Versace Sisters

by Cate Kendall

  'Thanks so much, it is very good of you. I really appreciate it. Can I get you a drink to say thank you?'

  Bella hesitated – she really needed to get moving – but he was so grateful, not to mention charming. 'All right then, a quick bitters, lime and soda, then I should get to the gate. We board in forty-five minutes.'

  'So you fly?' He attempted light conversation as the barman served their drinks.

  'I do,' she replied.

  'Do your arms get tired?' he asked, deadpan.

  She looked at him strangely for a second, then laughed.

  'Sorry, I make stupid jokes when I'm nervous,' he told her.

  'Are you a nervous flyer?' she asked.

  'Yes, a little,' Sam admitted.

  'Then your arms must get really tired!' She returned the gag and they relaxed into each other's company. They chatted away in the manner of new friends: comparing stories about Sera and her family, international cities, airport dramas, the latest episode of Border Security – a secret weakness they shared, they realised. Bella even opened up so much to Sam that she shared the story of her rough upbringing, making him laugh with stories about her wild brothers.

  She couldn't put her finger on it. She felt warm in this man's company, safe and relaxed. She'd never experienced that with anyone before. Usually she had a gatekeeper in her mind who monitored her every word to ensure she didn't let loose any private thoughts, but it was obviously on strike today as all sorts of opinions and anecdotes came tumbling forth.

  She suddenly realised she hadn't checked her hair or her make-up since she had walked in. Her watch remained unchecked and her posture had relaxed into a languid lean instead of her usual rigid stance.

  Just as Bella reluctantly glanced at her watch to see if it was time to go to the gate, the announcement came that the flight to Hong Kong was delayed by two hours.

  Amongst the exasperated moans of their fellow travellers, Bella and Sam found it difficult to pretend to be disappointed.

  ~ 55 ~

  When Bella and Sam left the bar to board their plane, they joked that the pilot must have finally found the keys to the 747. They said goodbye at the gate and she promised to visit him during the flight.

  Now it was back to being Bella the professional, Bella the serious. Her smile quickly switched from the natural beam she'd been shining on Sam to the pleasant, tight-lipped countenance she reserved for her first-class passengers.

  Her chignon was neat enough; Bella didn't bother checking.

  'Cabin crew, secure doors and cross-check,' the first officer announced over the PA. Asif giggled at her as they crossed paths to double-check the door.

  'Oh, put a sock in it, will you,' she said to him over her shoulder. She was well aware he was laughing at her old habit of cross-checking, triple-checking and quadruple-checking the doors were secure. She may have recently begun tackling her OCD but she was still a stickler for safety.

  'What?' he said, all wide-eyed and innocent. She poked her tongue out at him and walked up to the head of the aisle, pasting on her most winning flight attendant smile.

  She picked up a lifejacket and went through the motions of the safety procedures to the pre-recorded voice. She could do this in her sleep. Bella shuddered to think how many hundreds of times she'd performed this ritual. But she liked it. It soothed her in a strange way, to have this routine performance that was simultaneously crucial yet mind-numbingly mundane.

  It fascinated her how many passengers steadfastly ignored the safety demonstration. Perhaps they'd heard it so often they knew it by heart, she wondered as she stood there in front of them as if invisible. Or perhaps they were in denial that there was any chance of an accident. When the demonstration was over, she went up to the exit area to buckle herself into her seat.

  *

  Sam stowed his carry-on luggage in the overhead locker and sat down next to an earnest bespectacled fellow. They exchanged brief pleasantries before Sam picked up the in-flight magazine and his fellow passenger went back to madly texting on the in-flight telephone.

  After take-off, Sam's seatmate finally put the phone down and breathed out a tremendous sigh. It was so melodramatic Sam turned to him questioningly. 'Oh, sorry,' he explained. 'Steven Blakely's my name. I'm a journo with Reuters and I've just texted a story through to my bureau. It's no mean feat writing an entire article in SMS.'

  'Why didn't you do it on the ground?' Sam enquired, intrigued about the man's job.

  'It only just broke. My contact in Iraq phoned just as they were closing the doors. There was an explosion in a shopping centre in Baghdad literally minutes ago.'

