‘I’m a huge fan of your show,’ Elaine gushes and practically breaks Adam’s hand she’s shaking it so vigorously. She nearly takes my left eye out as she does so. Hasn’t she any pride at all?
‘I’m just wondering can I give you my card?’ she continues, unabashed. ‘I’ve a little shop in town . . .’
She whips a business card from her Burberry handbag and places it on the table. ‘I’d love you to pop in and pick yourself out a little pressie of your choice. I’m just branching into menswear and we’re very exclusive. Just a few hand chosen garments. Anyway, as I said, I know you’re probably very busy but we’re having a little party before Christmas to celebrate the introduction of our menswear collection.’
‘Oh are you?’ I interrupt. ‘Brilliant! I haven’t got my invitation yet but I’m sure it’s in the post.’
‘I was going to give yours to Tim to pass on to you,’ she says coolly.
‘Oh.’
Oh!
‘Yes, well I’d better get back to my colleague.’ Elaine says swiftly.
‘Of course,’ I agree.
Colleague indeed.
‘Lovely to meet you, Adam,’ she says and has the audacity to give him a kiss as if she knows him. The bloody cheek! How dare she embrace my date!
‘Who was that?’ Adam looks fairly amused as she totters back to her table.
‘Oh she’s just someone I vaguely know.’
I certainly don’t want to talk about her. Elaine is not allowed to ruin my perfect date. I refuse to let her do that even if she is my on/off boyfriend’s older sister. I’m wondering when she’ll tell Tim, and I’m not sure how on earth I think I’m going to explain our little rendezvous but I’ll worry about that later. I knock back my wine and Adam immediately refills my glass. I know I should stop drinking now.
But I don’t.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Jesus. How did my alarm not go off? I was sure I’d set it last night. How could I have forgotten? Yikes! All I know now is that my dad is yelling at me that the taxi is waiting outside to take me to the airport. I’m not dressed; I’ve nothing packed and am hungover as hell. Talk about a bloody nightmare! At least my shirt is ironed though. Phew! I ask Dad to tell the taxi man to give me ten minutes as I scramble out of bed like a lunatic throwing God knows what into my case. I pull back my hair into an unflattering bun and slap some foundation onto my face. My contact lenses are forced into my slightly bloodshot eyes and I pull on a pair of brown, unflattering tights. In less than ten minutes I’m sitting in the taxi apologising profusely for the delay, and terrified that fumes of alcohol are emitting from all my pores.
‘No worries,’ says the taxi driver, to my surprise. I’m lucky. I’ve got a nice one this morning. Normally they go mad when you’re not standing at the door waiting patiently. I’m parched now, my mouth feels like sandpaper. I’m wondering how Adam is feeling. He’s probably fine. Men can drink so much more than women. Isn’t life so unfair?
Eventually I arrive at the airport. The first thing I do is go to the Ladies to check my appearance. It’s not a pretty sight. I look like a drag queen. I get out a tissue and wipe half the chocolate-coloured muck off my face. I apply some bright red lipstick and some dodgy electric-blue eye shadow. There, already I’m beginning to look more alive. Then I head up to the cabin crew restroom and check the roster to see who’s flying with me today. My heart sinks. The cabin manager today is a thundering bitch called Clarissa Snakely. I seriously dislike that old witch. She’s been flying for about a hundred years and hates anybody young and pretty. She looks fine from the back as she’s slim and has dyed jet-black hair, which is always immaculate but Christ, when she turns around, she’d give the most hardened criminal a fright.
Snakely is a woman with a fondness for writing damning reports about new girls. She’s always trying to get young recruits fired. Luckily though, she writes so many vicious reports that none of them are ever taken seriously. Nonetheless, I do not fancy flying all the way to Boston with her. Snakely, of course, being a cabin manager, will fly first class with another senior cabin crew member. Some poor unlucky sod will have to work with the pair of them. And I just hope to God it’s not me. There’s only one thing worse than flying with Snakely, and that’s flying with her when you have a hangover.
