The Perfect Girlfriend(80)
He actually sneers, his face contorting with ugliness. ‘Sorry, love, I stopped getting excited about packets of Smarties when I was six years old.’
I place the basket back on the side. ‘What about a drink, then?’
Without replying, he reaches past me and opens the door to the bar, as though he has every right to do so, and starts fiddling around with the contents. It’s a pet hatred of mine, people assuming that they can help themselves to anything they want in the galley. The number of times I’ve left my meal or a sandwich on the side to go and deal with some issue or other, only to come back and find someone grazing away at my food, is extraordinary. The pressure – the stress of the day – suddenly bears down on me, and this man, this dreadful, red-faced, shouty man, is one challenge too many. I reach above him, yank out a metal canister with my full strength and let it fall on his head.
He cries out and falls back on to the galley floor, clutching the top of his head with his right hand. He stares at me, seemingly too dazed to start another rant. He’s lucky I chose a container with napkins and plastic glasses, I was very tempted to go for the one full of canned drinks.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say, trying to sound as if I mean it.
Grabbing a tea towel, I tip a pile of ice into the centre, wrap it up and hand it to him. He holds it obediently to his head. I want him out of my galley and out of my sight before I give in to my urge to kick him.
The supervisor walks in and surveys the scene. ‘Are you all right, sir?’ she says.
‘No,’ he says, and off he starts again with a fresh rant.
I walk away. For fuck’s sake, why can’t people mind their own business? Her unnecessary interference means that I’m now going to have to fill in an incident report on top of everything else.
I’m not sure how much more I can stand.
At the top of descent, we secure the cabin and take our seats early, because bad turbulence is forecast by the pilots. They are not wrong. The plane rocks and sways whilst the engines strain with a high-pitched whine. Outside it is black. It always goes quiet when passengers are frightened, and it adds to the overall eerie effect.
We smack down on to the runway and the welcoming roar of the plane losing speed is one of the best sounds I’ve heard all day. I feel as though I’ve been away for a week.
Disembarkation takes an hour, because the airport is accepting other diverted flights, so we have to wait for stairs and buses. The crew are all offered taxis back to Heathrow, but the queue is – of course – long. And after the freezing cold wait, we’re further hindered by the thoughtless members who brought a small suitcase or a massive bag along with them on a mere day trip.
As a result, the first two taxis drive off with only two crew in each one.
As we pull away, leaving the bright airport lights behind us, a sense of impending dread washes through me. Nate has been left unattended for a whole thirteen hours.
On a whim, I dial his phone – even though it is switched off and on his coffee table.
It is not a good move, because I get one of the biggest shocks of my life. It rings.
No sooner does the taxi drop me at the Heathrow crew car park than I practically run to my car. As I drive past the car park barriers, with rain beating down on the windscreen despite the wipers on double-speed, I find it a struggle to concentrate. I don’t want to go back to Nate’s – or mine – because I suspect that the police will be waiting. But I have no choice. Not really.
The best I can do in the event of a worst-case scenario is to talk myself out of Nate’s lies and mud-slinging. Our past will prove that, whatever situation arose, it was a bizarre domestic argument.
I pull over into a side road before I reach Richmond and try Nate’s phone again. After it rang earlier, it had gone to voicemail. This time, it does not ring and Nate’s voice clicks in immediately.
Hi, this is Nate. Please leave me a message.
I hang up. Maybe I imagined it ringing earlier. I try to access Nate’s information through my spy app, but it won’t let me log in. It’s frozen. A chill sweeps through my body as I imagine the app being discovered, on top of everything else I’ve done. I force myself to take deep breaths whilst I think things through clearly, and focus. I delete my tablet history containing the video showing me how to meddle with the door lock. I try to convince myself that nothing bad has happened. I picture Nate, all calm and apologetic, pathetically grateful to see me.
I park away from my place, at the far end of the street, and switch off the engine. I scan the area for police cars, but there are none visible, unless there is a fleet of unmarked ones. I hoist my handbag on to my shoulder and rearrange my duty-free bags so that the gifts are divided fairly. Miles’ stuff can stay in the car for now.
The rain has stopped. As I walk over the Green, my heels sink slightly into the ground every couple of steps. I don’t want to look up at Nate’s but I have to. My heart rate picks up as I spot the kitchen light on.
Did I leave it on? I’m sure I didn’t.
Nate’s room is in darkness. Is that good? Bad?
Shit. I wish I’d stayed put and hadn’t gone on that stupid trip.
I let myself in; the communal door bangs shut behind me. I stand still. I could go home, have a shower and hide beneath my duvet, then deal with all this in the morning. Perhaps it would do Nate good to have a bit more time on his own. But then I picture him, all alone, and my longing for him overrides my fears. I take off my heels and walk upstairs in my stockinged feet.