  'Really?' Sam exclaimed. 'Many injured?'

  'It's too early to tell yet, but it doesn't look good. It's peak shopping time there and it's a suspected car bomb.'

  'Oh, jeez, that's terrible.'

  'It would have been terrible if I hadn't received that call. Talk about by a bee's dick. I would have landed in Hong Kong to find the story submitted by somebody else. It'd be old news by then. But now, it's on the internet as we speak.'

  'That's amazing,' Sam said. As they chatted more, he learned that Steven had worked the international circuit as a foreign correspondent for fifteen years. He didn't look the flakjacket, adventurous, devil-may-care type, but Steven explained it was just the front-of-camera telly journos who fitted that stereotype.

  The first few hours went by while they each drank a beer and chatted about world politics, carbon emissions and life in the internet age.

  *

  Apart from a chatty elderly lady, the first-class passengers were a fairly easy group to handle once the alcoholic in 2A passed out, which was a relief because the Sydney to London via Hong Kong flight could be a tiring one.

  Twenty-two hours with belligerent passengers was hell on earth. Although the layovers were generous, it often wasn't worth it. Thank God she was stopping over in Hong Kong this time. She'd arranged to meet up with Sam and pleasant thoughts distracted her for a moment from her task at hand.

  A few hours into the trip, Bella couldn't conceal a shy schoolgirl grin as she told Asif about Sam sitting in Business Class. He threatened to go and check him out, but she begged him not to.

  'Oh, come on, Bella, just a quick peek,' Asif taunted. 'I have to give my approval, you know. I'm not letting you go out with a fugly.'

  'He's not fugly,' she hissed and tried to push him back into the galley, 'and be quiet, he's just on the other side of that curtain, he'll hear you.'

  They rolled their eyes at each other as the impatient ding of the call button sounded. They peeked out of the galley and sure enough it was 3A. 'North Shore Princess's fizzy needs topping up,' Asif groaned. 'Here, you do it.' He thrust the bottle at her.

  'I'm not doing it. She's your passenger.'

  'I'll buy you a Chanel handbag when we get to Honkers if you do it.'

  'Big whoop, they're a dime a dozen.'

  'No, real one, promise,' Asif said with his hand behind his back. Bella knew he had his fingers crossed but she took the bottle anyway.

  'Chicken,' she said, as she turned to leave the galley.

  'I prefer spatchcock,' he shot back and turned to restock the refreshments trolley.

  The cabin thrummed as the plane continued across the continent. After she topped up her passenger's drink, Bella glanced around and took in her steel tube world in a slow gaze. It seemed calm enough, business as usual. Napping, sipping, TV-viewing passengers; quietly spoken flight attendants. A passenger leaving the toilet. It was like an ecosystem in a bell jar. In stasis. Nothing could change, nothing could happen, they were all just trapped there, under the guidance of the pilots, trusting, waiting for the moment they arrived back in their lives.

  Bella returned to the business class galley to catch Asif admiring himself in the stainless steel reflection of the Atlas locker. She was just about to tease him when a deafening crack rocked the cabin. The passengers shrieked as the floor beneath Asif's feet crumpled up in a steel hump. He
was flipped to one side, his head smacking hard into the metal bench, leaving him unconscious and bleeding.

  ~ 56 ~

  Gale-force winds flushed debris through the cabin. The metal wall of the toilet was smashed and one lethal piece came to rest near Sam as if it had been a throwing star wielded by a ninja. Sam looked at it two feet away and swallowed hard. The roar of wind and yelling was deafening.

  'We're being shot at! We're being shot at!' a middle-aged man two rows back screamed hysterically.

  The oxygen masks dropped down in front of each passenger. It gave them a job to do, albeit a minor one, which helped distract them momentarily.

  Sam fought past the dangle of yellow plastic and made his way back to the hysterical businessman, who was still yelling. The cabin had depressurised. He didn't have much time.

  'Hey mate, stop panicking. We're not being shot at. Put your mask on and don't say another word. We'll be fine.' The man looked up at him mid-sentence, then nodded mutely and started fiddling with his mask.

