Losing Gemma

by Katy Gardner

  “IF you wait here with the gear, I’ll go and ask.”

  Steve put down his bag and looked enquiringly into my face.

  “What do you think?”

  He lingered awkwardly on the blue airport carpet, on the verge of leaving, not sure how to proceed. He was doing his best to be patient with me, but his hands had rolled into fists and a furrow of perplexity had appeared between his eyebrows.

  “Whatever.”

  “It’ll be just some stupid air-traffic thing . . .”

  He stood for a moment more, waiting for some sign of encouragement, but I tutted and looked down at my feet. I know I should have been more responsive but his hovering attendance was making me feel worse.

  “Shall I get you a coffee?”

  “No. I’m fine. Just go and find out what’s happening and stop going on about it.”

  “I’m just trying to help . . .”

  “Well don’t.”

  Tossing my head, I peered across the Departures lounge at the nearest TV screen. Nothing had changed since I’d last looked: while its peers on either side flashed braggingly that they were boarding, about to depart, our flight, BA307, was still delayed. I sighed and looked back to the row of seats beside me, already regretting the terseness of my voice.

  “Steve?”

  But he had gone. I scanned the crowds for a moment, my eyes drawn as effortlessly to his departing back as to my own name in a telephone directory. He weaved slowly across the milling airport: a tall, slightly stooped young man with a fleecy top and jeans, walking hesitantly toward the check-in desk. Although only just thirty he’d reached that disconcerting male moment when muscle tone is no longer maintained simply by getting out of bed. The gradually accumulating years were beginning to weigh down on his frame, I now noticed; his shoulders seemed more hunched, his gait a little less assured. His hair was thinning at the back, too. In an effort to stay one jump ahead he’d been cutting this increasingly short, the floppy locks which he had sported in the late eighties long swept away from the barber’s floor. Five years ago, hair this suede short would have made him a Stevenage skinhead. Now he looked like just another not yet middle-aged, middle-class young man, with his token earring and not yet middle-aged spread, enquiring politely at the British Airways desk the fate of our flight.

  I kicked off my shoes, pulled my feet up on the seat, and rested my chin on my knees. I should stop being such a bitch, I thought unhappily; he didn’t deserve to be treated like this. Clasping my arms around my legs I pinched nervously at my calves. Unlike Steve, and his encroaching flab, I’ve grown even skinnier in recent years, not out of a desire to be thin but a chronic inability to eat. I cut my hair short too, soon after returning from India. The curls no longer seemed to match the way I felt; they were too extravagant, too bouncy for who I had become. Now, when I bother to look into a mirror a face I no longer own stares back: the eyes are too large, the features too gaunt, and the expression too blank for the girl I used to be.

  I closed my eyes. I hadn’t slept well the night before, perhaps in anticipation of the journey ahead, and had ended up lying on the sofa-bed in the small front room of our flat in an effort to escape Steve’s snoring. In the end I’d taken two of my yellow eggs, only to wake clogged and nauseous with chemicals a few hours later. Now, as the sound of the PA system and piped Vivaldi merged into one monotonous background drone, I began to doze.

  “TECHNICAL problems. They’re trying to fix them. Have a cappuccino.”

  I opened my eyes to find Steve standing in front of me, a “Traveler’s Fare” bag dangling from his fingers.

  “Thanks.”

  Pulling a polystyrene cup from the bag I lifted its lid and licked at the bitter, chocolate-flecked froth.

  “You’ve been gone for ages.”

  “I was looking around the shops.”

  “And?”

  He tossed a copy of Marie Claire on my lap. “Keep your mind off things.”

  I glanced at him dully. “Great.”

  “Try not to sound so enthusiastic.”

  The magazine slid slowly from my lap onto the floor.

  “I’ll read it on the plane.”

