The Perfect Girlfriend(87)

However, I’ll have to work within the only boundaries left available, for now. He’s travelling to Whistler shortly – I recall the exact dates from the file I saw at Miles’ house. I tap notes into my phone as I refine my thoughts and ideas. I need to revise tactics again, because actions always speak louder than words.

One thing is certain, though. The annulment is off. A fresh mantra springs to mind.

If you love someone, set them free.

If they come back, they’re yours. If they don’t, make them.





30


I twist my hair into a knot and secure it with clips before reapplying a lipstick I took from Bella’s dressing table. I take a deep breath, smile at my reflection, unlock the toilet door and enter the first-class galley. I used my position as a safety ambassador to ensure I was selected for this particular working position, after arguing that I cannot possibly represent all points of view if I never get a chance to work in every cabin. After checking the catering against the menu, I sign to confirm I’ve done so.

‘Bye, have a good one,’ says one of the always-cheerful catering guys as he heads off to another galley to complete the next round of checks.

I count the duvets, tracksuits and giveaway bags, ensuring that there is one per passenger, and arrange pale pink carnations into the fixed silver vase in the cabin. Preparations complete, I busy myself reading the PIL – passenger information list. Despite the familiar stabbing resurgence of raw, green, bitter, hideous, sickening jealousy flooding me, I remain calm. I remind myself that although these aren’t ideal circumstances – no one else would have to contend with another woman so early on in a marriage – everything is all working to plan.

I have a few obstacles left to overcome, which I will work through methodically, step by step. Cabin crew, prepare doors for departure.

The supervisor’s voice jolts over the public address system. This means that the hold doors are sealed, all paperwork is complete and the final passenger door has been closed. I arm my door, thereby locking the emergency slides into position, and cross-check with the crew member opposite. We push back. Outside my window, the air bridge is retracting. Once again, at this point, the world shrinks to the size of the plane’s interior. We are trapped; at the mercy of the pilots, the elements, technology and the collective faith that security and engineering have been thorough.

We taxi towards the runway and join the queue, edging along, one plane at a time. Our turn comes. The plane swings to the right in a semi-circle. A pause before an escalating roar, a surge of power and movement as the wheels roll forward and the aircraft gains speed. We lift into the air. I close my eyes and imagine our flight details disappearing – pop! – like a bubble from the departure monitors in the terminal, now already thousands of feet below.

Gone.

I busy myself with food preparations. My two colleagues, Martin and Nicky – responsible for the cabin service – offer drinks and write down food orders, which I then heat, plate up and garnish. Lemon and parsley for the salmon, fresh mint for the lamb. We hit a patch of turbulence around the time we are serving tea and coffee – a fairly typical occurrence. Once the service is over and the remnants – glasses, plates and food – have been cleared away, Martin and Nicky pull down the window blinds and I dim the lights.

I stand at the back, at the entrance to the cabin, observing. It is quiet and dark, apart from flickering screens. Several people are sleeping – lumps under their duvets – and there’s the odd drinker, clutching a glass of whisky or port. The air conditioning hums above the engines. Someone snores. I inhale the smell of cold food, sweaty feet and wind, intermingled with air-freshener and the scent of ‘Eau-de-Boeing’, as it’s known as – the unmistakable smell of a plane’s interior. All is calm.

My colleagues go on their break. It is just me, alone.

In charge. In control.

I take a moment.

I can see the side of Tara’s head. Her dark hair is long and straight; TV-commercial sleek and shiny. Closing my eyes, I take some deep breaths and run through my plans but ugly words force their way into my thoughts; phrases from official letters sent by the office of James Harrington. These innocuous-looking yet powerful pieces of paper clearly state the beginning of the end. Mere months remain until Nate and I will have no ties left. The piercing reminder of it gives me fresh resolve. I’ve nothing left to lose.

I step into the cabin; the carpet muffles my footsteps. I aim for the wardrobe at the front of the cabin and open it, as though searching for something. To my left is seat 1A, one of the favourite seats of VIPs and celebrities. Today is no exception: there is a Canadian TV actor occupying the space watching a movie and picking at the remains of his cheese and biscuits. The passenger to my right, an older version of Nate, is reading the Financial Times. In the seat directly behind him, Bella and Nate’s mother, Margaret, sleeps peacefully. Next year, it will be me in one of these seats, sipping champagne or a G&T. I quietly shut the wardrobe door and turn round. Bella is sitting up, rummaging in her handbag. Miles is reclined, watching a movie, the sound-cancelling headphones smothering his ears. On his side table rests a glass of untouched port. Spiteful glee grips me.

I stand beside him, give a little wave and a smile.

He starts to wave me away politely, as though he’s assumed that I’m an attentive stewardess who really cares about his comfort, but his expression changes to confusion. He sits upright and removes his headphones. His eyes drop down to my name badge.