  Sam sat back in his own seat and grabbed his own mask. The oxygen was hissing reassuringly and he took three deep breaths before pulling the elastic over his head.

  Steven Blakely turned his ashen face up to Sam before he grabbed the plane telephone and started texting again.

  'What the hell are you doing?' Sam hissed from the side of his mask.

  'Texting the bureau,' Blakely replied, his voice lowered several octaves by the yellow rubber interference. 'This is an airline disaster story, you don't get bigger than that! This is a guaranteed front page by-line.'

  'What the fuck?' Sam said, 'We need to do something, we need to help!'

  Steven Blakely's thumb was a blur as it flew over the keypad. He didn't look up as he replied, 'No point in helping, what can we do? We're screwed. Must get story out before crash.'

  He put the phone back after a few more seconds. 'Well, that's it. The word's out.' Sam looked at him and a chill ran through his bones as the journalist sat back calmly and waited grimly for the inevitable.

  *

  Sera stood in her bathroom and smiled at the glass jars in either hand. She shook her head in disbelief that she'd once had so much faith in their contents. This ridiculous white cream wasn't the answer to her issues with the scar. The answer was inside her, and had been the whole time. She didn't care about it anymore. Sure it would be nice to have smooth legs, but it would also be nice to win Lotto and that wasn't about to happen either. She was sick of casting herself in the role of victim. This was the hand life had dealt her, and it was about time she accepted it. The classical music pouring from her bathroom radio soothed and enhanced her new found sense of inner calm.

  Sera moved towards the bin to add the jars to the batch that had already been discarded. Suddenly the music ground to an abrupt halt. She looked at the radio in surprise. That's not very ABC, she thought.

  An officious female announcer started to speak. 'News just in: A mid-air explosion on Air Australia Flight 96 en route to Hong Kong from Sydney has just occurred. Reuters journalist Steven Blakely is on board the aircraft and has reported that an explosion on the left-hand side of the plane has penetrated the hull. Debris and wind are inside the cabin. One flight attendant is unconscious but there are no other apparent injuries.

  'Details are limited at this stage. Air Australia CEO Kevin Janeway is about to make a statement to the press.'

  Sera screamed and dropped the jar onto the tiled floor. It exploded into shards.

  Tony came running in. 'What is it, Sera, what's wrong?'

  She looked at him dumbstruck and simply pointed to the radio. The CEO of the airline was repeating what the news reporter had just said. He also explained the type of aircraft it was and details of the passenger and crew manifest.

  'Shit, that's bad,' Tony said. 'Let's clean up this mess, and then we'll go down and turn on the television. It'll be on all the stations.'

  He knelt down with the bin and a roll of toilet paper.

  'Tony,' Sera said, her voice strained.

  'Yeah, what hon?' He said and turned up to face his stricken wife.

  'Bella and Sam are on that flight,' she whispered.

  *

  Chantrea walked down the wide airport concourse towards her gate. Two small boys were playing chasey from one side to the other and she nearly tripped over them twice.

  'Stop it, you little buggers,' she snarled at them when they came close to her a third time. She glanced at the clock on the departure screen overhead. Ten minutes: plenty of time to slap on some face, drag on her kit and play Hostess Barbie for the next cattle car full of Bali-bound punters.

  Suddenly her mobile went nuts, ten new messages coming in at once. Then it started ringing with an incoming call. She was about to answer it when her attention was grabbed by the mass of people crowded around a television at one of the gates.

  The phone continued its insistent bleating as she looked in disbelief at images of the Air Australia flight and old footage of the Qantas oxygen canister accident of a year ago flickering up on the screen. She moved closer to hear the news. Hijacked? Surely not. What on earth was going on? Which flight was it?

  AA-96. Her world tumbled in sickening lurches as her phone kept ringing. That was Bella's flight, and Sam was on it.

  *

  The crutches went flying across the room and bashed into the opposite wall as Mallory crashed to the ground in tears. 'I can't do it, I'm telling you, it's too hard!'

  'Yes, it's very frustrating,' Francesca, the physiotherapist cooed as she retrieved the crutches, 'but you're making tremendous progress. Look, you took six steps today, and the crutches only really held your weight for the last few.'