  We were quiet for a while, sipping at our coffee and gazing uninterestedly around. Once I’d have amused myself by matching my fellow passengers with the destinations on the screen or batting my eyelids at the least attractive men, just to see their reaction. But now I stared listlessly at the assorted backpackers and businessmen and distracted families who milled around the Departures lounge. I cannot say exactly when it started, but in recent months I have been falling into an increasingly zombie-like stupor, a thick fog of indeterminacy in which the only thing I’m certain of is how much I dislike myself.

  “So.”

  I shifted my position, stretching out my legs and placing the empty cup which I’d been grasping between my knees onto the floor. Steve was reading the Marie Claire. He looked up, smiling at me mildly.

  “So.”

  “You still think this is a good idea?”

  “Yes, I still think it’s a good idea.”

  “It’s too far.”

  “It’ll only take ten hours. Then we’ll be there.”

  I was silent for a while, staring ahead and chewing my lip. All I really wanted to do was sleep. Next to me, Steve chuckled and turned the page.

  “I don’t see why we have to go anywhere.”

  “Essie . . .” He glanced up in exasperation. “We’ve had this conversation a hundred times.”

  “Meaning what? That you’re right and I’m wrong?”

  “No, just that what we both really need to do right now is go to Thailand, just like we planned.”

  I stared at his calm, reasonable face. He was always so rational, I thought with a jab of irritation, so forbearing.

  “Well, I’ve changed my mind.”

  “It’s too late for that.”

  “No, it’s not. I’ll tell them at the check-in that I’m not going, then they’ll have to get my bags back.”

  He turned back to the magazine, his face implacable. “The break will do you good.”

  “How do you know what will and won’t do me good?”

  “I’m guessing. I’m allowed to do that, aren’t I?”

  “I just . . .”

  I stopped, looking disgruntledly at my feet. Steve took another sip of his cold coffee and, licking the tip of his index finger, turned a page, a habit which I found irrationally infuriating. If a minute or so passed without further eruptions he would change the subject, pretending nothing had happened, just as he always did. It’s his way of “dealing” with me. After a while he put out his hand and laid it on my knee.

  “It says in here that the average Marie Claire reader has sex three times a week and fakes an orgasm fifteen percent of the time.”

  “Ah.”

  I couldn’t even try to be interested. I folded my arms and glanced away from him, toward the flickering screens.

  “Can’t you try to lighten up a little?”

  “Not really, no.”

  “It’s going to be fine.”

  “That’s what you always say.”

  “Well, it is. We’ve got this far, haven’t we?”

  I shook my head bitterly. “I can’t keep just walking out of jobs.”

  “They were arseholes, you said so yourself. And you can’t spend your whole life answering phones.”

  “So what am I going to spend my whole life doing?”

  “Look, let’s stop going over and over it. It’s time to move on. What you need is a nice holiday and then . . .”

  I could suddenly bear it no longer. Snatching my hand away, I jumped up.

  “Stop talking to me as if I’m mentally retarded! I’m not one of your care in the community cases!”

  “For God’s sake . . .”

  “Why can’t you stop pretending everything’s normal?”

  I’d been trying to keep my voice quiet, but it kept slipping out of my contro
l and now I was shouting. A few seats down a middle-aged couple glanced covertly in our direction.

  “Just calm down . . .”

  “I don’t want to calm down!”

  “It doesn’t have to be like this, you know . . .”

  “Yes, it does!”

  “Christ, you’re impossible . . .”

  “I know! That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you for years!”

  Opposite, a man looked up from his book. Catching his curious gaze, I glared at him and stuck out my tongue. The man looked quickly away.

  “Jesus!” muttered Steve. “Why do you have to make such a scene about everything?”

  “I’m not making a scene!”

  I groped under my seat for my bag, retrieved it, then stood up.

  “Where are you going?”

  “I don’t bloody know.”

  Flinging the bag over my shoulder. I stomped quickly out of the waiting area toward the duty-free. I knew I was behaving like a brat, but increasingly I could no longer control my moods: they descended like thick, rain-filled clouds and soaked anyone caught in the vicinity with my vitriol. Steve should just get it over and finish with me, I thought glumly. He was just prolonging the agony.

