thanks!' she smiles, bravely.

  For someone who dresses so audaciously, Zoë can be surprisingly insecure about her looks. A couple of times we've tried to convince her to tone down the pantomime make-up and poke-your-eye-out outfits and let her natural beauty shine through but she's still convinced that her sex appeal needs to be flagged up with bright colors. One day she'll realize that she could be wearing a muumuu and still get an X-rating.

  'Bureau de Change,' Zoë alerts me.

  We're just pooling our money so as not to incur a double exchange fee when Zoë flinches. 'It's that guy again!'

  The stud is just one person ahead of us, taking his turn at the counter.

  'Let's go to Thomas Cook,' Zoë pleads, turning to leave.

  'No, wait – have you got a spare extension?'

  'Why?'

  I make a just-hand-it-over motion.

  'This one is too blonde for me really …' She pulls a flaxen wisp from her bag.

  I take it, pretend to be leaning forward to check the exchange rates – 'Would you look at that – 14 South African Rand to the pound!' – and gently clip it to the end of his jumper.

  Zoë's eyes widen.

  'Pin the tale on the donkey!' I snicker.

  Zoë muffles a guffaw. 'Pin the tale on the honky, more like!'

  We grip each other, convulsed with mirth as he walks off counting his Euros, oblivious to the peroxide tail swishing from his bum.

  'What an ass!' I shake my head as we head for Duty Free.

  While Zoë stocks up on kiwi-flavored vodka, I give myself a surreptitious squirt with Elliot's aftershave: Happy for Men by Clinique.

  The smell alone makes my heart and stomach entwine.

  'We have the female version …' The assistant swoops.

  'I'm fine!' I blush, backing off.

  'Would you like to try it?' She follows me with a sample that she must have been hiding under her cuff.

  'Oh, I wear that!' Elise announces as I collide with her. 'In fact I've just run out.'

  'Well, there you go.' I try and palm her off on the assistant.

  'I wish I could, but it's too much of an extravagance.'

  'It's $30,' I frown.

  Not that Elise should ever wear a perfume called Happy, she could get done under the Trades Descriptions Act. Poison would be far more appropriate.

  'Perfume should be a gift,' Elise simpers. 'It feels kind of unfeminine buying it for myself. Am I being silly?'

  I think the word you're looking for is manipulative, I mutter to myself as I watch Elliot reach for his wallet.

  ‘They’re calling our flight!’ Sasha alerts us.

  ‘Won’t be a minute!’

  ‘It’s a really long trek to the gate, we need to go now!’

  Suddenly there’s a real urgency in the air and we half-run, half-walk switching between mild panic and excitement.

  ‘I can’t believe we’re really doing this!’ Zoe puffs. ‘Cali-freakin-fornia!’

  Boarding is uncharacteristically free of aisle-ditherers and no sooner are we in our seats than the stewardess greets the five of us with complimentary glasses of champagne. Must be Brendan's doing, I decide, about to take a gulp.

  'Wait!' Elliot stops me. 'I'd like to say a few words.'

  I scoot forward, trying to feel a part of their row and block out the stares of my neighbors.

  I raise my glass, ready to toast Helen! California! The sun-kissed adventures that lie ahead! But instead Elliot puts his arm around Elise and punctures my parachute with the words, 'We're engaged!'

  Slowly Elise removes her glove and flaunts her sparkling ring finger.

  I fall back into my seat with shock.

  Why do I get the feeling it should be her middle finger jutting forth?

  Chapter 3

  So far I've come up with three ways I might dispose of Elise on the flight:

  1. As she goes to retrieve her bag from the overhead bin, Zoë's vodka bottles roll out and zonk her on the head.

  2. I replace her anti-Deep Vein Thrombosis flight socks with a pair that cut off her circulation altogether.

  3. During dinner she chokes on a chicken bone and no one can give her the Heimlich maneuver because the captain has switched on the Fasten Seatbelts sign.

  Engaged!

  If only she were a toilet door and I could simply slot her back to Vacant.

  Am I numb? I must be. Otherwise I'd be screaming.

  Not that I'd have room for
much of a tantrum at the moment. I can't even cross my legs – Zoë is so far reclined I feel I should make myself useful and give her a scalp massage. And who'd listen to my wailing anyway? Sasha is buried in her book (some geisha saga) and Elliot and Elise are engrossed in each other. With the emphasis on gross.

