Up for Love in London

by Willow. Bonaire

  Up for Love in London

  A Flight Attendant Romance

  Smashwords Edition~Copyright 2014 Willow Bonaire

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  All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, photocopy, recording, scanning or other—except for brief quotations in reviews or articles, without written consent from the author.

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  This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only and may not be re-sold or given away. If you wish to share this book, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

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  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

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  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Chapter 1 ~ Champagne Dreams

  Chapter 2 ~ Up in the Air

  Chapter 3 ~ Loving London

  Chapter 4 ~ Dinner and Dessert

  Chapter 5 ~ Afterglow

  Chapter 6 ~ Anticipation

  Chapter 7 ~ His Christmas Secret

  Chapter 8 ~ The Morning After

  Chapter 9 ~ Now or Never

  Chapter 10 ~ A New Year’s Resolution

  About the Author

  “Up for Love” Romances

  It’s late on Tuesday night and I’m checking my schedule for next month. I’ll be flying to London every weekend in December, which means I’ll be away on both Christmas and New Year’s Eve. How many flight attendants want to be away from their loved ones on those special days? Just the juniors and ones like me that are travelling solo. But I don’t care. If I’m serious about forgetting my most recent romantic misadventure, London is a good place to be. The lights and decorations will be a pleasant diversion, and might help to relieve my post-breakup blues.

  CHAPTER 1 ~Champagne Dreams

  It’s been two months since Brad and I split and the sting of it has mostly passed. I remember the times we spent together spent in Paris, the most romantic city in the world – our long walks through the Luxembourg Gardens, snuggling on the Bateaux Mouche as we cruised along the Seine or frolicking in the crisp white sheets of our five-star hotel, just a block from the Eiffel Tower. We never had layovers together in London, so I won’t have to worry about memories haunting me. And even though he’s a pilot, I doubt I’ll ever see him on that route.

  I’m a bit surprised that I’ll be working in the first class galley, or kitchen, every trip. That’s what I get for drinking while bidding for my schedule. A slip of the finger on the keyboard and you could end up in Yellowknife.

  It’s not exactly a hardship to work first class, though it does require more discipline and finesse. It might even be fun, especially on the weekends, when a more relaxed crowd is on board. I like the British upper crust as long as they’re not too crusty. And if they are, the in-charge flight attendant, or purser, aka my boss-on-board, can soothe their ruffled feathers.

  ~

  After checking my mailbox in the crew lounge, I clear security and buy a coffee airside. I reach the gate early, but the bridge is hooked up and the groomers are finished cleaning the aircraft, so I’m free to board.

  It’s a super sleek Boeing -777 or a Triple-Seven as we call it. It’s only recently been delivered, so it still has that new-plane smell. I love that everything seems sparkly and shiny. I’m afraid it won’t take long till the crowds in coach beat it into submission. First class seems to stay fresh for a lot longer. Maybe it’s the passengers, maybe it’s the materials. Nonetheless, I’m starting to feel good about being here tonight.

  The catering truck pulls up and when the driver opens the front galley door, a blast of frigid air sweeps through the aisles. I quickly press a button to warm up the coffee maker and scoot out of the way.

  Before the rest of the crew arrives, I’ve counted the meals, put the champagne on ice, brewed a pot of coffee and tossed two pilot snacks, two bottles of water and a garbage bag into the flight deck. I’m lounging on a sleeper seat when I hear, “Good God, it’s as cold as the nuts on a polar bear. Someone call Control Center and get the heat turned on.” The purser hardly catches his breath before he grabs me and plants a kiss on either cheek. “Lauren, darling, I’m thrilled to see you! Thank Christ you’re working the galley and not some cockpit queen who spends most of the flight on the captain’s lap.”

  “Richard my love, the pleasure is all mine.” I give him a big hug. “Coffee, double double?”

  “Don’t you know it, doll face.”

