‘Not that I don’t think pilots are, you know, great.’ I start backtracking furiously. ‘I mean my friend Debbie, you know Debbie with the black hair? She’s been snogging some pilot for a few weeks now and is wild about him.’
Amy doesn’t look convinced.
‘I take it you’re going out with a pilot so?’ I decide to get to the point.
Amy looks slightly uncomfortable, yet pretty pleased at the same time.
‘Well, it’s all very hush-hush . . . ’ She lowers her voice.
‘I’m intrigued. ‘Why?’ I ask. ‘He’s not married or anything?’
‘Oh God no, nothing like that.’
‘Well, that’s something. You know, you’re probably right. Sometimes it’s best not to let too many people know your business around here. The walls of these planes whisper.’
‘So who was your date last night?’
‘Not telling,’ I tease. ‘I’m also keeping hushhush.’
Two can play this game, I’m thinking to myself.
‘Ah go on. Is he someone I might know?’
‘It might be,’ I say popping a grape into my mouth. I’m going to try and be good on this trip and eat lots of fruit and drink lots of water. I’m going to have a healthy day to make up for last night’s binge.
‘That’s not fair. You tell me the name of your man and I’ll tell you the name of mine.’
I don’t think that’s much of a trade off. After all, why should I tell her something that even the tabloids would love to know in return for the name of some pilot I’ve probably never heard of?
‘It’s early days yet so I’d rather not say.’ I know I’m being mean but I don’t want to jeopardise my chances with Adam. If it gets back to him that I’ve been gossiping in work about him, he might think I’m just with him ’cos he’s famous. Which I’m not. I am absolutely NOT!
‘What does he do?’
God for one who looks so sweet and innocent, Amy isn’t half pushy when it comes to information hunting, is she?
‘He’s in the entertainment business.’
‘Aren’t they all? Bloody clowns the lot of them.’
I turn around in surprise. ‘Why? Is your man funny?’
‘Fecking hilarious. He’s so hilarious in fact that he forgot we were going on a date last night, even though we’d confirmed the arrangements the night before.’
‘God, that’s a bit much.’
‘Yeah, when I rang him this morning he said he was in Kerry and the reception on his mobile phone wasn’t great.’
Kerry. Hmm. That’s where Debbie is at the moment. With her new man. They’re having a get-to-know-you couple of days. I’ve told Debbie to be careful but you know, that’ll be the day!
‘What’s his name then?’ I stand up and re-apply my lipstick.
‘Donald.’
Bingo. It is Debbie’s man. It must be. I knew it. The filthy cad. I’m afraid to turn around now in case my face gives the truth away. If only I could ring Debbie immediately and let her know what’s happening.
‘How long have you been with him?’
‘A few weeks. But as I said it’s very . . . ’
‘Hush-hush . . .’ I interrupt. Hmm. Hush hush is one way of putting it all right.
‘So what’s your man’s name?’ she tugs at my sleeve as the other cabin crew come in for their break.
I give in. Sure if I tell just one person it’s not going to make that much of a difference is it? It’s not like I’m sticking an ad on the cabin crew message board or anything. And anyway I’m bursting to tell someone. I’ve just had the most wonderful date and it’s awful having to keep it all to myself.
‘You won’t tell anyone?’ I ask.
She shakes her head. ‘Promise.’
‘His name is er . . . Tim.’
Oh I know, I know, I’m a chicken. But I just can’t tell her. Honestly. I don’t want to do anything to jinx my relationship with Adam. And besides he kind of asked me to keep it quiet. He said he likes to keep his private life private, and I’ve got to respect that.
‘What does he do?’ Amy asks, obviously trying to place him straight away, so she can stick him in her ‘not-a-pilot-so-not-that-interesting-really’ box.
‘He’s not a pilot,’ I inform her, not bothering to explain that Tim actually works in a bank.
‘Oh.’ The light fades from her eyes.
