The Perfect Girlfriend(27)

I sit up and fumble for my torch. I take small sips of water. There is a boy sitting in premium economy, wearing blue dungarees. They reminded me of his.

I remain unsettled for the remainder of the flight. I don’t feel right. Once I’m strapped into my crew seat for the approach to landing, I nearly blurt out the whole Will tale to my colleague. There is nothing to stop me, and it happens all the time. It took me a while to get used to it. So many crew constantly over-share, spilling all kinds of personal snippets of information, as though they believe they will remain a confessional secret, safe in the middle of the open sky.

But I don’t, of course. There would be no point.

Instead, I talk about ‘Nick’ and how I knew, from the moment I met him, that no one else would ever compare. Look what happened every time Elizabeth Taylor tried to live without Richard Burton. I’ve read that their romance was described as the ‘deadly love that never died’. Without each other, life had no real point.

Nate makes me feel complete, despite his faults, which is why I know it’s love.

Infatuation would make me blind. True love embraces acceptance.

I spend my first day off alone in the flat. I relax by scrolling through pictures of Bella and Miles’ engagement announcement photos. They are having a party next month. I print out the photos I snapped of Nate in New York and add them to my pinboard. They aren’t good quality – not really – but I need to keep everything as recent as possible, because our lives need to stay entwined and up to date, even behind the scenes.

I stare at the board; something feels wrong. I stare and I stare until I figure out what it is.

Bella’s happy face doesn’t belong in my personal space. I grab a pair of scissors and begin hacking, until her head is chopped off or slashed in every single one where she is smiling. The only ones I keep intact are those where she doesn’t look quite so pleased with herself.

I exhale. I feel better.

I take out the two voodoo dolls from the shoebox at the top of my wardrobe. The girl has pins in her head and the boy has just one, in his chest. I want to keep Nate’s heart hardened, until he falls back in love with me. When I’d spotted them at a market stall on one of my Caribbean trips, the colleague I was with laughed when I bought them. ‘Creepy dolls for tourists,’ she’d said. ‘What on earth do you want them for?’

‘A joke,’ I’d replied.

I hate shopping with people. The problem I find with colleagues is that some just aren’t independent, they latch on to me from as early as our pre-flight briefing, trying to find out my plans for down-route and then inviting themselves along.

On my second TAB day off, I pass my driving theory test. Now there is only the practical left to go before I will have new freedom. After I visit a couple of car showrooms, I decide I’m going to order a sleek, grey convertible. I think there may be just about enough room in the boot for a small suitcase.

Afterwards, I have a gaping two-day hole to fill until my next trip to Bangkok. I stay away from Nate’s, having frightened myself with my own behaviour in New York. I need to refocus and make sure I’m strong enough to be near him and not fuck up.

Amy is on an Australian trip, so is of no use. My Juliette and Elizabeth profiles are up to date on Facebook, with the correct comments and photos for the right personas.

I ring Babs. ‘Fancy a visit?’

‘Of course, my love. Perfect timing, I’ve made a beef and ale pie.’

I pack a small bag and head for the train station.

I didn’t mention my arrival time to Babs, so I catch a bus which takes me past Sweet Pea Cottage. The For Sale sign says Under Offer.

I wait to feel something – some emotion – but no, there is none.

Babs flings open the door the second I ring the bell, wearing an apron decorated with cherries. She has flour on her face. Barbara looks how a mother probably should look.

‘Fantastic to see you,’ she says. ‘I’ll get dinner ready.’

Over pie – I pick off the pastry – new potatoes and green beans, Babs fills me in on the village gossip: two divorces, one death and a burglary.

I update her on my driving lessons.

‘Wonderful news, you’ll be able to visit more often now.’

I nod.

Silence.

The dominant sound in the kitchen becomes the clinking of our cutlery, which means that Babs is psyching herself up to tell me bad news or ask me something.

I wait.

‘Are you up for a visit tomorrow? To see William?’

I get up and fill our water glasses from the tap.

‘It’s his birthday soon, and . . .’ Babs perseveres.

‘No, sorry, I don’t want to go.’

‘Well, I’d appreciate the company. We could also place some flowers by Amelia’s plaque.’

‘Dead people don’t care if they have flowers on their grave or not.’

‘I’m going. I always go.’

‘He’s not there. She’s not there.’

Babs clears her throat.

I think I know what’s coming and I don’t want to hear it. ‘What’s on telly tonight?’ I say, as I stand up and begin to clear the table. ‘Stick something on and I’ll wash up.’

I turn on the hot tap and squeeze a large dollop of lemon washing-up liquid into a bowl, staring at the foaming bubbles. Babs selects a soap opera; I can hear the theme tune emanating from the living room. We used to watch it in the common room at school, crowded on sofas and cushions on the floor, in our pyjamas and dressing gowns.