by Lynda Renham
Oh really this is just too silly to be real. He surely can’t be hungry after stuffing himself with so much Sushi.
‘We have some cakes,’ offers another stewardess, smiling sweetly at him. Oh for God’s sake, throw yourselves at him why don’t you? She hands him a small wrapped cake and I attempt to stifle my giggle but fail miserably.
‘Ah, excellent, except Bakewell tart has nuts in it too doesn’t it?’ he says patiently, seemingly not hearing my laughter or deliberately ignoring it.
‘Jesus,’ exclaims Mr Academic and I follow his eyes to where Kevin is slumped in his seat.
Oh Christ, why did I have to be in this row? Kevin is clutching his chest and moaning quietly. For a second, only a second mind you, I wonder if I ignore the whole pain in the chest scenario, maybe it will all go away. Mr Academic leans over me and prods Kevin.
‘Is he breathing?’
Oh God, I hope so. I touch Kevin’s clammy skin and gulp.
‘Kevin, what’s wrong?’ I ask softly.
He opens his mouth to speak but nothing comes out. Oh shit.
‘Do you have any sandwiches?’ I hear Marc Jacob jumper say and I see red.
‘Oh please, give him something to shut him up, preferably a peanut butter sandwich, and then put out a plea for a doctor, I think this guy is having a heart attack,’ I say angrily.
Suddenly he is leaning over his seat.
‘Is there a doctor on board, can we have some oxygen here?’ he calls out.
Mr Academic jumps from his seat as a man whom I presume is a doctor, sprints down the aisle towards us, while I gently wipe the perspiration from Kevin’s face.
‘This is your fault,’ I say to the guy in front of me.
‘My fault, why what did I do?’
‘If you had not been stuffing your face in that Sushi bar, you would not have held the plane up and Kevin would not have got worked up and now be having…’
I am thrown from my seat by the doctor.
‘Out, and can we please get this seat back,’ he orders.
I am standing in the aisle now, face to face with the enemy, well you get my drift.
‘Look, I am sorry about your boyfriend…’ he begins.
‘He is not my boyfriend. I have only just met him,’ I interrupt, feeling furious. Good God, does he think I can’t do better than Kevin? Not that there is anything wrong with Kevin, of course. He is probably very nice but it is obvious he is much older than me and not at all my type. He just shrugs however.
‘Whatever. Your private life is none of my business, but his heart attack is nothing to do with me.’
The captain’s announcement quietens everyone.
‘Ladies and Gentlemen this is your captain speaking. Unfortunately one of our passengers has been taken ill and it is necessary for us to make an unscheduled landing at Chatillon-Sur-Seine. We would ask that you disembark in accordance with health and safety regulations, and request you take any hand luggage with you should we need to change planes. Once the passenger has been collected by the emergency services we will recall you onto the flight. We apologise for any inconvenience. Please be assured, Easyair always maintains customer well-being as our top priority.’
What the hell does he mean by customer well-being? I am getting so stressed trying to get to sodding Rome that I may also have a heart attack. Some customer well-being.
‘Classic,’ I mumble.
Chapter Three
So here we are, or at least here I am, at another bloody airport. The place is packed and there is not a solitary seat to be found. I fish my mobile from my bag to text Simon but find I have no signal. To top it all I am now somewhere in bloody France. I check the time on my phone. Bugger, if I am lucky I will make it with about fifteen minutes to spare. What a bloody first impression this is going to make. God, I am so thirsty but I cannot face the queues.
‘Hey, Rescue Remedy,’
Oh no. Please God, not him. I pretend to ignore him and trundle towards the flight board.
‘Buy you a coffee?’ he persists.
I turn and see him. My God, the guy is the ultimate human dustbin. He has a large plate of croissants and jam.
‘Join me. I can’t eat all this myself.’ He points to a chair.
‘I am sure you will manage to force it down,’ I retort scornfully, while staring enviously at his coffee.