  Richard is my one of my favourite people to work with. We’ve been friends since before he came out of the closet eight years ago. Cover- boy-handsome with a dancer’s lean build, he flirts shamelessly with both men and women. I know it will be a fun flight. I bring his coffee and ten crew snacks and lay them out in the mid-section of first class.

  “Hello, everyone. For those who don’t know me, I’m Richard, your purser for this cycle. Our galley girl, Lauren, has made coffee, so help yourself. We’re still waiting for one more crew member but we’ll start the briefing. Anything you’d like to add Lauren?”

  “Yes, thanks. Please don’t leave any crumbs on the seats and don’t crush the pillows. You’re welcome to any leftover first class food, just wait until after our passengers have finished eating.”

  Richard examines the flight manifest and then checks his watch. “It should be a full flight. Boarding starts in 15 minutes, so let’s review our emergency procedures and tonight’s service.”

  ~

  It’s show time. Two flight attendants take boarding cards and two more help in the first class cabin, hanging coats and stowing passengers’ bags. I’m in the galley, pouring Champagne into delicate flutes when the captain and first officer breeze by into the flight deck. The F/O pops his head out, but before he can say anything, I tell him their snacks and water are on the observer seat and the trash bag is looped over his armrest. Neither one wants coffee, so I continue to fill the glasses.

  I adore the smell of Champagne almost as much as I adore drinking it. It’s a shame we can’t indulge in a small tipple or two at work, just to take the edge off, but that’s strictly taboo. In fact, we can’t even be perceived as drinking on duty or in uniform at any time. The one luxury I have is using the leftover bubbly to wash my hands at the end of the flight. If it’s going to get dumped down the drain, it may as well take my germs with it.

  A head of foam spills over the glass and onto the counter. I dip my finger and dab a few drops behind my ears. I think it makes me smell expensive.

  “Did you just put your finger in my Champagne?”

  It’s definitely a man’s voice, with an educated British accent. You should be so lucky. And then I wheel around and look up at a passenger who could knock Richard off the front of GQ Magazine.

  I’m mesmerized by his intense baby blues but I can’t read his attitude, so I smile sweetly. “Of course not, the glass overflowed.”

  His silk tie is so perfectly matched to his eyes that I wonder who chose it - wife or girlfriend. Hopefully not boyfriend. His suit is definitely designer and his cologne, all citrus and leather, smells more costly than the Champagne I just spilled. He leans in close enough so his beautiful lips almost touch my ear. “That’s a shame.”

  I feel my face flush but I manage a quick retort. “What’s a shame? The finger-free champagne or the mess on the counter?”

  “Both, but espec
ially the first one.” He reaches behind me, pressing his broad chest against my shoulder and picks up the suspect flute. “Cheers,” he says, and shows off a row of perfect white teeth before sipping. He then returns to the cabin.

  Wow. I can’t tell if that was seduction or sexual harassment, but my heart is fluttering and I’m getting a warm tingle low in my belly. My hands quiver as I arrange the glasses on a silver tray. I wonder if he’s alone and mentally kick myself for not checking out his left hand.

  I’m peeking around the galley curtain, planning a pre-flight visit with Mr. Handsome when the pilots call to discuss their crew meals. “Short taxi,” the F/O advises me and I relay his message to the rest of the crew. By the time I’m free again, the first class menus and amenities have been handed out, the cabin doors are closed and Richard has started his announcements.

  While he’s speaking, he pulls a boarding stub out of his pocket and winks at me. 3C - Mr. Charles Sterling. I tuck it into a glass of swizzle sticks, quickly apply a touch of lipstick and saunter into the cabin.

  It appears that Mr. Sterling is travelling alone, though it’s hard to tell from the way the first class sleeper pods are arranged. No one sits side-by-side. If there is a Mrs. Sterling, she’s not on this flight. If there is, she has damn fine taste in men.

