The Perfect Girlfriend(79)
‘Hi,’ I say. ‘Long time no see. What are you doing here?’
On her left hand she is wearing a slim gold engagement ring with a single diamond. She sees me looking.
‘Congratulations. Rupert, I take it?’
She reddens. ‘Yes.’
‘When is the happy day?’
‘Oh, there’s no date yet.’
‘I meant your due date. I assume that’s why you’re not flying?’
She shifts uncomfortably in her chair. ‘It’s early days. We haven’t told many people yet. How are you?’
‘Fine. I’m off to Rome and back in my role as a safety ambassador.’
‘Have fun!’ she says, looking over my shoulder at someone behind my back, clearly grateful that she has an excuse to dismiss me.
As I walk through the terminal, I observe the people around me. Families, holidaymakers, even business people look content as they go about their lives. Neon adverts flash high above, each picture depicting smiley, happy, successful people. My stomach feels knotted and hollow. I really hope the video is tugging at Nate’s heart strings; I can’t bear feeling like an outsider much longer.
The flight to Rome is delayed by twenty minutes due to high winds. I have a moment’s panic as I think of Nate, abandoned and alone, but as we take off, I close my eyes and imagine him mellowing towards me as he absorbs my words.
As we level out above the clouds, I unclip my seat belt. I can’t be bothered to watch the crew to ensure that they don’t twist or bend as they carry out the short service. I will make my report up. But nonetheless I stand around with my work tablet, acting officiously whilst attempting to look efficient and important.
During our turnaround time, I disembark and wander around Fiumicino Airport. I buy gifts for my men: the male versions of my favourite perfume. As I pass a designer men’s store, I can’t resist buying Nate and Miles matching ties in pale green, decorated with silver zigzags. I glance up at the departures monitor. Boarding Gate 10 flashes, alternating between English and Italian. I rush, my bag banging against my thigh as I speed-walk in the direction of the air bridge.
Passenger boarding has commenced. Several people glance down at my duty-free purchases, frowning disapproval – as though I should be banned from such a perk if I’m going to turn up late. I negotiate my way past the flurry of activity by the door. A father battles with a pushchair as the mother gives instructions, a baby girl wriggling in her arms. A smartly dressed woman on the phone offers last-minute contributions to her working day. Others stand patiently, as though accepting the chaos as part of the travel experience, clutching printouts of their boarding cards or holding their phones at the ready.
We are delayed pre take-off due to bad weather in London. I try not to look at my watch too often. But by now, Nate has been home alone for seven and a half hours. I force myself to think positive thoughts because, if I allow my mind to wander, dreaded thoughts of what could go wrong start to make me feel nauseous. My mantras are not helping to distract my mind either. They deny me any comfort. The only sentences that form are ‘In sickness and in health’ and ‘Until death do us part.’ These words conjure up images of Nate, alone and frail in his bathroom. Or falling whilst trying to escape down a conveniently located drainpipe, thereby meeting his end in the garden below, making me a very young widow.
The flight crew make another announcement.
Ladies and gentlemen, good news. We’ve received confirmation that we should be on our way in a little under fifteen minutes. Once again, we apologize for the delay.
Thank God. Inhale. Exhale.
However, it is not their final apology. Two hours into the flight, they have further bad news.
This is your captain, Rob Jones, speaking again. The high winds were stronger than forecast at Heathrow, which has caused further delays. Aircraft are now landing but there is a backlog and so we will be diverting to Stansted. We apologize for the inconvenience. I am assured that the ground staff are working hard to arrange transportation and rebook onward connections . . .
His words fade out. Bugger! I hope Nate’s food supply lasts; he’s now been on his own for ten hours. By the time I traipse back from Stansted – assuming there’s some kind of transport for the crew, because public transport will be overstretched – it will be about ten o’clock tonight before I can return.
‘Excuse me?’ A woman clutching a baby on her left hip approaches me. ‘We have a flight to Dubai two hours after we land and we have to make it.’
‘The ground staff have all the information regarding transfers and will be rebooking you on to the next available flight, so please try not to worry,’ I say. ‘This happens a lot, and they’re very efficient.’ I have no clue if the ground staff are efficient or not, but I’m sure they must be.
But other passengers aren’t so easy to placate. One man in particular stands in the galley, way too close to me. I can smell beer on his breath as he rambles on about cancelling his loyalty card, never getting anywhere on time, and missing out on his daughter’s birthday meal. I spout out my usual platitudes, but he just won’t go away.
‘So?’ he finally stops. ‘What are you going to do about it?’
Good question. What am I going to do?
‘Would you like a snack?’ I say. I offer him a basket filled with confectionery.