‘You surely aren’t bearing a grudge are you? Come on, there is nowhere else to sit.’ He is leaning back in his chair and carefully replacing a newspaper on a stand behind him. His jeans hug his thighs and I try not to look. His eyes beckon me. He is right of course. The place is packed, hot and noisy. Reluctantly I head towards him. The truth is I am so desperate for a coffee I would have sold my soul to the devil to get one. I squeeze past customers coming out of the café and sit down with a sigh and watch him spoon layers of jam onto a croissant.
‘You like croissant with your jam then?’ I say sarcastically, pouring myself coffee from his coffee pot.
He smiles and looks at me with that twinkle in his eye.
‘I thought you would be with your boyfriend,’ he says casually and then yawns.
Honestly, I cannot recall meeting a more unpleasant person. I grab a croissant.
‘I already told you, he is not my boyfriend. I only met him on the plane,’ I say crossly.
‘Oh, so you did. I forgot.’ He pops a sugar cube into his mouth.
Probably, you were too busy thinking of food, I think. I spoon a small amount of jam onto my croissant and realise that I am quite hungry. He leans back in his chair and watches me. I feel myself blush. He yawns, leaning further back. I notice his hair is expertly cut and in a style that suits him perfectly.
‘Sorry, late night last night and early flight from New York this morning. So, what’s your reason for going to Rome then?’ he asks yawning again.
What a bloody cheek, as if it is any of his business and am just about to tell him so when some idiot pushes past my chair, knocking the croissant out of my hand and on to my blouse. Jesus, I really cannot believe this.
‘Oh God, now look, I can’t arrive in Rome like this,’ I fume.
Unperturbed he pours more coffee and I have an overwhelming urge to throw mine over him.
‘The loo is just along there, can’t you wash it off?’ he says, casually pointing across the departure lounge.
Really, it is only possible to feel contempt for such a moron.
‘This is an Yves Saint Laurent blouse, you know, you can’t just scrub away at it with soap.’ I do not even try to hide my contempt for him.
‘Yves Saint Laurent? Wow that is some blouse then.’
I ignore his mocking tone and bite back the stinging comment I was about to make about his jumper when a muffled announcement drones from the public address.
‘Passengers for flight 735 to Rome, this flight will be re-boarding in forty-five minutes from gate two’
Okay, there is time for me to wash the offending mark. I rush to the loo after making the human dustbin promise to bang on the door if there is any news. So here I am, back in an airport loo staring at myself in the mirror, and I swear to God I have aged in the short time it has taken me to fly here. Red raspberry jam sticks unmercifully to my blouse and my hair looks lifeless and, to my horror, I am wearing only one earring. I look around and scramble on the floor. Oh good God, what if I dropped it on the plane? It was the pair Simon had bought me to celebrate our engagement. I am getting to the stage where there is only my mind left to lose now. I pull the other earring out and throw it into my make-up bag. After soaking a whole roll of loo paper in hot water I dive into a cubicle. The sound of soft jazz and the occasional mumbled airport announcement make me anxious. I mean, seriously, how much worse can this get? All I want to do is get to my fiancé, preferably on time, and in one piece, and not looking like a cabbage patch doll. I pull off the blouse and rub frantically at the jam and succeed in making an even bigger pink stain that is covered in bits of loo roll. Sod it
. Obviously, it is cheap loo roll and not that nice soft, perfumed one you buy in Waitrose. Slowly, I pick them off. Oh, this is terrible. Angrily I rub at the blouse until it is very wet. I throw it back on and come out of the cubicle and stand in front of the noisy hand-dryer in an attempt to dry the blouse. The wet patch sticks to my Victoria Secret bra and I feel myself wanting to cry. How could a journey be so stressful? After what seems an eternity, the blouse is drier, although a bit sticky, and dotted with specks of toilet roll. I pull a hairbrush from my bag and tidy my hair. Satisfied that I look reasonably presentable I walk out of the loos. You know that feeling you get when you know something is just not right, that things seem somehow different? Well, I have that feeling right now. I realise the airport lounge is practically empty. Marc Jacob jumper is nowhere to be seen, and the café bar is deserted. I spy the offending croissant sitting on the table and, as my eyes scan the airport lounge I see him. The bugger is fast asleep on a bench, and oh God, out of the window I see my plane racing along the runway. I run to the café and madly raid the cutlery tray selecting my weapon of choice.