‘But guess who we saw last night in the restaurant?’
‘Who? Somebody from work?’ She resumes a slight interest.
‘No actually,’ I say very deliberately. ‘We saw that TV star Adam whatsisname.’
I watch her face carefully for a reaction.
‘Who?’
‘Kirrane,’ I add nervously and wait for her eyes to pop out of her head.
And so they do. Almost.
‘No way.’
‘Way.’
‘Ooh, I’ve got a story about him,’ she says mysteriously.
‘What is it?’ My heart gives a sudden lurch.
‘Tell you later.’
And she disappears into the aisle.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Right. It’s duty free time. So I set off into the aisle with my cart of alcohol, cigarettes and perfumes and my little purse and calculator to convert dollars into euros. I hope we sell lots of stuff because we work on a sort of commission, and get vouchers for shops like Brown Thomas and Arnotts every few months in return for all our hard work. I do love going shopping with these vouchers because it doesn’t feel like I’m spending real money.
Anyway, I push out my cart and the woman who has been complaining about everything so far is now asleep, so thank God for that. I just couldn’t have faced twenty more annoying questions as I’m beginning to feel tired now. The hangover is kind of kicking in. My first customer asks for a Toblerone. No surprises there. We sell so many Toblerones on board, you just wouldn’t believe it. Some passengers, God forbid, start eating the chocolate there and then. As if we don’t feed them enough already!
The next customer asks to see a horrible Celtic brooch in the shape of a harp. I personally wouldn’t wear it in a fit and I’ve never met anyone who actually would. Well, except for this woman obviously. She’s American and has a nice, kindly face but I don’t think she should buy this brooch because it’s yuck.
She takes it out of the box and switches on her reading light so she can see the brooch better. ‘It’s beautiful,’ she says. ‘Isn’t it?’
‘Yes, it is,’ I say solemnly. ‘I have one just like it at home.’
Well I do have a brooch at home so it’s not a complete lie. Of course it’s a lot prettier than this one. My granny gave it to me and I keep it for sentimental reasons. But you wouldn’t catch me wearing it on a night out. God no. Not in a fit. Who wears brooches anyway? You never see young people wearing brooches, do you?
A lot of passengers are dithering over watches and various pieces of Celtic mementoes. God I’d love them to just hurry and make their minds up. I’m intrigued about this supposed ‘story’ Amy has up her sleeve. And to be honest a little worried. I mean what does she know? And how does she know it?
I wonder has she actually seen something or heard something? If she’s only read something in the tabloids I wouldn’t be that worried ’cos Adam himself told me they just make everything up. He says that he’s always been linked to people he doesn’t know, and he finds it intensely annoying.
‘Like who?’
I just had to ask.
‘Oh you know Angelina Jolie and Drew Barrymore,’ he says and I search his face hard to see if he’s joking. I mean surely he wouldn’t be annoyed being linked to beautiful talented women like them. I think he’s lying. If I were linked to say, Brad Pitt and George Clooney and went around giving out about it, people would think I was mental.
‘I’m looking for something for my niece.’ A customer holds up a horrible, copper bracelet. ‘She’s the same age as you. Do you think she’d like this?’
Not unl
ess she’s blind, I think.
‘I think it would look stunning on her,’ I enthuse.
I hand the bracelet back to her. Maybe the woman’s niece might like it though. I mean, compared to those bracelets the Moroccans try to sell you in Spain, it’s actually nice.
Anyway what would Amy know about anything? She probably just picks up bits of gossip from the other crew members. Gossip is just one of the hazards of the job, I’m afraid. For one who knows so much, it’s a wonder Amy doesn’t know about her own two-timing pilot boyfriend. But sure, that’s typical I suppose. The poor girlfriend/wife is usually the last to know about these things.
Of course I’m not going to tell Amy. Because I don’t know her that well and anyway, your man would tell all the other pilots I was a troublemaker, and I’d be very unpopular on the overnights.