I go down to the briefing room. I’m last in. I say hello and quietly take my seat. I hate this bit. The whole point of a briefing is that you are informed by the cabin manager on the number of passengers flying. And if there are any special requests to look out for, like special meals, or VIPs or wheelchair passengers or bereaved passengers. That’s fine. We all jot down the details meticulously in our little notebooks. Then the cabin manager barks out a few random safety questions. Obviously safety on board is a huge issue – we’re not paid just to look pretty you know. And all of us know the drill backwards. But when Snakely starts firing out the questions, it’s terrifying. Like being back in school with a bullying teacher. She fires a safety question in my direction. Luckily I’m able to answer immediately but I can’t wait for our rigorous drilling to be over with.
Then comes the horrible part. Snakely is looking for a volunteer for the number two position. Now, I normally volunteer to do it because I love working in first class. But today I definitely don’t want to do it. I couldn’t bear to work a long flight to Boston with that piece of poison so I lower my head and stare at the ground. It works. She asks a fairly new recruit to work up with her so she can train her in. The young girl looks so devastated I feel sorry for her. But I’m still really glad it’s not me in her place.
We then head out into the mini bus, which will take us to the aircraft. It’s parked next to another airbus, which will be leaving for New York shortly. I cannot believe Adam is going to be on it. I also cannot believe I’m going to be in America tonight. Without him.
Now, I know you’re probably wondering what happened between Adam and myself in the end so I’m not going to annoy you by saying nothing. A lady doesn’t usually tell but you’re different. I feel I owe it to you. Just don’t tell anyone else.
We ended up in Lillies of all places. We didn’t intend to go of course, but once our meal was paid for and we were hanging out on the street doing nothing, we decided to go to the nightclub. Just for one. Yeah. Famous last words.
We were whisked up to the VVIP lounge where somebody was playing on the piano and several people ventured over to say hello to Adam. Now, if you remember, Adam had previously said he didn’t like clubs. But you could have fooled me. He seemed as happy as Larry with this set-up and lapped up the attention bestowed on him. He introduced me to a few people who showed a vague interest. But once they realised I wasn’t famous in my own right, their attention waned and I ended up being virtually ignored. Not that I minded too much. I was with Adam. He could have brought anyone along as his date but he chose me and that was all that mattered. I happily sipped my wine (don’t tell me you’re counting because I’d certainly I’d certainly lost track) and when he kissed me I didn’t resist. What I did do though, was resist his invitation back to his hotel room afterwards. I may have been drunk, but I wasn’t that hammered. And I am after all, a girl with principles.
To be honest, when I sat in the taxi earlier on, I was congratulating myself on not succumbing. I mean, Adam is fairly irresistible. But Debbie once gave me this great piece of advice. She said ‘If you like him, sleep with him but if you really like him, don’t’. It’s the best advice anyone has ever given to me and I follow it religiously. Even after a few drinks, I might be capable of forgetting my own name, but I always remember not to hop into anyone’s bed.
But to be fair Adam didn’t pressurise me and called a taxi when the club shut. He also accompanied me home in the taxi just to make sure I was safe. Of course I snogged him passionately in the back seat all the way home but that was as far as things got. Sorry!
I get on board the aircraft and after a quick security check, I start counting the passenger trays down th
e back. My head is throbbing. Hopefully our passengers today will be considerate and not let their kids scream too much. My pet hate is very loud, very little people.
The flight is practically full, which is a bit of a pain really. Because, as usual, passengers are arriving on board who are not sitting together even though they want to be. The reason for this is because of course they checked in late. Now, they expect us to inconvenience other passengers on their behalf.
‘The girl at the desk said you lot would sort us out,’ one angry-looking man tells us. He is not sitting with his wife and is making a flipping song and dance about it. Funnily enough, the wife doesn’t look too upset about being separated from him for the next few hours. I can’t say I blame her. If I were married to this guy I wouldn’t want to sit beside him either.
‘The girl at the desk said . . .’ The man begins again. ‘She said you’d look after us.’
‘The girl at the desk couldn’t have said that, I’m sure,’ I say firmly but politely. I know he’s lying. Passengers love to blame the check-in staff for everything.