‘You stupid bloody wanker, I told you to bang on the door.’ I seriously cannot believe I am holding a fork to his throat while grabbing his jumper with my other hand.
He yawns, looks at me, then at the fork.
‘You plan to stab me to death with a plastic fork? Good luck,’ he says calmly.
‘We have missed the flight, you arrogant bastard,’ I throw the fork at him in my frustration. ‘Just be grateful it is plastic.’
He is staring at my blouse.
‘What is wrong with you?’ he asks casually as he sits up and stretches.
‘Don’t push me, don’t you bloody push me, I am just about managing to stay calm.’ I feel my heart thumping. All I can see are flashbacks from the Psycho movie, and I so want him to be in the shower scene right now.
‘This is calm? Remind me to stay away from you when you are in a temper. I’m sorry, I fell asleep. Anyway, take some responsibility - you must have heard the call,’ he says nonchalantly. Jesus, this guy really is the limit.
‘Don’t come anywhere near me, do you understand, ever,’ I say, breathing fire at him.
He feigns a salute.
‘Yes ma’am. Believe me, after the plastic fork attack it will be my pleasure to avoid you at all times. I wouldn’t want to be around when you perform your party piece with a screwdriver.’
I take a deep breath and calmly pick up my bags. This really is becoming unbearable. I can scarcely get my legs to move towards the check-in desk. Oh God, what if I collapse here? What if the next big event in my life is my funeral? That man will have killed me. Well, I am not going to let him have that pleasure. Looking like something the cat has dragged in, I approach the desk.
‘Excuse me. I don’t suppose anyone has handed in a white gold diamond stud earring have they?’ I ask hopefully trying to ignore her pained expression which clearly indicates she does not believe I was wearing white gold diamond earrings.
‘I can check for you, madam.’
I shake my head.
‘No, it’s okay. I was on the flight to Rome, the one where the guy had a heart attack, and I got jam on my blouse and well, I need a flight.’
Her eyes lock onto my blouse and I feel sure she smirks.
‘Ah, that flight has gone.’
Yes, well I bloody know that, don’t I?
‘What time is the next flight to Rome?’ I ask patiently.
She shakes her head.
‘We are a small airport. We have no scheduled flights to Rome, madam,’ she says apologetically.
‘What? But I have to get to Rome. You’re an airport aren’t you, well not you personally, of course,’ I say loudly, ‘you don’t understand, I have to be in Rome for dinner at eight this evening. It is a matter of urgency.’
This is an airport, how can they not have flights? I hear a snigger behind me. Oh how I wish I had a real fork.
‘Compared to world peace and the end of civilisation as we know it, I have to agree. Dinner at eight, in Rome, must certainly qualify for a private jet.’
I ignore his irritating voice and give the girl a pleading look.
‘It really is important. I have to get to Rome by eight.’ Oh God, am I begging? The tears I had struggled to hold back suddenly pour forth against my will. Oh, is it not enough that I have wedding nerves without all this too?
‘One moment madam, I shall see what I can do.’
Oh thank God. I turn from the desk, expecting to walk into Marc Jacob jumper but he has gone. I fall into the nearest seat. I am beginning to think someone is trying to tell me something. Maybe I am not meant to marry Simon. I try my phone again but still have no signal. Then, I remember my laptop. Yes, I can email him. He will get the email on his Blackberry. For the first time in hours I start to feel a little more relaxed. I open my laptop and get into my emails, but, oh, shit, there is no bloody connection there either. What the hell is it with airports? Seeing the assistant has returned I slam the lid shut and rush over to the desk.
‘Well?’ I ask anxiously.
‘We can get you on a flight to Marseille, and from there you can get a flight to Rome,’ she announces, cheerfully, while looking at the computer screen, and I feel my spirits lift. I look at the time on my phone. Okay, I will be a bit late but at least I will get there.
‘Oh that is great, thank you so much, what gate do I go to?’
‘The flight isn’t scheduled to take off until ten o’clock, but it will get you there in plenty of time for the connecting flight to Rome.’
This cannot be happening. It is a bad dream.
‘Is that the best you can offer, ten o’clock tonight?’ I say dabbing away at my tears again.