  Fighting back the swell of tears, I try to focus on the movie but the sweeping battle scenes in Lord of the Rings marathon aren't ideally suited to my Post-it note sized screen. Dinner comes as a welcome distraction, aside from the eating part. When I decline the steward's offer of a chilled bread roll Elise leans back and asks if she can have it. Sure! I feel like adding, first the man I love, now my bread roll, go ahead and take it all.

  I take another gulp of wine. Perhaps the second bottle of Pinot Grigio was a mistake. It's making me all sentimental for the good old days, when we were young and fiancé-free.

  I always relished the times when Elliot was between girlfriends – then I could tousle his hair and lean on him and be fairly open in my adoration, passing it off as a tactile friendship. Like now, if She wasn't here, we could watch a movie on entwined headphones, pick at each other's pretzels and get cricked necks trying to fall asleep on each other's shoulders and no one would necessarily be any the wiser to the divine bliss I'd be experiencing internally. But when there's a girlfriend – or worse still, future wife – suddenly there are all these no-go areas and unspoken rules. I'm obliged to tiptoe, speaking with a few seconds' delay to censor anything that could be misconstrued or give the game away. It makes me feel as though there's a little man in a white coat monitoring my behavior and giving me a running commentary – 'You wouldn't do that unless you loved him … Don't touch him there! No reminiscing about the good old days in front of her … Quick, turn to her and smile and make her feel included.’

  And so I end up wildly over-compensating, often ignoring Elliot in a bid to ingratiate myself with the girlfriend. 'Who, me? In love with your fella? Get outta here!' And sometimes, in the name of faux girlie-bonding, we gang up on him. But it's just a defense mechanism: two women sussing each other out, both with something to prove – her that she's good for him but not love-struck to the point of losing her identity, me that I'm a girl's girl and thus not about to jump in bed with him the second her back is turned. (Chance would be a fine thing!)

  If the girlfriend is nice, which hasn't actually been too much of a problem to date, I feel guilty about having such strong feelings for him and live in fear that they might guess my dirty secret. I daren't even look directly at him in front of them because I'm afraid the love pouring from my eyes will be all luminous and glowy like something from Ghost. But one by one they move on. That is my consolation. At the risk of sounding like a psycho-stalker – I've outlasted them all! But then, he's never asked any of them to marry him before.

  I feel a sickening twist in my stomach. And it's not just the lukewarm burrito I wish the flight attendant would remove from my tray.

  I know it sounds silly but I always thought it would be me he'd marry. In the end. I never much minded when my feeble attempts at relationships floundered because I always felt that their ending brought me one step closer to a beginning with him. Surely now the time is right? I'd think. Surely I've endured enough duds that now I get my prince?

  Not that he fits some fanciful notion of a knight in shining armor. He just hits home with me: I get this warm sense of satisfaction when he's around. He makes me laugh in that way that makes me feel all helpless and dizzy. And he really listens. If I phone him I never feel he's cleaning out his microwave at the same time. Other men seem to wait for me to finish my sentence and then change the subject. Not Elliot, he never cuts to the chase. He gets comfy and gives himself over to the conversation, prepared to follow any meandering tangents wherever they may lead. He's always there for advice (especially if you're considering purchasing anything technology-related), general trivia and playfulness (he's basically a big kid). And he gossips like a girl. What could be better?

  On the downside … Well, if you were nitpicking you might mention his tummy – you know those tiny paunches on an otherwise slim physique? But I'm so fond of his I look upon it as a portable puppy. And he does take ‘going with the flow’ to a new kind of extreme. Sometimes I wish he was a bit more of go-getter than afternoon-napper but I’d rather his laid-back persona over an Alpha male who always has to be right and in control of every detail of his life. That’s just way too stressful for me. The only really bad thing about him, the thing that really gets my goat, is that he's not in love with me.

  I sigh and flick through the channels. There's a sex scene on one but the man next to me is watching the same writhing bods so I can't possibly stay on that channel – it'd be like sidling up beside someone at a peep show. Suddenly a hand reaches back and wriggles its fingers at me. Elise would call it stretching, I call it shoving her engagement ring in my face.