‘Listen, I can’t ask a passenger to move just to facilitate yourself and your wife but you are more than welcome to ask them yourself,’ I say.
The man throws his eyes to the ceiling and mutters something about never flying our airline again. I’m tempted to ask for that in writing. He storms off as a very large woman approaches me looking for an extended seat belt.
Okay. We’re all seated now and ready for takeoff. My crew seat is facing two men with very long legs. They specifically asked for seats at the over wing exits in order to stretch their limbs. But now, they look rather uncomfortably at the ground, determined not to make eye contact. Oh well, I don’t mind. I’m kind of glad not to get roped into another conversation about flying. Some passengers insist on asking all kinds of questions like ‘How long are you staying in Boston?’ ‘When do you get back?’ ‘What routes do you normally do?’ ‘Do you like your job?’ etc., etc. I know they’re probably just being polite, but it becomes irritating. I mean, could you imagine walking into a bank and asking the bank teller if she likes her job and how many hours she normally works? Honestly, it’s just ridiculous sometimes.
We take off and I see the man’s face in front of me turn a distinct shade of green. I’m a bit nervous. Hopefully he’s not going to be sick on my brand new shoes. It’s happened before. Believe me, it’s no laughing matter.
I see his hand grasp the armrest tightly. His knuckles are snow white. He’s obviously terrified. You’d be amazed at the number of grown men who dread flying. It’s a fear of not being in control apparently.
As the plane thunders down the runway I try to make eye contact with the terrified looking man. In fact I’m staring so hard, I’m convinced the other passengers will think I fancy him. Eventually he looks up, and I wink at him, mouthing ‘It’s okay’.
He visibly relaxes. He obviously feels reassured. Often passengers think that if we, the crew, aren’t afraid, then we’re all going to be safe. They scrutinise our faces for signs of terror. Especially during heavy turbulence. Therefore, even if the plane is rocking, and we fall on the ground, clinging to the nearest armrest, we still have to make sure we look completely relaxed.
Anyway I’ve done my good deed for today. The man looks better already. I notice the colour in his face is back.
As soon as the seat belt sign goes off, half the passengers stand up to go to the toilet. I head down to the back of the cabin to set up the bar. As soon as I’m finished I push the cart out into the aisle. Now, this is where the fun begins.
‘Would you like something from the bar?’ I ask the first woman. She’s American although she probably claims she’s Irish. Most do.
‘I’ll have a tea.’
‘We’ll be serving tea and coffee after the meal.’
‘I’ll have a coffee so. Decaf.’
‘I’m afraid I’m not serving tea or coffee just yet’.
Patience, Lord, just give me some patience.
‘Are you serving wine?’
‘I am indeed.’
‘I’ll have a red wine with ice,’ she says.
I pour her a glass of red and add some ice cubes. Don’t ask. You get all kinds of mad requests in this job.
Next passenger.
‘I wanna cranberry juice.’
‘I’m afraid I don’t have cranberry juice,’ I explain, and she looks at me scornfully. As if it’s my fault.
‘You don’t? What kind of an airline is this?’
‘I have apple juice, orange juice or tomato juice,’ I offer helpfully.
‘I’ll have a Chardonnay,’ she sighs. ‘Gimme two.’
The woman doesn’t thank me but nevertheless I say ‘You’re welcome’. Just to annoy her. She doesn’t notice though. She’s wearing headphones and is watching the screen ahead.
The bar service takes forever but that doesn’t matter. We’ve nearly another six hours to kill anyway.
We stack up the meal trays and then drag the heavy double carts into the aisle.
The choice today is chicken or lamb.
‘I’ll have the beef,’ says the woman who was looking for the tea earlier.
‘I’m afraid the choice is chicken or lamb today,’ I say as cheerfully as I can. My head is beginning to throb again. All that recycled air is no good for a hangover. I wish I could open a window.
‘I had beef on my flight over.’
‘Yes, well the menu does change now and again.’
‘What’s the difference between the chicken and lamb?’
‘Well the chicken tastes like chicken and the lamb tastes like lamb, I suppose.’