Okay, so, I will miss dinner, but at least I will be there tonight. And even if I miss dinner at least I will be in plenty of time for the rehearsal.
‘No, madam, you misunderstand. The flight to Marseilles is tomorrow morning at ten. The onward flight to Rome is some hours later at about six in the evening, so you should arrive in Rome by about eight tomorrow evening.’
Shit, bugger and sod it. At the rate I am going I may not even make the rehearsal. I am slowly losing the will to live.
‘Are you mad? I have to be there before tomorrow night,’ I murmur. What is it with these people? I struggle to control my tears and lift my bag onto the desk where I begin emptying it until I find my bottle of Kalms. I shake out six and swallow them in one hit. Oh what the hell, I shake out two more and throw them back. Oh my God what the hell do I tell Simon? The thought of trying to explain all this over the telephone prompts me to take two more. What on earth do I tell him?
‘If you are not too drugged up, do you think you can manage to walk, or are you too wired on herbal?’
My heart sinks as I recognise the all too familiar voice. Is this guy never going to go away?
‘From here we can drive it in six hours, maybe seven at the most,’ he says, walking away. What does he mean? I jump up grab the duty-free and laptop. Six hours, that means I will certainly make it for the rehearsal.
‘Hey, wait, what do you mean?’ I call after him.
The bastard is un-bloody-believable. He does not even wait for me.
‘You aren’t the only one who needs to be in Rome. I am hiring a car, are you coming or what?’ he replies somewhat impatiently. Honestly, he is the reason I missed my flight and now he acts like he is doing me a big favour. He stops and I walk into him banging the whisky bottles against his leg.
‘Ah, you’re lethal do you know that?’ he winces.
‘Don’t we need to get our luggage?’ I ask stupidly, not even thinking to apologise.
‘Ah, how many of those tranquiliser things do you have left? Or maybe I can supply you with a plastic fork? Were there many Yves Saint Laurent blouses in your suitcase?’ I see he is mocking me again.
‘Oh God, my suitcase is still on the plane isn’t it? What stupid idiots.’ I t
wirl around in anger.
With the will to live totally lost, I slump into the nearest seat. I can’t breathe, and I certainly don’t want to remember what was in my suitcase. Worse still, I am considering travelling across the country with a total stranger. I pull out my Rescue Remedy, then think better of it and throw it back into my bag. So, what would you have done? I mean, here we are, or at least here I am, stranded at an airport, with a fiancé waiting for me in Rome, and a family dinner booked. But, everyone tells you not to travel with strange men, right? And this is one irritating stranger. I try to think what Simon would want me to do.
‘No, but thanks anyway,’ I force myself to say.
He shrugs and heads out of the airport. I watch him from the door. Oh sod it.
‘Okay, wait,’ I shout and run after him.
At last, Rome here I come… hopefully.
Chapter Four
Marc Jacob jumper
‘Okay, wait.’
I turn to see her running towards me and I very sensibly place my hand luggage protectively in front of my groin. The last thing I want is another bottle of duty-free hitting my balls. The woman is a walking disaster, certainly her thought processes shoot around like flying shrapnel. God, do I really need a whirlwind like her travelling with me?
‘Thank you, I would like the lift,’ she says breathlessly, skidding to a stop in front of me her hair flying all around her face which is streaked from crying.
It’s settled then. I suppose that will teach me to fall for a woman’s tears. I mean she doesn’t exactly induce a heart-pounding adrenaline rush that’s for sure. Having a fork put to your throat, albeit a plastic one, is a bit daunting. I mean, who does that? A psychopath that’s who, or a completely over-the-top premenstrual woman, in which case that is all I need. That, of course, would explain the gush of tears that almost drowned the poor assistant at the desk. How can a dinner in Rome be that important anyway? Okay, I should stop being so cynical. It is obviously important to her and those tears were heartfelt. If I fell for them they must have been. Funny that. Maybe it was a combination of the tears, that stupid stain on the front of her blouse and the missing earring. I certainly am pretty immune to tears most of the time, these days. God knows, Claudine had literally flooded the apartment with them last night, hiccupping all over the place and sounding a bit like a frog.
