The Perfect Girlfriend(8)

Turning back to the job in hand, I lift hangers off the rail holding mainly dresses. I stare at a rose-patterned one before holding it against me. I look in the mirror; it doesn’t suit me. This was her favourite one. She wore it every summer, back in the days before the drink sucked her in completely. In the mornings, before her lunchtime wine, she’d sometimes take me and Will to the nearby woods, pointing out flower names along the way. I remember cowslip, bluebells and foxgloves.

There was a green-fingered woman who had lived along the way and Amelia adored her garden, especially in spring. The woman had died not long after the Incident. The new owners of her bungalow were keen to remodel the place, and years of building work destroyed all the beauty. But by then, Amelia wouldn’t have noticed or cared.

I pull open the built-in wardrobe drawers, each wooden front prettily engraved with flowers. Underwear. Tights. Musty jumpers. A gardening book. Inside the front cover are two pressed daisies. I drain my glass before heading downstairs for some bin bags and a refill.

I yank open the last drawer. It’s lighter than I expect, so it shoots out, causing me to fall back. It’s empty, apart from a yellowing envelope Sellotaped to the back. I rip it open. That’s when it all hurtles back; suppressed memories swirl through my mind like water down a chute. And it hits me.

I run to the bathroom and throw up. Turning on the cold tap, I splash drops on to my face, avoiding my reflection in the mirror. I need to leave.

I go outside and call a taxi to take me to the station. I wait at the end of the path by the wooden gate. As the cab approaches, its beams highlight the overgrown hedges and the suffocating ivy that have always threatened to swallow the cottage. I must stay strong and not allow myself to be clawed back by the past. I quietly repeat my mantras under my breath, hidden in the darkness of the back seat, whilst the driver listens to a football match on the radio.

Stick to the plan, stick to the plan.

Fail to plan, plan to fail.

As long as I don’t veer off course, nothing can ever harm me again.





4


I disembark from the coach at Heathrow. The automatic doors to the Report Centre part. Flashes of green and blue – our corporate colours – rush by. In the canteen, I spot a vacant corner table as I order a double espresso. Above, monitors constantly update the tantalizing list of destinations. Rome. Nairobi. Athens. My eyes rest on Los Angeles: my first destination as an operating crew member. I want distance from Sweet Pea Cottage, Dorset and the past. Thoughts are swamping my mind.

LAX crew report to room nine flashes up on the screens.

I stand up, gather my belongings and head for the pre-flight briefing room. I am allocated a working position at the back of the plane.

The flight itself would be a lot easier if there weren’t so many passengers. Entering the economy cabin isn’t dissimilar to my idea of walking on to a stage because hundreds of eyes watch me and I sense their silent anticipation. I release the brake on the trolley and push it in front of me. Bottles rattle. When I stop at my allocated aisle – row thirty-six – I can almost hear passengers mentally recalculating the order in which they will be served, and it injects me with a surge of power.

I smile. ‘Lasagne or chicken curry? Red or white wine?’

A well-known chef is in first class and is apparently sharing cooking tips with the galley crew and other passengers. I am half-tempted to go and join them; perhaps he can pass on something new which will impress Nate. However, I get caught up preparing for the afternoon tea service. And before I get a chance, we are commencing our descent.

After landing, people make plans on the crew bus.

‘Anyone fancy a tour of the stars’ houses?’ asks someone.

I can’t think of anything worse than paying to catch glimpses of unattainable lifestyles. I choose to join a group of five who suggest brunch somewhere by the coast tomorrow. We are eight hours behind the UK, so even I will want more than a coffee by then. I didn’t mention that it was my very first flight, just that I was fairly new and that I’d never been to LA before. I’d heard rumours about ‘pranks’ – I detest the very word and the images it conjures up – such as informing a new recruit that it was their responsibility to carry a bag of ice off the aircraft for a room party or that they had to carry the captain’s suitcase to his room.

Venice Beach.

Now I’m here, in a place so familiar that I feel as though I’ve walked on to a film set, I want to pinch myself. I can’t believe that I am here, living Nate’s lifestyle. To think . . . all those times I was at our home, waiting for him, whilst he was cavorting around the world, having a ball. What a mug I was. I gaze at the vast beach. Beneath the tall, skinny palm trees people unselfconsciously work out at the outdoor gyms. A lifeguard hut catches my eye. I’d watched Baywatch a couple of times at Babs’ house and I’d been enthralled.

I stroll along the Boardwalk with my temporary new best friends – my colleagues – browsing the market stalls crammed with sunglasses, T-shirts, crystals, souvenirs, whilst dodging beautiful, thin people jogging, roller-blading and skateboarding. An artist wants to draw my portrait, but I refuse with a smile. I feel almost relaxed.

We decide on a restaurant with outside seating for brunch. I order an egg-white omelette and a sparkling water.

‘Don’t fancy a Buck’s Fizz, then?’ asks Alan, the cabin service manager. ‘You can drink, as long as you stop at least twelve hours before duty.’