Oh God, some chubby kid has just started yelling for jellybeans and I don’t have any in my cart. I ask his mother if the kid would like something else instead but she shakes her head adamantly. No wonder that kid is spoilt. I have to make my way up to first class and see does Snakely have any jellybeans in her cart. I’m not looking forward to it.
As I make my way up to first class I practically break my neck by tripping over some man’s shoes. Why can’t people just leave on their shoes during the flight? And if they can’t bear to keep their shoes on, then why don’t they tuck their shoes in under their seat?
I walk up the cabin very, very fast because if I walk slowly or even normally, I know I’ll be inundated with requests for more . . . well, everything.
As I walk through the curtains and into first class, I’m reminded of Adam and I begin to wish I’m on the plane to New York.
There are only about six people up here, including a very famous pop star who is listening to her headphones and drumming her fingers on the seat rest. I wonder if she’s listening to her own music. I wonder do pop stars ever listen to their own music to relax. I doubt it somehow. It would be a bit too much like work I suppose. I always wonder at bands like, say, Status Quo who can still stand up and sing Whatever you Want, after all these years and still look like they’re enjoying themselves.
Then again I suppose it couldn’t be any worse than saying ‘tea’, ‘coffee’, ‘milk’ and ‘sugar’ zillions of times a day, while also remembering to smile as if I’m thoroughly enjoying myself.
Snakely is sitting down reading a copy of Vogue, which is really supposed to be for the first class passengers. Then again most of our first class passengers happen to be men and prefer to read The Economist. When I approach, she wrinkles her nose as if I’m a bad smell.
‘Yes?’ she shrills.
‘I’m just checking the duty free cart for jellybeans,’ I say and to my absolute mortification, I feel myself going red even though I’ve done nothing wrong.
I open the cart and start rifling through it. I can feel Snakely staring at my shoes, my tights, my hair, everything. I hope to God my hem isn’t hanging down or anything. I would hate to give her any excuse to write about me.
‘Is that a silver bracelet you’re wearing?’ she asks.
Aha. She’s got me. Isn’t she so clever? You’re only allowed to wear gold jewellery at work. Some bored person must have thought up that rule years ago and nobody ever bothered to change it.
‘Oh sorry about that,’ I say slipping it off and putting it into my apron pocket. I’ve been wearing it since last night and completely forgot to take it off. I wonder if she’s going to say anything else. Where are those damn jellybeans? I’m going to kill that bloody kid for putting me to so much trouble. Just ’cos he’s too young to have a hangover! I hope the jellybeans (if he ever gets them), make him sick!
I’m sure her eyes have now worked their way up to my neck and are examining my scarf which I’m sure has make-up on it. Oh well, I’ll just have to give it a good rinse when I get to my hotel, and hope nobody notices between now and Boston. Oh the thoughts of my hotel bed. I just can’t wait to get into it and curl up with my book.
Phew! I’ve found a packet of those damn jellybeans, thanks be to God. A long nail taps me on the arm and I’d swear the force of it has broken my skin.
‘Who is your supervisor?’ Snakely asks, smiling an evil smile.
‘Rowena Little,’ I say, rubbing my arm at the same time. ‘A lovely lady. She really is wonderful.’
Snakely looks put out. I’m sure she’d obviously prefer me to be terrified of my supervisor, but she isn’t going to get that satisfaction from me. And besides, Rowena is sound. I’m one of the lucky ones. Some of the supervisors are hell and spend their time reducing crew members to tears. I’ve even heard of a couple of the girls being told to lose weight. Imagine that! In this day and age? If some old biddy dared to tell me to lose weight, I’d have my solicitor onto them before the plane’s wheels had a chance to touch the runway.
I pick up the jellybeans, and I’m about to head off when Snakely asks me why the buckle on my belt is undone. I look down in horror. How did that happen? She must have undone it with her eyes. The witch must have put a spell on me.
