The Perfect Girlfriend(41)
I respond with a smiley face, a promise of cake with his coffee (my treat) and a cheery Ciao Bello! X.
It is good to see Michele again. I spot him before he sees me. He is sitting on a stool in the window of the café. I wave through the glass and he grins back with his perfect white teeth. We give each other a brief kiss hello on each cheek, and he envelops me in a big hug.
He is comforting, like a protective brother. It is nice. There was never any hint of a romance between us, he just always felt . . . safe.
It is so pleasant catching up that I wait until we finish our coffees before I make my request.
‘So, there’s no such thing as free coffee and cake?’ he says, folding his arms. ‘What would a gorgeous lady like you need with a date-rape drug?’
‘Don’t call it that. I’ve told you; it helped my friend through a difficult patch. With sleeping. I’m heartbroken. Heartbroken. I thought that Nick and I—’ I break off, as though tears are about to threaten.
‘Can’t you get sleeping pills, like, from a doctor or something? I’m really not sure.’
‘I’m happy to pay over the odds. It’s just this once. I promise. My friend swore by them. And . . . I’m desperate.’
‘How do I know you won’t do anything stupid?’
‘I just want to sleep. This new job, it takes its toll. It really does.’
He doesn’t make any promises, but we arrange to meet in the same place in two days’ time.
That night, whilst Katie is at Nate’s, I make three silent calls to his phone from a withheld number, starting at midnight.
The first two calls, Nate answers.
On my third attempt, it goes straight to voicemail.
My next meeting with Michele proves successful – apart from another brief lecture – and over the following days, Katie and Nate appear to hit a rocky patch.
Her messages to him indicate neediness and a lack of trust:
What are you up to? Sounds like you’re having fun without me.
No kisses.
His, in turn, are defensive, take longer, are guarded:
I wasn’t out that late. I’m just with the guys.
It goes silent between them. Nate is not a man who cares about unfinished business.
The evening before I leave for Vegas, there has been no further contact between them.
I dare to hope that it’s over.
Two hours prior to departure I walk into the briefing room and pick up a spare hard copy of the crew briefing sheet; I forgot to download it on to my phone.
‘Hi, everyone. We’ll go straight into introductions and working positions,’ says the in-charge crew member. ‘Some of you may have flown with me, but for the benefit of everyone, I like to be called Stuart – not David, as it says on the crew list.’
I chip in that I use my middle name.
‘We’ll discuss a fire scenario today. Juliette, if you are the first person to discover a fire, what is your immediate action?’
We are interrupted by the captain opening the door.
‘Morning, all. Barry Fitzgerald’s the name. It may get a little rough mid-Atlantic. Remember to be extra vigilant when performing safety checks as the terror threat has been raised from substantial to severe. Any questions?’
I raise my hand. ‘Can I sit in the flight deck for landing, please?’
He glances at Stuart/David, who looks disinterested; rumour has it that he’s cruising to retirement. He nods his permission.
The captain disappears and the briefing continues. It’s difficult to concentrate on the safety and medical questions as I’m so electrified, but I force myself to think and respond correctly.
It would be a disaster if I were to be off-loaded from the trip for failing routine questions.
The aircraft pushes back. The exterior world shrinks to the size of the plane’s interior. A mini world, trapped and cut off from the outside for the next ten hours and forty-five minutes.
We join the queue for the runway, edging along. I am strapped into my jump seat, staring out the window at the overcast summer’s day. As it starts to drizzle, drops dot the windows. The plane swings round to face the runway. Stillness. A roar of engines and a surge of power. My harness is tight against my body. My stomach lifts with the aircraft. We shake and bump as we break through clouds, before levelling out.
I inhale and psych up my air-hostess self.
As I prepare the trolleys, I run through the plan in my head. This is it. This is the day my life begins again. I push through the galley curtains.
‘Would you like red or white wine with your meal?’ I smile.
We run out of chicken casserole within the first six rows. Several people claim to be vegetarian – arms folded, lips pursed – when they discover there is only lasagne left.
I can’t face going into my ‘it’s possible to pre-order a vegetarian meal’ line. The complaints continue.
‘Why is there never enough choice?’
‘This happened on my last flight and the one before.’
‘It never happens on other airlines.’
I try to explain about space constraints but realize I am wasting my breath. I crouch down beside a particularly grumpy couple – the type who probably paid the cheapest fare and will spend their entire holiday grumbling – and whisper conspiratorially. ‘Don’t sit in the middle on your return sector. The service starts from the four corners of economy, front to back, so those in the middle rarely get a choice.’