The Perfect Girlfriend(40)

‘There must be some decent ones, though?’ I say. ‘Aren’t lots of flight crew married with children?’

She looks at me as though she can’t quite make me out. ‘Don’t tell me you joined the airline to marry a pilot!’ she says.

I shake my head, implying the very notion had never entered my mind.

‘Of course there are success stories. But it’s hard, though. Take my advice and make sure you go out with someone with a ground-based job. Mind you, that comes with a different set of problems because they aren’t always understanding when you’ve got to work a third Christmas in a row.’

I zone out and focus on the positive news Reyansh revealed earlier.

Around me, plans are made to visit the Taj Mahal the following day. I don’t want to go. Not only is it a long journey, but the thought of being faced with a monument which took over twenty years to build as a show of love is more than I can bear. Because that’s what I want: Nate to love me that much.

The flight home is full and busy.

During the first meal service, a little girl sitting in an aisle seat chokes. I automatically slap her on the back and, thankfully, a piece of bread dislodges, but the sound of her crying gets to me. Her mother remains in a panic and although I try to reassure her, I need to get away from the scene. I go to the galley to get extra bottles of water and try to block out all the general mayhem and noise from the cabin. I look at my watch hopefully, but there are hours left until landing.

The service eventually ends without further disruptions. I sink down into my crew seat after the galley is finally cleared up and sip a black coffee.

I stare out the window into the vast nothingness and think about how much I’ve achieved, rather than lost.

My session with Reyansh, if nothing else, has helped me to remind myself to stay focused. And try to keep my belief that all will end well.

We land on a boiling afternoon.

Nate’s Lusaka flight is due to land in two hours’ time. I check. He is delayed by a further ninety minutes. Even better.

I change out of my uniform in the airport toilets and drive to Richmond. I manage to find a parking space only two streets away. Despite the heat, I slow jog there. My running outfit is my best summer disguise because I can legitimately wear something with a hood – which I can yank up, if need be. I walk up to the communal doors and collide with someone. It’s an older woman I don’t recognize.

‘Sorry,’ she says.

‘Me too! Must look where I’m going in future,’ I mutter as I walk on and don’t look back.

Hopefully she’s just a random visitor to one of Nate’s neighbours.

I sit down on his sofa whilst I ponder. Katie and Nate were back in touch yesterday by phone so I’m clueless as to what was discussed. A twenty-three-minute chat the first time, a seventeen-minute one next. Then a text from her to him, confirming that she’ll be down to stay at his tomorrow night. This probably means he’s wriggled his way out of her suspicions, so she needs another nudge.

I’ve narrowed down my objects to four choices: a hairband, a mauve rose-scented candle, an old photo and a pink toothbrush. Which and where? More than a couple could be suspicious, but they have to be things that could have feasibly been left by someone, at some point, and somewhere Katie may look.

It proves harder than I thought, but I decide upon placing the candle above the fireplace – if Nate notices it, hopefully he will think that his new cleaner found it in a cupboard and decided to put it to good use. I take a quick glance out the window; no sign of a returning Nate. I leave the hairband on the floor, poking out beneath the bed on the opposite side to Nate’s, and then, taking the toothbrush out of the packaging, I conceal it in the medicine cabinet.

Nate has some random photos stuck to his fridge door and I return one that I removed ages ago, adding it among the others. He is in front of a Japanese temple, his arms around a woman on each side. He looks happy, which is why I stole the photograph. When we were together, I hated being reminded of his female colleagues. On the back of it, someone had written: Good times xx. It’s not Nate’s handwriting.

I check the wine rack. He has not touched his birthday wine.

Back at home, I decide to risk adding my own trip-swap request for the Vegas, offering up my San Diego. It’s snapped up within an hour. Now that I have a confirmed reunion date, I need to prepare and I start online. But as soon as I begin my search, I feel a slight niggle. There is always a risk with certain types of research, and I don’t want anything coming back to haunt me later. So I stop myself. Perhaps I should go and use a public computer, like in the library, but still . . . if I buy what I need online it needs to be delivered, which poses a different set of problems.

I think whilst I scroll through my social media accounts, pressing ‘like’ several times on random posts without properly taking anything in, until I hover over a post of my long-ago film extra friend, Michele Bianchi. He is no longer a vet’s assistant in a TV drama and has now landed a part in the chorus of a well-known West End show. Michele wasn’t against breaking the law when it came to recreational drugs or buying electronic goods from dubious sources. He could be useful to me now.

I private message him, asking if he’d like to meet up for a coffee.

He is online and replies within seconds. Perfect timing – I’m bored in between rehearsals. Will be good to hear all your news. Tomorrow? PS: I’m broke, hint hint, so somewhere cheap and cheerful.