Something in the Water(23)

We glide through security. The guards seem almost embarrassed to check our bags. Once my shoes are back on, Mark points across the security hall to the far right wall. In the wall is a door. Just an ordinary white door. No sign. It looks just like a staff room door. He smiles.

“That’s Millionaire’s Door.” He grins and raises an eyebrow. “Shall we?” he asks.

All I can do is follow. He strides confidently as he crosses the hall, like he knows exactly where he’s going, whereas I feel absolutely certain we’ll be stopped at any moment. As we walk toward its un-signposted archway, I half expect, at any second, a hand to grab my arm, to escort us into some tiny interview room for hours of grueling terrorism questioning. But that doesn’t happen; we make it across the hall unnoticed, through the strange little doorway, and out of the low-level bustle of the concourse into the cool hushed air of the Concorde Room lounge.

It’s a secret shortcut for first-class passengers only. Straight from fast-track security into the private British Airways lounge.

So this is how the other half lives? Well, the other 1 percent, anyway. I had no idea.

British Airways apparently pays one million pounds sterling a year in compensation to Heathrow to make sure their first-class passengers don’t have to suffer the indignity of having to walk past all those duty-free shops full of shit they don’t need. And today neither do we.

It’s heaven inside the lounge. It’s nice to be on this side of the door, not that I even knew there was a door up until five minutes ago. That’s strange, isn’t it? When you think you know what a good thing is and then you suddenly realize that there is a whole other level beyond what you knew even existed? Scary, in a way. How quickly what is good can become not good enough through comparison. Maybe best never to see it. Maybe best not to know that everyone else in the airport is being shepherded through retail units designed to strip them of the very little that they have, while you keep yours safe.

Don’t overthink it, Erin, stop it. Just enjoy it. It’s okay to enjoy having this good thing.

Everything in here is free. We sink down into the leather restaurant booths and order a light breakfast of freshly baked pain au chocolat and English breakfast tea. I look at Mark. Gorgeous Mark reading the paper. He looks happy. I look around at the other people in the lounge. Somehow first class has imbued them all with a kind of mystery, a mystique that drips from every movement, endowing it with a sort of grace. Or perhaps I’ve imbued them with that because I feel like I’ve wandered into a glen of unicorns.

Millionaires don’t really look like millionaires, do they? Elon Musk doesn’t even look like a millionaire, and he’s actually a billionaire.

As I look at them, on their iPhones sipping their espressos, I wonder. I wonder, do they only ever travel first? Do they mix with other people? In their everyday lives? Do they mix with Club Class people? Economy people? I know they employ them, but do they mix with them? And what do they all do for jobs? How do they have so much money? Are they good people? I imagine Alexa flying business for her job before everything happened. I can imagine her here somehow. She’d look the part, even in her powder blue prison uniform. And Eddie. I can easily imagine Eddie here, a ghost lurking in one of the shadowy leather-bound corners, coffee cup in hand, eyes restlessly scanning, missing nothing. I returned his email with a call the day before the wedding. It was an odd call. I felt he wanted to say something but maybe he was being monitored this time. I can definitely imagine him here. But not Holli. I can’t imagine Holli here the way I can Eddie or Alexa. I wonder if she’s ever even left the country. Has she felt the Mediterranean sun? Let alone the wet heat of the tropics? I doubt it. But maybe I’m stereotyping, maybe Holli used to travel all the time. There’s that guilt again. Don’t overthink it, Erin, just enjoy it.

For the first time in my life I board the flight and turn left; everyone else turns right. And if I’m honest it’s hard not to feel special, even though I’m aware I’ve just paid a lot more money than everyone else, money that we only really have by various quirks of fate and birth. But I do. Feel special.

“It’s a Dreamliner,” Mark leans in and whispers.

I have no idea what he’s talking about.

“The plane,” he explains.

“Oh, the plane is a Dreamliner.” I give him a teasing look. “I didn’t realize you were so into planes.” I grin.

Mark’s into planes. Weird that I’ve never noticed. I can see why he might want to keep that hobby under wraps. Not the sexiest interest a man can have. But he has lots of other pretty sexy hobbies, so I’m fairly comfortable letting him off on this one. I make a mental note to get him something plane-related for Christmas. Maybe a coffee table book, a nice one. I’ll check out some plane documentaries.

Mark and I have the two front-row center seats and my God it’s not like economy seating. First has only eight seats. Only two rows of seating in the whole cabin. And even they aren’t full. It’s quiet up at this end of the plane. Peaceful.

This is to economy what organic farming is to factory farming. The economy passengers way back there, like industrially farmed chickens cramped in for eleven hours. And us, the corn-fed free-range chickens, happily clucking our way through the tall grass. Maybe that’s the wrong metaphor; maybe we’re actually the farmers?

I sink down into my seat, buttery leather with that fresh new-car smell. The seat walls reach all around us high enough so that I can’t see the other passengers in their seats over it, but low enough that I can see the hostess when she passes. She comes around the five passengers and hands out champagne in tall chilled glasses as people take their seats and stow away hand luggage.