The Perfect Girlfriend(19)
Cabin crew. Seats for landing.
I strap myself in tight. Anya’s lips are moving as though she is praying.
I wish Nate was in the cockpit. He’s too selfish to die. The plane rocks from side to side. A wind must have picked up. It reminds me of a local fairground ride that my mother and one of her boyfriends took me to one evening. I loved the exhilaration, the giddiness of the roller coaster and wanted to go back, but we never did.
We break through the clouds. The ground is in sight. The announcement comes from the flight crew: One thousand feet.
Navy sea appears in the distance, as do houses with aqua-coloured pools among patchworks of greeny-brown land.
The whining of the engines heightens.
In the cabin, I can see some passengers holding hands.
A child cries.
There is silence from the galley apart from the rattle of the coffee pots in their metal holders.
One hundred feet.
‘Brace, brace,’ I yell, adopting the forward-facing brace position myself, my hands protecting my head, for what it’s worth.
‘Brace, brace,’ yells Anya, with a force I didn’t think she’d have in her.
The harness is taut against my torso. The ground is coming up to meet us as I catch sight of the runway and we whack on to the tarmac with a deafening roar. The plane begins to reduce speed. The pressure of my harness begins to ease as we slow down a little more. The aircraft makes a sharp turn before coming to an abrupt stop.
We are safe. Drama over.
Until . . . the shrieking of the evacuation alarms shatters the calm. Red emergency lights flash on all panels.
Smoke. I smell smoke.
I unharness my straps and pull open the heavy door, standing back into a gap so that I am not pushed out in the stampede. A grey slide unfurls for several seconds as it inflates. Hot outside air blasts me; a sharp contrast to the air conditioning.
‘Come this way and jump,’ I shout. ‘Keep moving.’
On autopilot, I push a man who hesitates a fraction too long. He shouts all the way down. In hardly any time at all, the passenger cabin is empty.
There is no sign of fire and I can no longer smell smoke; however, I am not going to hang around any longer. I’ve done my job. I grab my bags. I know I’m not supposed to, but if we’re going to be stuck here for a while, I’m not leaving my stuff to be burned or lost. I’m glad I kept my flat cabin shoes on; I bet that tarmac is scorching. As I slide down, my polyester skirt gives my thighs friction burns.
It takes forty-eight hours to complete endless paperwork, be interviewed, give statements and refuse counselling. Every time I think my role in the non-drama is over, I’m summoned from the pool by someone with a clipboard or a tablet and questioned about something I’ve already answered.
I cheer myself up by reminding myself that, whilst I am here – working on my tan and spying on my enemy and my beloved – I am earning huge amounts in overtime.
We position back to Heathrow two days later, meaning that we travel as passengers, not operating crew. I watch two of the latest films – a comedy and a horror.
Upon landing, I feel a sense of restlessness. The first May bank holiday is approaching and I will be trapped at home because I have four days of standby duties. This means that I can be given just two hours’ notice if they need crew cover due to illness or flight disruptions. Babs has gone away to the Lake District with some tennis friends. I don’t want to go back to my claustrophobic place. Nate is back home, so I can’t stay there.
But . . . I have Amy’s key.
I keep tabs on her rosters so I know that she’s still in Kenya and that Hannah has gone to New Zealand for three weeks to visit family. I could go to their flat. If I water a house plant or two, then it won’t be so bad. I’d be doing something useful. Mind you, I’m not sure if they have any plants.
Instead of making my way to the bus station, I head for the tube. I’m feeling pleased with myself, intermingled with the constant sickness that comes with jet lag. I drag my suitcase and wheelie bag towards the tube. They bump over the cracks in the pavement.
Alighting at Amy’s station, warm sun beats down on me as I walk to hers. Summer is not far away. I feel optimistic that the perfect time is imminent for me to break the news to Nate that I’m once again a presence in his life.
7
My phone is ringing. At first I don’t realize because I recently changed the ringtone so that my heart doesn’t jolt in the vain hope that it’s Nate every time I hear it. It cuts off to voicemail. It rings again. I don’t recognize the local number. I am in Amy’s bed. It is briefly disorientating. Pale sun forces its way around the rectangle of the blind.
I answer. ‘Hello?’
‘Elizabeth?’ says a jolly voice.
‘Who is this, please?’
It’s hard work at the best of times, remembering who people are and what my relationship is to them. I need coffee. I step out of bed, still clutching the phone, and make my way to the kitchen.
‘I’m Lorraine,’ the voice continues. ‘Your new work team manager. We’d like to invite you in for a chat about your Barbados trip.’
‘Hi, Lorraine. I use my middle name for work, Juliette. It’s in the system. I’ve told every department there is, but still my name comes up as Elizabeth. Please can you change it? It’s very confusing.’ I flick the switch on the kettle.