Something in the Water(24)

We explore our nests, our homes for the next eleven hours; the electronic wall dividing our seats is lowered and we investigate all our new devices together. A flat-screen TV is mounted on the seat wall in front of me, handy little storage cupboards, noise-canceling headphones. A wash kit squirreled away, embossed with “First,” full of miniature products that weirdly remind me of the Fisher-Price kitchen set I had as a child. When I used to play house. I find a generously sized fold-out one-person dining table in the cupboard above the armrest. And, yes, I am excited by that! I’m drinking champagne at nine forty-five in the morning; of course I’m excited by that. I’m excited by everything! I slide my carry-on bag into a cubbyhole. It was a wedding gift from Fred. He was so happy to be a part of our wedding. To walk me down the aisle. To stand there beside me. I know it meant a lot to him to be asked. Lovely Fred. Fred and Nancy. They never had kids themselves. Perhaps they could be godparents? When the time comes maybe? I think I’d like that. I wonder if Mark would like that.

And just like that we’re in the air.

My mouth is full of champagne when the stewardess pops her head over the wall and asks what size pajamas I’ll need. Caught in the act, I feel my neck warm with embarrassment, breakfast-time lush that I am.

“Small. Thank you very much,” I manage after I’ve swallowed.

She smiles and hands me the small navy pajama set wrapped in white ribbons, a white BA logo emblazoned on the left breast. Soft. Snug.

“Just let me know if you fancy a nap later,” she trills, “and I’ll make up your bed for you, okay?” And she’s gone from view.

I’ve always had a bit of a problem with free champagne. Lovely, lovely free champagne. I find it very hard to turn down. If the glass gets topped up, it gets drunk. It’s the one time that the phrase “You’ll regret not finishing that” actually resonates with me. So three glasses in, and one in-flight movie down, the stewardess and I are having a nap-related chat.

My bed is made up by the time I’m back from brushing my teeth in the cavernous washroom, the basin being a good three-stride walk from the toilet. The bed looks pretty inviting: thick duvet, plump pillow, all made up on the flat cabin bed. Mark laughs at me through the partition wall as I clamber in.

“I can’t believe you’re drunk already. We haven’t even been married a full day yet.”

“I got excited. Now shush, you, I’m going to sleep it off,” I say as the electric divider slowly blocks out his grinning face.

“Night, you old alkie.” He laughs again.

I smile to myself. All tucked up cozy in my nook, I close my eyes.

I manage a fairly impressive seven hours’ sleep on the first flight. And when we land in LAX I’m feeling relatively well rested and thankfully fully sober. I’ve never been a big drinker. A few of glasses of anything and I’m knocked out. Mark stayed up the whole flight watching movies and reading.

At LAX we find our way to the first-class lounge of American Airlines. It’s not quite as impressive as Heathrow, but we’ve got only thirty minutes to kill now until our flight to Tahiti boards. This is the tricky part of the trip. The midway point. The eleven-hour flight to LAX done. The eight-hour flight to Tahiti about to start, followed by a forty-five-minute flight to Bora Bora and then a private boat trip around the atoll to the Four Seasons hotel.

We get an email from Mark’s parents. Family photos they took at the wedding yesterday. There we all are—at least I think it’s us, we’re pretty blurry and we all have red eyes, but it’s definitely us. I suddenly realize I’ve never felt happier than I do at this very moment.



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Mark manages six hours’ sleep on the next flight. This time I stay awake, gazing out of my oval window, transfixed by the pinks and purples of the setting sun reflecting off the vast Pacific Ocean beneath us. The clouds: miles and miles of mountainous white, turning peachy in the fading sunlight. And then just blueness, rich, dark velvet blue. And stars.

A wave of hot, wet tropical air slaps us as we step off the plane in Tahiti. The first hint of our honeymoon. We don’t see much of Tahiti itself, just a runway, landing lights, an almost empty airport concourse, another departure gate, and then we’re airborne again.

Our flight to Bora Bora is via a small plane with brightly dressed hostesses. Somehow Mark sleeps on the short, bumpy flight. I manage to finish reading the magazine I picked up from the Concorde lounge at Heathrow; it’s an extremely niche quarterly dressage publication titled Piaffe. I know nothing about dressage—my teenage girl’s basic riding knowledge doesn’t quite stretch to advanced equine showing—but the magazine looked so far removed from anything I’d ever seen before that I had to pick it up. Turns out that “piaffe” is when the horse stands in the middle of the arena and trots up and down on the spot. So there you go. Bet you’re glad we found that out. I do like things like that, though; I’ve always been into reading whatever is lying about, the less I know about it the better. I remember someone at film school suggesting developing that habit: always read outside your comfort zone. That’s where stories come from. That’s where ideas come from. Anyway, I can highly recommend Piaffe. It lost me slightly in the horse-feed section, but, overall, interesting stuff. If not directly for its content, then definitely to wonder at the lifestyles, and habits, of its average reader.