The Perfect Girlfriend(24)

I ask a receptionist about nearby hair salons and she makes an appointment for me.

Then I take the elevator to my room, unpack and shower.

The door to room 342 is wedged open with a suitcase. Four people are already there, sitting on the edge of the bed or huddled on the small sofa. Jim, the captain, is leaning against the desk, clutching a can of beer.

‘Hi. Come in,’ he says.

‘Hi.’ I join the others on the bed, feeling suddenly awkward.

Everyone else has brought their own carrier bags containing crew purchases: wine, beer or mixers.

‘Drink?’ says the captain, handing me a beer.

‘Thanks,’ I say, snapping the ring pull.

It is warm and I don’t want it, but I don’t have to stay long and I may as well fit in whilst I’m here.

An hour later, nearly everyone is crammed into the room. A steward, Rick, working in economy in the adjacent aisle to me, is sitting close to a woman working in business. She is laughing at nearly everything he says and it’s irritating me, although initially I can’t quite put my finger on why.

Then I realize that it is because she reminds me a bit of myself – the way I used to hang on to Nate’s every word. I wonder what he’s up to right now and whether he’s at a party, similar to this, in Mexico.

I decide to call it a night, even though late afternoon sun is still evident outside.

Next morning, my hair takes nearly three hours to dye blonde, but I am pleased with the results.

I walk back, past the beaches, palm trees and the pinks, lemons and powder blues of the Art Deco area, passing the Park Central Hotel where, according to a brochure in my room, Clark Gable used to hang out.

Back in my nondescript room – all hotel interiors are starting to look similar – I get ready for the return flight: ironing my blouse, polishing my shoes, packing and squeezing hotel shampoo miniatures into my washbag.

The return flight is just as busy as the way out. There isn’t one spare seat and the plane is full of passengers fresh off cruise ships, used to high standards and several courses a day – plus snacks – reduced to a tray with a hot breakfast for one, a rock-hard bread roll and a fruit salad.

During the hour-long crew break, it is clear that something happened between Rick and the giggly woman after the room party last night. They don’t go up to the bunks but sit in the rest seats below, alongside me. She is trying to engage him in conversation, but it is painfully clear – to me – that he just wants to read the paper.

I know what she’s trying to do. I recognize the signals, because it takes one to know one.

She is how I used to be. Mandy wants something after their night together. She is desperate for hope: a token gesture, however small, even if it’s just a false promise to get in touch.

I throw him a dirty look behind her back.

He doesn’t react.

I have to drag myself out of bed the next morning for my driving lesson, even though my whole body aches.

Before I started flying, I never gave any thought to how physical the job would be, not to mention all the lifting and carrying of baggage, containers and supplies. I often find bruises on my thighs and arms where I’ve been bashed by passengers carrying too many bags or been hurt in the galley by items falling off the edge during unexpected turbulence.

Running late, I rush outside and climb into my driving instructor’s hatchback before going through the motions of checking the mirrors and adjusting the driver’s seat. He’s so pedantic about little things like that.

Pleased with my progress, he books me in for my tests – theory first, practical second.

In between studying I spend the rest of my three TAB days off viewing several properties in Richmond. Well, I say properties – in truth, they are tiny flats which are even smaller than the shoebox. But I can’t think of anywhere else I’d like to live when I move out of Reading.

Richmond is my home. And besides, when Nate and I are back together, it will be an investment.

I put in an offer on the smallest, yet closest one to Nate’s, as my solicitor says I should receive the money from the sale of Sweet Pea Cottage soon.

Whilst getting ready for my work trip, I can’t help singing ‘New York, New York’. I double-check: Nate’s flight has already taken off. We are heading in the same direction, for once.

The flight is only two-thirds full but I am kept busy with duty-free requests. I walk the length of the aircraft several times over, seeking out the different carts – two located in each galley – for the right stock.

The higher-value items are kept in a smaller container near first class. After spending over twenty minutes examining a bracelet, then a watch, the passenger who requested to view them decides they’re not quite right. The meagre commission we earn on the sales is not worth the hassle.

As the top of descent into New York is announced by the flight crew, my heart starts to quicken, which is ridiculous, given that Nate would have landed hours ago.

As the crew bus emerges from a tunnel, the cityscape is exhilarating. I looked up a map in the in-flight magazine and familiarized myself with the easy layout of streets. As the traffic stops and starts I observe through the window. I watch the ant-like crowds hurry past signs advertising one-dollar slices of pizza and all-you-can-eat Chinese buffets. Open-topped red tourist buses, not dissimilar to London ones, mingle with the yellow cabs and the screeching emergency vehicles, sirens blaring. Uniformed doormen stand patiently outside glass apartment entrances. Soon after we pass Bloomingdale’s our bus pulls up outside a narrow high-rise hotel sandwiched between two other buildings.