The Perfect Girlfriend(92)

I look out the window but can’t see anything apart from scattered lights in the darkness. I know from previous daylight trips that we are flying over a vast expanse of water; and beyond, majestic snow-tipped mountains are visible in the distance.

As the wheels touch down and the aircraft loses speed, I am almost consumed by excitement and longing.

Not long now. Not long at all.

I think I’ve finally got Nate right where I want him. My tenacity and ingenuity are about to pay off.

The aircraft comes to its final stop. I stand at the disembarkation door, a genuine smile on my face.

Tara strides off first. She doesn’t look back.

Nate’s parents leave next, followed by Miles and Bella.

And finally, Nate.

I grab his arm. ‘So, everything’s sorted, is it?’

‘Yes.’

‘And I’ll see you back home in a week? No more Tara?’

‘I’ve got to go.’

He leaves. I watch him disappear round the corner of the air bridge.

It takes an age until the final person disembarks. I am not far behind.

Following the signs written in French, English and Chinese, I clear Immigration with the rest of the crew before I approach baggage reclaim, then hesitate because I see Tara reach up and give Nate a kiss on the lips. I hold my breath and watch what happens next. I exhale as she turns away and exits through Customs. I look at the remaining five, huddled around baggage trolleys, as Nate and Miles lift their luggage off, case by case, as it filters around the circular loop.

Ignoring them, I aim for the neat row of crew suitcases and select mine. I look over. Miles catches my eye. I give him a cheery wave before walking away in the direction of Customs.

‘Good afternoon,’ I smile at the official.

‘Welcome to Canada. Enjoy your stay.’

‘I intend to, thank you very much.’

I exit, my head held high. The automatic doors close behind me.

I spot Tara immediately, sitting on a seat, pretending to read a book. She looks up, but quickly glances down again. She could do with some acting lessons. I head for the crew bus, but as the driver loads my luggage, I act as though I’ve dropped something. Ignoring my colleagues’ moans – ‘Don’t be long’, ‘I’m exhausted’ – I cross back over the road towards Arrivals.

And sure enough, one by one, they are all stepping into a people carrier. The parents first – how nice and respectful – followed by the other four, of course, including Tara.

They must think that I’m stupid. Which, maybe, I am. Because I dared to hope that, this time, Nate would understand.

I shake my head. He should know me better by now. I stand and watch their car pull away from the kerb.

They all think that they’re fine. They should think again, because Nate has just failed his test.

And enough is enough. It really is.





31


Red digits illuminate the pitch-blackness. It is 1.38 a.m.

I am stuck here, trapped in a small hotel suite in the downtown area of Vancouver, because the first bus to Whistler is not until the early hours. I lie, surrounded by darkness, reliving the past. The way that I now see it is that I’ve spent ten years of my life leading up to this. Say I live to be seventy, it means that I will have wasted about a seventh of my life. And for what? To try to meet an inferior man? Accept a mediocre life? As if.

Unable to settle, I switch on the side light, load a coffee capsule into the machine and sit cross-legged on my bed, going through all my plans, revisions and photos. I double-check that I have the key to the Whistler holiday home – one of the many items I took or had copied whilst I was at Nate’s, because experience has taught me to prepare for any eventuality. Taking occasional sips of my coffee, I count my stash of local currency before I get up, shower and order a club sandwich from room service.

I repack and keep busy until it’s finally time to leave. The last thing I do is place my laptop, phone, passport and ID card inside the safe. I need to travel light.

The door to the room clicks shut behind me. I’m perfectly dressed for the bitter temperature: a woolly hat, gloves and a large neck-warmer. Between my rucksack and duffel bag I have all my ski-wear – ski pants in a discreet grey with thin stripes of navy, a jacket in a matching colour, reflective goggles and ski boots.

The bus is on time.

I settle near the back, behind a young Australian couple who don’t show any interest in me. I keep my face as covered as possible, without drawing unnecessary attention, and pretend to doze – which is fine, as other passengers are also taking a nap.

It is dark and the windows are misted up, so I rub a small section clear to see outside. Beams highlight the snow and ice surrounding Sea to Sky Highway. Intermittently, the driver calls out unseen landmarks: parks, waterfalls, forests.

By the time we approach the outskirts of the resort, nearly two hours later, early daylight reveals postcard-perfect snowy mountains, dotted with trees and patches of rectangular ski runs.

I feel a twinge of nervous anticipation as I disembark. I stand still as others crowd around to retrieve their ski gear from the trailer. Taking a few icy breaths before I cross the road and head for a pavement, I walk in the direction of the holiday home which I memorized as best I could from Google Maps. I could get a bus, but it’s only a ten-minute walk. I’m taking a small risk in assuming that everyone will have been up early – given the time difference – ready for the lifts to open. I need time to orientate myself without bumping into anyone.