‘What date? Maybe I could come with you.’
She shifts in her seat and mutters something vague about her not being the main organizer.
I take the hint, but I feel piqued.
Amy’s eyes glaze over after her second glass of champagne. I’m not surprised. Her concealed pills contained a do not mix with alcohol warning. It’s strange when you know something about someone else that they don’t know that you know. It’s like, if they stared into your eyes hard enough, they’d be able to tell.
I wonder about these sorts of things a lot.
‘Let’s go to a club,’ I suggest, to wake her up.
As we walk outside to our Uber, arms linked, laughing, I want to say out loud how useful it is to have a friend, but I stop myself. I said that to someone once and she gave me a weird look.
I hope Amy stays as she is and doesn’t do anything to mess up our friendship.
As soon as Amy leaves the next day, I ring to book an appointment with Bella’s hairdresser to change my colour to blonde.
Unfortunately, she is on holiday.
I decide to get it done on my next work trip – a Miami – the day after tomorrow.
The flight to Miami takes nearly nine hours. Every cabin is crammed with holidaymakers, either with people joining cruise ships or those heading off to Disney World. I barely sit down, and we run out of juice, wine and children’s activity packs.
Three hours in, I phone the captain to request that he contacts the airline’s medical advisers when a six-months-pregnant woman complains of severe stomach pains. I am summoned up to the cockpit to speak to them myself. I put on headphones and listen. The voice – a doctor in Arizona – asks endless questions and finally advises offering the woman indigestion tablets.
It works; within half an hour, she is pain-free and calms down, no longer assuming that her first child is making its way into the world mid-air.
I, too, am relieved.
After landing, there are further delays as the airport is crowded. Even the crew channel has two other airlines in front of us. By the time we have cleared immigration and waited for our baggage, my legs ache as I sit down on the crew bus.
In the hotel lobby area, the captain invites us all to a room party in an hour’s time. I decide to go. It’s still early in Miami and if I stay in my room, I will fall asleep.
I ask a receptionist about nearby hair salons and she makes an appointment for me.
Then I take the elevator to my room, unpack and shower.
The door to room 342 is wedged open with a suitcase. Four people are already there, sitting on the edge of the bed or huddled on the small sofa. Jim, the captain, is leaning against the desk, clutching a can of beer.
‘Hi. Come in,’ he says.
‘Hi.’ I join the others on the bed, feeling suddenly awkward.
Everyone else has brought their own carrier bags containing crew purchases: wine, beer or mixers.
‘Drink?’ says the captain, handing me a beer.
‘Thanks,’ I say, snapping the ring pull.
It is warm and I don’t want it, but I don’t have to stay long and I may as well fit in whilst I’m here.
An hour later, nearly everyone is crammed into the room. A steward, Rick, working in economy in the adjacent aisle to me, is sitting close to a woman working in business. She is laughing at nearly everything he says and it’s irritating me, although initially I can’t quite put my finger on why.
Then I realize that it is because she reminds me a bit of myself – the way I used to hang on to Nate’s every word. I wonder what he’s up to right now and whether he’s at a party, similar to this, in Mexico.
I decide to call it a night, even though late afternoon sun is still evident outside.
Next morning, my hair takes nearly three hours to dye blonde, but I am pleased with the results.
I walk back, past the beaches, palm trees and the pinks, lemons and powder blues of the Art Deco area, passing the Park Central Hotel where, according to a brochure in my room, Clark Gable used to hang out.
Back in my nondescript room – all hotel interiors are starting to look similar – I get ready for the return flight: ironing my blouse, polishing my shoes, packing and squeezing hotel shampoo miniatures into my washbag.
The return flight is just as busy as the way out. There isn’t one spare seat and the plane is full of passengers fresh off cruise ships, used to high standards and several courses a day – plus snacks – reduced to a tray with a hot breakfast for one, a rock-hard bread roll and a fruit salad.
During the hour-long crew break, it is clear that something happened between Rick and the giggly woman after the room party last night. They don’t go up to the bunks but sit in the rest seats below, alongside me. She is trying to engage him in conversation, but it is painfully clear – to me – that he just wants to read the paper.
I know what she’s trying to do. I recognize the signals, because it takes one to know one.
She is how I used to be. Mandy wants something after their night together. She is desperate for hope: a token gesture, however small, even if it’s just a false promise to get in touch.
I throw him a dirty look behind her back.
He doesn’t react.
I have to drag myself out of bed the next morning for my driving lesson, even though my whole body aches.
Before I started flying, I never gave any thought to how physical the job would be, not to mention all the lifting and carrying of baggage, containers and supplies. I often find bruises on my thighs and arms where I’ve been bashed by passengers carrying too many bags or been hurt in the galley by items falling off the edge during unexpected turbulence.
Running late, I rush outside and climb into my driving instructor’s hatchback before going through the motions of checking the mirrors and adjusting the driver’s seat. He’s so pedantic about little things like that.
Pleased with my progress, he books me in for my tests – theory first, practical second.
In between studying I spend the rest of my three TAB days off viewing several properties in Richmond. Well, I say properties – in truth, they are tiny flats which are even smaller than the shoebox. But I can’t think of anywhere else I’d like to live when I move out of Reading.