  'Six steps? That's crap. I used to do Step Reebok. I used to do fun runs. I used to wear high heels.' And with that last, most tragic, announcement she put her head down and wailed. 'I'm . . . never . . . going to wear . . . high heels . . . again,' she sobbed.

  Francesca couldn't help but roll her eyes. Mallory was a fairly easy-going patient usually but really, high heels?

  The door to the workout room slammed open. 'Hey,' Francesca scolded the receptionist who came flying into the room, 'I have a patient.'

  The girl rushed to the television and picked up the remote. 'A bomb or something's just exploded on an Air Australia plane,' she explained.

  'Oh, shit,' Mallory and Francesca said in unison and stared at the screen. The room was dense with silence as the trio watched in horror.

  'Apparently the plane was on its way to Hong Kong,' the receptionist said.

  'Oh no,' Mallory said in a little voice, 'I think my friends are on that plane.'

  *

  'You're very kind to help me, Joan. You really don't need to,' Jacqueline said.

  The two women were up to the rims of their pink soapy washing gloves in dishwater, cleaning up after the day's bakefest. They'd made forty-two chocolate cheesecakes, a dessert that was fast becoming Jacqueline's signature dish.

  'I said I'd help you and I'm a woman of my word,' Joan said. 'Well except for that "to have and to hold, to love and to cherish and forego all others" load of codswallop.'

  Jacqueline laughed at the callous disregard of the sanctity of marriage. Joan was a funny old bird. Jacqueline thoroughly enjoyed her company and couldn't have grown her business so quickly without the older woman's help. In fact she'd expanded her range to include a line of tasty little Italian pastries at which Joan seemed to be quite the dab hand.

  A repeat of All Saints babbled away in the corner of the room as the women washed the last of the baking trays.

  Suddenly Chris Bath at the Channel Seven news desk interrupted, all worry lines and shaky voice. 'Breaking news: an explosion has just occurred on board Air Australia flight 96. Reuters journalist Steven Blakely is on the flight and witnessed the blast first-hand. Terrorist activity has not been ruled out at this stage. The award-winning journalist sent a message from on board the plane.'

  A close-up of a mob
ile phone was shown on the screen. A text message was scrolling:

  Explosion abrd AA96. Crw mbr dwn. No O2, masks in use.

  A male voice-over translated the SMS in a sombre baritone, 'Explosion aboard Air Australia flight ninety-six. Crew member down. No oxygen, masks in use.'

  The newsreader continued with ultimate professionalism, her head tilted sightly to one side. 'This text message was received by the Reuters bureau in Sydney at 4.10 pm eastern standard daylight savings time and it has been confirmed by telecommunications experts as having been sent from Flight 96. This is not a hoax. At this stage we cannot confirm if Sydney Control Tower has been able to get in contact with the captain of AA96.

  'In July 2008, a Qantas jet experienced what seems to be a similar mid-air explosion . . .'

  The women grasped each other's pink, soapy, rubber-lined hands and stared at the screen in horror.

  ~ 57 ~

  Sam leapt out of his seat and tore through the curtains to the galley. Bella was crouched over Asif. She had an oxygen tank with her and was fitting a mask over his face. She looked up at Sam. They both knew words were a waste of valuable air. Sam started to feel foggy. His lungs were burning. Asif took a breath and came to. He looked at the others and put up a thumb to indicate he was okay. Bella took a breath from the tank's second regulator and passed it on to Sam, who also took a breath. The rush of oxygen cleared his brain.

  'What happened?' he asked. She shrugged as she took the mask back from him and breathed.

  'Some kind of explosion. Look up the aisle.' The cause of the constant scream of wind became obvious as Sam saw the hole ripped through the floor.

  'We have to cover it before it gets even bigger,' he shouted.

  'But how?' she asked.

  The captain's voice on the PA was competing with the chaos. 'Everyone, please remain calm. It's essential you do not panic. I have control of the aircraft. I repeat, I have control of the aircraft.' His commanding tone convinced the passengers to accept his order and as the squealing, wailing and crying began to calm somewhat, they realised the plane, although descending, was doing it in a controlled way, not in a nosedive, end-of-the-world kind of way.