  I passed the shelves of bottles and perfumes and Armani specs, and began to calm down. As always, Steve was right: I should get a grip, try to think positive. I tried on a hat and bought some suntan lotion and aspirins in the chemist’s. It was like he said. We should go on holiday, relax and enjoy ourselves, then start life at home afresh. Wasn’t that what normal people did? I passed the Disney Store, wandered around Next, and finally glanced up at the departures screen. Two hours later than its advertised time, Flight BA307 had made it to the top of the list and now was urgently flashing its final call.

  STEVE was in the newsagent’s, standing disconsolately in front of a stack of bestsellers.

  “Hello, handsome.”

  He didn’t even twitch.

  “Steve?”

  I stepped closer to him, putting my hand on his arm.

  “They’re boarding the flight. It’s the last call.”

  “Right.”

  Very slowly, he reached out and picked up a book, turning it over and pretending to study the blurb on the back.

  “Friends?”

  No answer.

  “Look, I’m sorry. I was completely out of order.”

  He flicked the book over and gazed at the cover. It’s a game we’ve played countless times, our little dance: me sorrowful and repentent, him martyred and eventually forgiving.

  “I’m a total bitch, I know, but I’m going to change.”

  Still he didn’t reply. I reached out and grabbed his hand. “At least say something! I can’t stand it when you go all silent like this.”

  He turned and stared steadily at me. “I don’t think I can do this for much longer, Esther.”

  “It’s going to get better, I promise.”

  I squeezed his hand, willing him to respond.

  “Please, Steve, let’s go and get that flight.”

  He sighed, closed his eyes for a brief second, and then suddenly opened them wide as if willing the world to be transformed.

  “Okay then,” he said. “You’re on.”

  24

  HALF an hour later we boarded the plane, squeezing into our seats and leafing through the in-flight magazine as the safety video played unobserved on the aircraft screens.

  “Look, we’re going to be flying right over India.”

  I pushed the map of flightpaths at Steve. He squeezed my hand: calm and patient, the way he liked to be.

  “It’ll be dark.”

  “So what?”

  After another long wait the chocks were taken away and the wheels rolled forward. We stood in line for ten minutes more, then suddenly the engines roared and the plane accelerated down the runway. I stared through my small square of Perspex at the rushing tarmac and landing lights. As the aircraft finally lifted and the ground gave way to the night sky I reached for the warmth of Steve’s hands, entwining my fingers in his, and resting my head against his shoulder.

  The plane climbed steeply over London, leveling out as it turned toward the Channel. After a few minutes the seat belt sign was switched off and people began to stretch and open their papers and look around. A little while later the stewardesses served us gin and tonic in plastic beakers, which I gulped quickly down, and a hot meal which I didn’t touch. When Steve went to the toilet, I swallowed another two of my yellow eggs, then stored the plastic cutlery, bread rolls, processed cheese, and perfumed napkins in my bag, my backpacker’s habits dying hard. A little later we were handed earplugs, and the cabin lights dimmed. On the screen ahead, the opening credits of a Whoopi Goldberg film rolled. I closed my eyes.

  EVENTUALLY the screen flickered soundlessly as its audience slept, their bodies flung awkwardly across their seats, their heads lolling uncomfortably on the armrests. I dozed, then woke, then dozed again, the hum of the engines lulling me into uneasy dreams as regularly as the snap of overhead lockers awoke me. The skies were choppy now, the plane rising and rolling like a ship on high seas.

  “Since we are now entering an area of turbulence, please return to your seats and fasten your safety belts.”

  I’d thought he was asleep, but from out of the darkness Steve’s hand squeezed my knee.

  “It’s okay, it’s normal.”

  I leaned across and pecked him on the cheek, the sensation of his skin against mine so familiar that I hardly noticed it.

  “I’m fine, Steve, honestly.”

  “Not scared?”

  “Not scared at all.”