The woman looks at me blankly. ‘What do you recommend?’
‘Well I’m a vegetarian so I wouldn’t recommend either.’
‘Right.’
She looks slightly put out.
And opts for the chicken.
I offer her a glass of red or white wine with her meal but she’s still looking for a cup of tea. She doesn’t want either.
Too bad.
She’ll just have to wait.
About an hour later, the meal service is finished and we’re out with the teas and coffees.
‘Tea?’
Oh God, I just know that first woman is going to annoy me throughout the flight. She just has that demonic look in her eye.
‘Is it decaf?’ she barks.
‘Yes,’ I tell her. It isn’t of course, but hell, she’s never going to know the difference, is she? Decaf tea, me foot!
At last, it’s time for my break. I can’t bloody wait. I’m sure you’ve often wondered what the cabin crew eat on board. A lot of people ask do we eat the passenger meals, but I assure you we do not. Hey we want to live, you know.
I’m joking. Of course I am. But the crew food is seriously great. We get so much of it. Everything from ice cream, yoghurt, sandwiches and cocktail sausages to chocolate bars, vegetable samosas, fresh muffins, as well as a choice of hot meals including vegetarian options, apples, oranges, plums and grapes.
As you can imagine, it’s very, very hard to diet when you work transatlantic flights but I can never complain about the choice of food for the crew. It’s easily as good, or better than what they get in first class. In the morning we can have a variety of cereals, omelettes and heated croissants but you’re normally so tired when you eat your breakfast, that it never tastes as good as it should. Anyway I’m sitting down now with my tray and chatting to a girl called Amy, who I’ve never met before. She’s a stunning blonde of about five foot nine with flawless skin. We’re chatting about the passengers, as it’s hard to switch off the minute you sit down. She’s been serving the other aisle and is telling me about a couple who didn’t know each other when they sat down, but are now snogging passionately and have even asked for an extra blanket.
‘Oh my God!’ my eyes widen. ‘You must point them out to me after the break. Are they drunk or what?
‘I only served them two
glasses of wine each,’
Amy laughs. ‘But they may have got more drink from someone else. Anyway, you know what drinking alcohol on board does to you.’
‘I know. It goes to your head twice as fast. Oh don’t talk to me about alcohol today though. My head is raging after last night.’
‘Were you out late? You naughty girl. You should never go out drinking the night before a long flight. It’s just not worth it.’
‘You’re telling me?’ I groan.
‘I did it once and never again.’
‘Hmm. If I had a penny for every time I said that I’d be a multimillionaire by now,’ I laugh.
‘So were you out with the girls from work?’ Amy asks.
It’s an obvious question. The cabin crew go out together the whole time. It’s because we normally don’t get weekends off, you see. So if you see a big bunch of very glamorous girls out on a Tuesday night, who are not wearing L signs or matching T-shirts, it’s probably us. And if we’re mostly blonde, slim and look like we’re all dressed head to toe in designer clothes, it’s definitely us. We get all our clothes in the States, remember. And some of it (especially the bags and jewellery) is fake. Sssshhh . . .
‘I was on a date,’ I say and I’m convinced I’m blushing. I haven’t said that word in so long I’d kind of forgotten how naff it sounds. A date. Hmm. I don’t really call my nights out with Tim dates, as such. I don’t know what they are really. I just see them as nights out. Someone to kill time with. God, isn’t that just the most unromantic thought ever?
‘A date?’ Amy perks up. ‘With someone nice?’
‘Very nice,’ I admit grinning like a Cheshire cat. ‘He’s gorgeous actually.’
‘Oh tell us more,’ Amy is delighted. Men are obviously one of her favourite subjects. ‘Is he a pilot?’
‘Certainly not,’ I laugh hoarsely. ‘God . . . as if, haha . . .’
I wait for her to join in and burst out laughing too but she doesn’t. The girl looks mortally wounded. Her smile has all but vanished. Uh oh, I’ve definitely hit a raw nerve. Perhaps her old man is a captain or something.
Mile High Guy Page 8