  I scoot forward and reach my hand over the seat to snaffle a chocolate Brazil from Sasha's pick'n'mix but find Elise's other hand in the bag. It's like one of those amusement arcade grabbers, only her claw has actually secured a great cluster of booty. I sit back in my seat and watch her feeding Elliot – one fizzy cola bottle for every five she gobbles down. I find all this relationship stuff bewildering. He's known her less than a year and she gets all these great perks – the whole intimate/physical/sexual side to him that I can only fantasize about – and if she marries him (hark at me clinging to ‘if’, not yet ready for 'when') she goes one step further and gets official ownership. I can’t even imagine what it must be like to be able to stake that love claim and say – ‘He’s mine!’ To really feel you belong to each other. Elliot's my friend but he's not mine. And if he marries Elise he never will be.

  Awash with self-pity, I decide it would be wise to dilute the alcohol with some water, so I dip into the galley to help myself to a plastic cupful. Sipping slowly, I stare out the window at the everlasting expanse of rusty peaked earth and the tiny improbable villages set in various crooks in the river. Other worlds. Other populations. Other men.

  I have thought about trying to find someone else I can call my own but the thing that seems to be holding me back is that I don't know how to un-love Elliot. If I don't see him for a while I still get a flutter at the first sight of him. Still? People say to me, 'You're still in love with Elliot?' And I just pull a 'Whodathunkit?' face but what I want to say is, 'Why do you think it's going to go away? This is true love. It’s everlasting!' However inconvenient and heart-denting that might be.

  So the upshot is that I've settled into an acceptance of the situation – I know he doesn't feel the same way but I'm going to love him regardless.

  I take a breath. Maybe I should try and get some sleep? Quick wee and then I’ll settle in for the duration. I’m approaching the toilet when the door folds back on itself and Sasha squeezes out, looking suspiciously damp of eye.

  'It was the movie – it was really sad,' she blusters, noticing my concern and hurrying back to her seat before I can remind her that she was watching the classic comedy channel.

  It must be the altitude, I shrug, contorting myself into the cubicle. Time to take a long, hard look at myself in the mirror. I recoil instantly – airplane lighting, what was I thinking?

  On the way back to my seat I’m amused to see the positions people are trying to sleep in. One woman has her head on the tray table. I can't decide whether she looks like she's passed out at a dinner party or is about to be guillotined. The man ahead of her has wriggled into the gap between his seat and the window and is trying to arrange himself so his head is on the seat. It can't be worth it. The two girls along from him have got the right idea – they're yakking their way through the flight. That would be me and Zoë if we'd sat together. I eavesdrop as I pass. 'If you love him you've got to tell him!' one girl insists.

  If only it were that simple. Would you risk losing your best friend over such a confession? Although I did once try that popular non-verbal form of commu
nication with Elliot. We were at a house party and he had to leave early and I – already more than a little tipsy – didn't want him to go. I followed him out into the driveway and we were suddenly alone. I don't know if it was the contrast of leaving a cigarette-fogged sweatbox to emerge into the cool jasmine-scented night but I felt compelled to reach for him – it started as a playful stay-a-while tug back but then I stumbled into a herbaceous border, and as he righted me, I instinctively carpe diem-ed and kissed him. And he kissed me back. It seemed to last for ever and with every microsecond that passed I fell deeper, lost in wonder and swirled up with feelings of delight and realization. It is you! Years of daydreaming had not prepared me for the bliss that enveloped me. I swear I went to a higher place.

  At one point I'm sure I heard Zoë calling Sasha: 'Come and look – she's finally done it!'

  But then he was gone. I stood there wondering if I'd imagined the whole thing, then the biggest smile spread across my face. I knew it was real.

  I staggered back and propped myself against a wall, closed my eyes and tried to prolong the sensation for as long as possible. The warmth, the smooshiness of our mouths, the lightest bristling of the goatee he had at the time. The way he reached down to my heart and welcomed my whole body to his. I didn't want to go to sleep that night in case the feeling slipped away in my dreams. Indeed, hangover gremlins did take a large chunk of memory but they left me with more than enough to treasure to this day.

  He called the next morning just to make sure things weren't going to be awkward between us. Though I'd conveniently forgotten about her the night before, he actually had a girlfriend at the time and there seemed little chance of a rematch so I simply apologized for lunging, blamed the booze and then asked after his hangover. 'Oh, I wasn't drinking,' he replied. My inner cringe was the equivalent of a hundred crunches.

  That was six years ago but Zoë's never let go of the 'he kissed you back' factor. I long to know if there were any tingles on his behalf, if he ever relives the moment like I do. I close my eyes. What can it hurt? One last video replay to send me off to sleep…