  Mr. Sterling, or Charles as I’m allowed to call him, now that we’ve had physical contact, is perusing the dinner menu. When Richard asks passengers to direct their attention to the front of their cabin, our eyes meet briefly. I feel another flush coming on. If you look up “drop-dead gorgeous,” you’ll probably find his picture. I like a man with sculpted cheek bones and dark, thick, well-cut hair. No grey yet, but I’m sure he’ll look even more delicious when that happens in about 10 years or so. He reminds me of a young Sean Connery, from the first James Bond movies, the 1960s ones I’ve seen on late night TV.

  I usually resent standing at the front of the cabin during the safety demonstration. After all, it’s on video, so my presence seems redundant. Tonight, however, I’m glad for the opportunity. It might take my mind off the inevitable question period to come, when colleagues ask about my romance with Brad.

  I swore I’d never date anyone in our airline, especially a pilot. It’s not really a prejudice, it’s just my way of avoiding too many queries about my personal life. Still, when Brad swept me off my feet in Paris, literally, as there was a huge puddle of water on the sidewalk, I couldn’t resist. Apparently, none of his other conquests could resist him either.

  I must have been daydreaming, for the next thing I hear is the F/O’s announcement, “Cabin crew prepare for take-off.”

  I flip down the jump seat at the forward door beside Richard and buckle myself in. I have a clear view to the aft cabin. As the Triple-Seven rolls down the runway, I plant my feet on the floor and lean into the headrest. It’s the required safety position, but also a way for me to enjoy the thrill as the plane collects speed and lifts off the ground.

  I love flying. Some folks think of flight attendants as glorified waitresses, and that’s true to a point. But being in Boston one minute and California, Europe or South America a few hours later never gets old. And this position does require responsibility. Some passengers are terrified of flying, or they’re traveling with kids and need extra help. There’s always something I can do. And the jerks—and there are plenty of them—can’t just behave badly and walk away, as they do in restaurants. On a plane, bad behavior can get you arrested. I’ve reminded people of that a few times.

  I close my eyes briefly, mentally rehearsing the emergency drill. When I reopen them, I see Charles leaning on his elbow, head angled to one side. I think he’s trying to look up my skirt. He smiles and I look away. This could be trouble.

  CHAPTER 2 ~ Up in the Air

  We haven’t even reached cruising altitude and I’m already busy. It’s too steep to pull out any trolleys, so I dig through the first class coatroom and unearth a pile of British newspapers and magazines. Due to the short taxi, there wasn’t time to distribute them on the ground. It’s a good opportunity for me to interact with my passengers.

  I position the newspapers on one arm and the magazines on the other and stroll into the cabin. Thank God Charles is in the third row or I might run out of papers before I reach his seat.

  “Would you care for a newspaper, Mr. Sterling?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “How about a magazine?” I crouch slightly so Hello magazine is under his nose and he looks up, a smile curling at the edges of his sensuous lips.

  “No, thank you.”

  He pushes his sleeve back to glance at his watch and I do too. Cartier. Nice. No wedding band. Nicer. “What time are you serving dinner?”

  “In 45 minutes or so. We do have a quick cold plate option if you’d prefer to dine earlier.”

  “No, I’ll wait for the …” and he glances at the menu, “steak.”

  “Certainly,” I reply. I thought a bit more rapport might be forthcoming but Charles is now more reserved. Maybe he only flirts in private. I finish distributing newspapers and slip a copy of British House and Garden into my jump seat before changing into fatigue shoes.

  As Richard takes meal orders, David starts the bar service. I’m glad he’s asked another gay flight attendant to work with us, rather than some hot, younger female flight attendant. Can’t believe I thought that. What am I, ancient at thirty-three? David is sweet and immensely competent though I hope Richard doesn’t try to distract him with a little in-flight flirtation.

  We’re offering three entrée choices tonight - steak, chicken and pasta. It’s usually a variation on that same theme, with the sauces and vegetables changed up for variety. Most passengers don’t expect a Cordon Bleu experience at 42,000 feet, but what we lack in substance, we make up in style.