Richmond is my home. And besides, when Nate and I are back together, it will be an investment.
I put in an offer on the smallest, yet closest one to Nate’s, as my solicitor says I should receive the money from the sale of Sweet Pea Cottage soon.
Whilst getting ready for my work trip, I can’t help singing ‘New York, New York’. I double-check: Nate’s flight has already taken off. We are heading in the same direction, for once.
The flight is only two-thirds full but I am kept busy with duty-free requests. I walk the length of the aircraft several times over, seeking out the different carts – two located in each galley – for the right stock.
The higher-value items are kept in a smaller container near first class. After spending over twenty minutes examining a bracelet, then a watch, the passenger who requested to view them decides they’re not quite right. The meagre commission we earn on the sales is not worth the hassle.
As the top of descent into New York is announced by the flight crew, my heart starts to quicken, which is ridiculous, given that Nate would have landed hours ago.
As the crew bus emerges from a tunnel, the cityscape is exhilarating. I looked up a map in the in-flight magazine and familiarized myself with the easy layout of streets. As the traffic stops and starts I observe through the window. I watch the ant-like crowds hurry past signs advertising one-dollar slices of pizza and all-you-can-eat Chinese buffets. Open-topped red tourist buses, not dissimilar to London ones, mingle with the yellow cabs and the screeching emergency vehicles, sirens blaring. Uniformed doormen stand patiently outside glass apartment entrances. Soon after we pass Bloomingdale’s our bus pulls up outside a narrow high-rise hotel sandwiched between two other buildings.
I take care whilst checking in at reception to keep an eye out, and I ask to see a flight crew list. Nate is on floor twenty-seven.
In my fifth-floor room, whilst awaiting delivery of my suitcase, I stare out the window at the office block opposite. I tap the hotel Wi-Fi code into my phone. Nate hasn’t posted anything about what he intends to do here. The safest bet is that he will go for a jog early tomorrow morning. But until then, I am free.
I take a look at Bella’s blog. I feel sick. Even though I was prepared – thanks to Stephanie – even though I knew it was coming, it still gives me heart-sink. And fills me with envy. Bella and Miles have announced their engagement. I check Stephanie’s Facebook page. The phrase ‘Cheshire Cat’ comes to mind. Bella’s ring is a diamond rock, set in platinum.
Congratulations, Bella and Miles.
Wonderful news.
So happy.
Perfect couple.
Blah bloody blah.
The last comment is written by Nate: Wishing you every happiness, and welcome to the family, Miles. Hope you know what you’re letting yourself in for! Only joking. X
I was careful, very careful to ensure that Nate and I had nothing to do with his family whilst we were together. It wasn’t that difficult, given how often he was out of the country, and I kept him busy during his days off. I couldn’t take the risk that Bella would make up lies about me and poison Nate’s mind. She adores her older brother and is protective of him. The only way that I can be officially reintroduced to her is as a fait accompli, a legal wife and sister-in-law. I’d love to beat her up the aisle, to have her forced attendance at my wedding, sporting a brave face, but meanwhile realizing that she’ll have no choice but to be nice to me from now on.
I go for a walk. Block after block I stride, but too many things remind me of weddings: jewellers, department stores, hotels, bridal shops and even a passing white limo.
I am forced to invent endless ways to keep busy. I drink coffee. I wait and bloody wait.
Back in my room, I can’t settle to anything or sleep. I channel-hop, but my mind can’t concentrate, so I find myself watching half-hour-long promotions. A smiley woman with a silver bouffant demonstrates a swanky vegetable chopper. Special offers flash across the screen multiple times. I stare. Perhaps it will come in useful once I am back at Nate’s. He does appreciate my cooking. And I’ve always hated the way the stink of onions permeates my fingers, long after I’ve washed my hands over and over.
Jet lag has started to play tricks on my mind.
At 6 a.m., I head for the lobby, dressed in running gear. I settle down on a corner sofa and conceal myself behind a copy of the New York Post. My eyes fix on an article which I read over and over. Every time the lift bell chimes, my heart thuds. Quite a few crew are up and about already – which is not surprising, given that it’s late morning back home.
Perhaps I got it wrong?
Maybe Nate went to the gym. He won’t stay in the hotel all day, so I’m prepared to wait this out.
Ten past bloody seven. The lift bell jingles. I just know, can just sense it, before the doors even part, that it’s going to be him. My chest pounds. I hold my breath. It is! Nate is in jogging gear, clutching a bottle of water, with his earphones in. He exits through the sliding doors and turns right.
Pulling my hood down low, I follow. Conditions are perfect. The work crowds are busy enough, but not so thick as to be a hindrance.
One block, two blocks.
Past delis advertising coffee, bagels and doughnuts. Car horns toot. Sirens screech in the distance. At each road crossing, I hang back until the pedestrian warning is about to change to the stop signal.
Nate speeds up.
I quicken my pace.
Across the road I spot horse-drawn carriages. Behind the carriage wheels and canopies are open space and greenery.
Central Park.
