The Perfect Girlfriend(62)
‘I can see that.’
My phone rings. My prearranged fake call. I smile apologetically as I decline it, but then listen to a non-existent voice message.
‘I’m going to have to cut our meeting short,’ I say. ‘But having now met you, I know you’re the perfect man for the job. However, I’d like some time to read through everything you’ve provided, please.’
‘Of course.’
I pretend to think. ‘I’m around this time next week. I don’t suppose you’d be free again to go through any queries?’
He checks his diary.
‘Not a problem, Miss Pr—’ He stops and smiles. ‘Juliette.’
I smile.
I shake his hand again before I depart, hopefully leaving behind the scent of my new perfume for him to remember me by.
I make a start on packing up the shoebox. Two hours later, my place is filled with a mini city of cardboard boxes.
My phone rings. Nate. I press ignore, as is customary for me right now. I’m sick of his supercilious voice as he tries to ‘reasonably discuss our predicament’. He’ll want me to sign something, or agree to something that isn’t in my favour.
I need a distraction, so I check Facebook. Amy has been signed off for stress. Stress! The very word irritates me. She has posted endless boring rants about her ‘ordeal’ of being trapped in the training centre. She was ‘shocked’ and ‘distressed’. Shocked and distressed indeed. People who escape war zones have stories of shock and distress. I have stories of shock and distress. Amy does not. Rupert has taken her away on holiday to Mauritius, so she is lucky. She has a safety net in the form of Rupert, friends and family, ready to help her when she’s in trouble. She should try being me for a day, then she’d know the meaning of stress.
Nate rings again. I snatch up my phone.
‘What do you want now?’ I snap.
It’s true that there is a fine line between love and hate, and I have crossed it. I will tether Nate to me out of revenge, not love.
‘I need to discuss something important, please.’
‘Now there’s a thing. Sadly, I’m busy.’
‘That’s a shame,’ says Nate. ‘Because I get the feeling you’re stalling, and it’s not going to work.’
The mere tone of his voice makes me feel so angry that I don’t trust myself to speak. I grip my phone, resisting the desire to throw it against the wall. He’s like the proverbial dog with a bone: gnaw, gnaw, gnaw.
‘Lily? Are you there?’
‘I tell you what, Nate. I’ll come over to yours when I’m back from my next trip. I’ve got evidence that will make you see things in a different light.’
He audibly sighs. ‘Can’t you do it now?’
‘No, I’m afraid I can’t. I’ve got to get ready for an early Jeddah tomorrow.’
There is silence.
I imagine him summoning up all his patience.
‘Lily. We meant something to each other once. It doesn’t have to be like this between us. I’m sorry that I can’t agree to everything you’d like me to, but please, try to put yourself in my shoes.’
‘I’ll try,’ I lie. ‘And it would be great if you could do the same for me.’
His voice is quiet. ‘I have. And like I’ve said – many, many times – I’m sorry.’
I say goodbye and carry on packing.
The flight to Jeddah is quiet. It’s only half full, and there are no bars loaded, so there is no Customs paperwork to complete either. As we approach the airport, I see the vast, white, sweeping tent-like roof of the nearby Hajj Terminal.
Upon landing, the ground staff meet the aircraft and offer female crew the option of borrowing abayas – black, cloak-like garments – to cover ourselves, if we choose. Luckily, I’m more prepared than I was on my first Saudi trip to Riyadh, last month, so I’ve bought my own and packed my own new headscarf, even though the dress code here is more liberal than in Riyadh. I can feel the stares of the crowds outside Arrivals as we are escorted to a minibus. September heat blasts. The outside temperature is 33o, even though it’s nearly midnight.
We drive through a flat, well-lit, modern area. I can almost sense that the desert is not far away, rather than actually see any tangible signs of it. Most buildings, if not white, are shell pink or sand-coloured. The green street signs are written in English beneath the Arabic, so I am able to follow them to the city centre. The traffic is dense for this time of night, and there are seemingly endless white taxis queuing up along the palm-lined streets. Multiple evidence of building work is in sight: scaffolding, bright lights and cranes.
We pull up outside a standard hotel chain, with its name written in gold. As I alight, I can almost feel the coolness of a nearby small fountain as it gently trickles. It adds an exotic holiday feel. Our bags are swiftly unloaded as we are bustled into reception by waiting doormen.
Already, there is more freedom here than I’d been led to believe by Galley FM – as crew gossip is referred to – because a receptionist gathers us round a small sitting area to run through a list of sightseeing options. Whilst we listen, we are offered fresh mango and orange juice.
The following morning, several of us congregate at the end of a long jetty at a private Red Sea beach club, awaiting flipper and snorkel allocation. I stretch, enjoying the heat on my skin, even though it is only ten in the morning.