  I’m into the flow of the service now, setting up trolleys and calculating cooking times. “David, the pilots’ meals will be ready in five minutes. Can you ask them if they want to eat together and also, what they want to drink? Thanks sweetie.”

  I’ve almost forgotten about my sad romantic life when the flight deck door opens. The captain, Jim, is best buddies with my ex. As he slams the door behind him, Charles sweeps the curtain aside and they both step into my galley.

  “Lauren, sorry to hear about you and Brad splitting.” Trust Jim to spell the beans in public.

  “Thanks, Jim. It was mutual.” If you could call a roving eye and the normal response of a self-respecting woman “mutual.” I bow my head in a gesture of heartache, but not before glancing at Charles. He’s eying me intently.

  Jim grabs the washroom door handle and looks at Charles, “I’ll be right out.”

  “Not at all, I have a question about the steak.”

  Jim continues. “Come for a visit after the service. Melissa said you were really upset.” He catches my eye contact with Charles. “Well, maybe not that upset.” And he enters the lav.

  “You have a question about the main course, Mr. Sterling? Unfortunately, I can’t cook the steak to your liking. We only reheat the casseroles onboard.”

  “I know. That’s the problem with flying on commercial aircraft.”

  He may be a hunk but he’s starting to appear high maintenance. Still, this is my job. I put on my best smile and try to be charming and professional. “If you prefer your steak rarer or more well-done, I could see if…”

  He cuts me off. “As rare as possible. And thank you, it’s not very often crew members are so obliging.”

  I’m not so obliging; I want him out of the galley before Jim returns to the flight deck. But his comment makes me smile. So many passengers, first class and otherwise, don’t even notice we exist. It’s no wonder we like to spend time partying and commiserating with our airline colleagues.

  Jim exits the bathroom just as the plane starts to jiggle, so he heads straight for the flight deck. “Let’s talk later,” he says, so I’ve missed my opportunity for an update on Brad. But what could Jim tell
me anyway? That Brad misses me? That he realizes he made a mistake? Or that he was prowling all over Paris with Jennifer on his arm. I’m sensing that my hurt is turning into anger. While I’m not sure if that’s a good thing, it’s better than the pain I felt before.

  Thankfully the minor bumps don’t erupt into full-blown turbulence. The seat belt sign stays off for now and the service is in full swing. Hot towels follow one round of cocktails and I send David out to collect them while Richard starts with table linen. I remove Charles’ steak from the oven, set the temperature for 325 degrees and then turn the timer on for 20 minutes. I’ll pop his casserole in later. Hopefully the meat will stay rare.

  It’s like a ballet in the first class cabin. Richard and David are working in tandem, handing out trays, offering bread, pouring wine. In the economy section, passengers are probably finishing their main course but up here, the hot casseroles won’t be ready for another five minutes. I’ve just finished setting up the dessert trolley when the plane starts to sway.

  I’m sorry for people who are frightened by turbulence. Even with all the safety drills we perform, I never worry about crashing. A pilot once told me the most dangerous part of the journey was the drive to the airport. Planes are my comfort zone. I feel safer here than on the ground.

  China cups and plates rattle and coffee pots clatter as a loud “ping” heralds the seat belt sign. Jim’s announcement is short and reassuring. “Ladies and gentleman, we’re passing through a pocket of rough air. It shouldn’t last long but I’ve turned the seat belt sign on as a precaution. I hope you’re enjoying the excellent service offered by our flight attendants tonight.”

  The bumps subside as quickly as they began, so we opt to continue. I pull the hot casseroles from the oven and sort them by seat and row number – 1A, 1B etc. to make it easier for Richard to serve.

  I touch Charles’ foil-covered steak. It feels hot on top but may not be heated all the way through. Well, he did want it rare. The food is all pre-cooked, so he’s not likely to die from anything, at least not on this flight. I decide to take it to him myself.