  More hours passed. The seat belt sign was finally switched off and the aircraft cruised toward the dawn. When I glanced at my watch I saw that we had been in the air for over seven hours. In Britain, it was still the deepest, darkest part of the night, but we were racing eastward, jumping time zones as we crossed the Asian skies. Peeking under the plastic shutters I saw that a pink line had appeared above the clouds. Many thousands of feet below were fields and villages and towns connected by fragile networks of rivers and roads. In a short while we would be even further east and I would finally glimpse the sun, the people below stumbling from their beds to light their fires and say their prayers.

  I studied my watch once more. By now we must be over India, I kept thinking. Gazing down at the clouds, I searched fruitlessly for clues. Somewhere, all those thousands of feet below, my life had come apart.

  “Gemma,” I whispered, the name I had not spoken out loud for so many years coming thick and unformed to my lips. “What in God’s name happened to you?”

  There, I’d said it. I blinked, shaking my head in an effort to loosen the memory of Gemma’s pale face staring back accusingly at me from her bed. After all the time we’d been friends—a whole childhood shared together—it is this alone that sticks in my mind. There has to be more to remember, yet as I try to recall all the other times the image doggedly returns, the one fading and distorted photo I retain: Gemma, sick and angry, and me, about to walk out. Unable to bear it any longer I squeezed my eyes tightly shut.

  “It should have been me,” I was thinking, but the words refused to come.

  It was then that it happened. Suddenly, from a foot or so below my window there was a loud bang, a sighing, puttering noise from somewhere deep beneath us, and then a second, even louder explosion. The jumbo jolted violently to one side, juddering uncontrollably as locker doors swung open and bags were tossed into the aisles.

  I started, looking around in surprise. It had sounded like a small bomb buried deep within the underbelly of the plane. All around me passengers were rousing, sitting up, and looking around in alarm; a few people cried out, a murmur of high-pitched, querulous fear rolling down the aisles like a breaking wave.

  “What the hell was that?”

  Steve, too, had opened his eyes and was leaning over me in an attempt to peer out of the window. From the rear of t
he plane the blasé stewardess who had handed us our tin-foiled dinner was running toward the cockpit, her British Airways hat askew.

  “What’s going on?” a passenger yelled as she passed. She hurried on, ignoring him: her face not calm and professional and reassuring, but gray with terror.

  “I don’t know . . .” I whispered.

  “It was like we were hit by something!”

  Steve was gripping my hand so tightly that it hurt. Behind me, I could hear a woman screeching: “Jesus God, we’re on fire!”

  I turned, studying Steve’s features with interest. His normally smooth forehead was wrinkled with anxiety, his eyes distraught. All around us people were standing up, craning their necks to see what was happening. Somewhere to my right one of the people who had shouted out in shock at the initial explosion was sobbing gently; closer to the front I could see a middle-aged woman with her head between her knees. Mostly, however, there was silence, the plane cast into white-knuckled, breath-holding terror.

  I turned back to the window in interest. From the engine flames were spurting into the freezing, dawn-lit air. They were like cartoon flames, I thought blankly, a parody of fire, dancing as orange and bright as a child’s drawing. For a moment I gazed at them, unable to speak. I should have been in a state of panic, gripping at the armrests, crying or muttering my prayers like the other passengers, but all I can honestly say that I felt was relief. It was like watching a film, I remember thinking dispassionately, one that I didn’t much care how it ended. After all, this was what should have happened to me all those years ago. It was what I deserved.

  “Look,” I said lightly. “We’re on fire.”

  As I spoke the aircraft turned, the wing above the stricken engine tipping in the direction of the rising sun, which had instantaneously burst from its silver ledge of cloud. Suddenly the plane was filled with light, the rays splashing through the windows and across the seats. We were moving in an arc, for now the sun was coming through the windows on the other side, too. My gaze instinctively following the light, I turned, and shielding my eyes with my hand, gazed across the aisle to the front of the plane.