I get bolder, so much so that I am now merely two paces behind Nate. He stops at the entrance to set the timer on his watch. I hang back, inhaling the smell of horse shit. Keen tourists already line the pavements. A poster pinned to a nearby railing advertises Memorial Day services on the last Monday of May, in a few days’ time.
Nate breaks into a jog.
So do I.
Skyscrapers look down on us. He leaves the main road at the first opportunity and sticks to the paths – as do other runners – which is perfect. Shadows from blossom-laden trees form clusters of shaded grass dotted with pale petals. My breath quickens. There is a flaw in this plan – which is that I am not as fit as him. I hope that he is not going for too long a run because I know that the park is massive. I inhale the scent of lilac. We cross over a bridge and into a burst of azaleas.
Amelia would have loved Central Park, she would have talked me through every plant and flower name. Will would have been happy too. We’d have kicked off our shoes and run across the grass.
I am thirsty and hot.
Nate stops suddenly. His T-shirt sticks to his sweaty back. He bends over, places his hands on his thighs, then takes a long sip of water. I want to run over and snatch it from him.
I breathe as quietly as I can. He stands still.
The sun is deceitfully hot for this hour; I naively assumed that it would be as cool as it is back home. Nate heads for a nearby bench. Shit, he will be facing me.
I jog on, until I am behind him. I stand, leaning against a tree, and catch my breath properly.
Nate sits still, as though he’s scenery-watching, but he’s probably just taking a break. He’s had his hair cut. I’m not sure it suits him, it’s a bit too short.
My head spins and I feel light-headed. The bark is rough and cool against my skin. I am mere metres away from him. With my phone, I snap a couple of photos. Why don’t I go to him now? What am I waiting for? It’s been over seven months. I’ve given him his pointless space.
Space. I hate that word.
It peppered nearly every sentence of his towards the end. Perhaps I should forget about my POA and seize the moment. Maybe fate has brought us here, together, away from the distractions of home.
Fuck it! I’m going to do it. I’m going to live dangerously.
I step forward. No! My mantras start to jumble in my mind.
Stick to the plan.
Amend the plan.
My head pounds as a throbbing, violent headache forms. I need water. I take another step forward.
Inhale.
Exhale.
I don’t know why, but I feel compelled to do this, moth-to-flame-like.
I hesitate.
As I take another step forward, I stand on a fallen branch. It is short, but fairly thick, about the size of a baseball bat. I breathe. Nate looks so relaxed. Once upon a time, I could walk up to him and hug him any time I pleased. Now, I am not allowed.
Those are the rules.
I have not been given any choice or say in the matter.
Nate turns to the side and puts his left leg on the bench, before bending at the waist in a stretch. His calf muscles must be playing up, as they do from time to time.
I crouch down as though I’m picking something up, but there is nothing but the stick. I buy time by retying my laces. As I do so, a surge of bitterness and rage races through my mind. This situation is ridiculous; I have rights too. I grip the branch tightly with my right hand and stand up. I hold it against my leg.
Nate is now standing too, his arms raised, fingers interlocked in another stretch. I step towards him. His arms fall to his sides. I take a deep breath.
He glances at his watch, then jogs away from me. I stand still, releasing my grip on the branch. It hits my ankle as I watch him follow the curve of the path, until he is out of my reach.
9
I must be mad. What was I thinking? I didn’t follow my own rules.
Stick to the plan.
Fail to plan, plan to fail.
Never again.
‘Ma’am, are you all right?’
I look up. An old man, dressed in a suit, is looking at me.
I stand up. ‘Yes, thank you. I’m fine now. I went jogging without water. Stupidly.’
‘There’s a store that way.’ He points straight ahead. ‘It’s sixty-four degrees already.’
I mentally convert. About eighteen degrees Celsius. ‘Thank you.’
I head in his suggested direction and locate a mobile kiosk. As well as water, I buy a coffee and a savoury pretzel.
‘Excuse me, where’s the exit?’ I ask the cashier.
I am totally disorientated. I sit on the grass and gulp the water.
The pretzel is salty and dry; it sticks in my throat. I dump the horseshoe-shaped remainder of it in a bin on my way out.
As the hotel finally comes into sight, I experience the same sense of relief as I do the moment the aircraft’s wheels connect with the runway. I slide my key card into the door lock and sink down on to my bed and mentally berate myself.
I nearly blew it.
It was being so close to the prize. But I need to stick to my schedule, because by July it will be almost ten months since we split up.
Nearly a year.
That way, I’ve proved to him that I’ve given him space to find himself – or whatever it is that he’s decided he must do. It hurts, the thought of him sleeping with other women, of course it does, but none feature on his Facebook page for any length of time, so I wipe my mind clear of such thoughts and try to see it as a positive thing. He didn’t leave me for another specific woman. He will be properly ready to settle down by the time we reunite.
I need to work on fresh mantras, and I must repeat them more often.
When there’s any doubt, don’t.
Patience is a virtue.
Stick to the plan.
Even though my head is now totally pain-free, I take two strong painkillers and down several glasses of water.
No matter what the reason was, I can’t unravel again.
The Perfect Girlfriend Page 8