‘Oops,’ I give an embarrassed laugh. She eyes me coldly and I can see I’m about to get lectured for no reason at all.
‘There is no excuse for bad grooming,’ the old hag starts off. ‘I don’t need to point out that . . . ’
‘Excuse me?’
Myself and Snake-Face turn around simultaneously. We both smile and I sincerely hope my smile looks a bit more genuine than hers.
The tall middle-aged man in the well-cut suit asks me if there’s any chance he could have a glass of water.
‘No problem,’ I tell him, reaching for a Waterford Crystal glass. I wonder if he can feel the tension in the galley.
I fill his glass and ask whether he would he like lemon.
‘It’s fine,’ the man says quietly. ‘This is great.’
He peers at my name badge. At least I hope it’s my name badge he’s examining. It’s stuck on my left breast so it’s kind of hard to tell.
I can sense Snakely is dying to get rid of him so she can continue slating me but our friend is showing no signs of wanting to get back to his seat, and he is a first class passenger, so as far as the airline is concerned he must be treated like a mini-god.
‘Not long to go now.’ The man leans back against the toilet door. He looks at his watch. ‘Just another couple of hours.’
He looks from me to Snakely and I guess he’s had a few drinks taken. ‘Why are you not working up here?’ he looks at me questioningly.
‘Oh I’m working down the back today,’ I tell him brightly. ‘I just came up to get jellybeans for some kid and I got, er, talking to Clarissa.’
‘So I see,’ the man says in a laid-back tone of voice.
Clarissa looks extremely uncomfortable. How unfortunate for her that her little intimidation game has been cut dead. I’m laughing to myself. Serves her right.
‘Well I’d better excuse myself and get these sweets down to the poor little kid. He must think I’ve gone and jumped out of the plane.’
The man laughs loudly and I’m startled. It wasn’t that funny.
He holds out his hand.
‘Norman Levins,’ he shakes mine firmly. ‘You’re a delightful girl and hopefully I’ll see you on board one of my flights again very soon. You don’t have a comment card by the way?’
‘I’ll get you one now,’ I say reaching over Clarissa to grab one.
‘Charlie is a good friend of mine. I’m going to post my comments to him directly. We’re actually playing golf next weekend, do you know him?’
‘Ch . . . ?’
‘Charles Daviston.’
‘Oh yes of course,’ I smile.
Holy fuck! Charles Daviston is the airline chief executive. Of course I don’t know him. Well, I know who he is but like I don’t know him to say hello to or to play golf with or anything. But I must say I’m pleased that my pal here in first class knows him. And I know Snakely will not look s
ideways again at me for the rest of the flight.
I sail back into economy class with a huge grin plastered all over my face. I could kiss that kid now for sending me up to get the jellybeans. Where is the brat anyway?
I spot him and he’s fast asleep. Drat. I make my way over to his mother.
‘Too late,’ she snaps.
‘I’m very sorry,’ I explain, ‘but . . . ’
‘Just FORGET it,’ she says rudely and I slink away.
Sugar. What am I going to do with the damn sweets? I want to burst the bag over that spoilt child’s head. Or even his mother’s. Instead I go down to the back galley but the girls have sealed the duty free bars. Sugar, sugar, sugar. There’s no way on earth I’m going up to first class again. In the end I take five euro out of my handbag and buy them myself, just to save me the hassle of going back up there again.
‘Was there any yummy desserts left over in first class?’ one of the crew asks me as I stuff the jellybeans into my little overnight case.
‘Well, if there were, Snake-Face wasn’t offering them to me,’ I grumble.
‘Snake-Face, you’re hilarious. Snake-Face hahaha.’
Suddenly all is quiet in the back galley. It’s deafening actually. I am down on my knees with the jellybeans sticking out of my overnight case as if I bought them for myself. And the dragon herself is standing beside me. I can smell her. That nasty rich stink that I could get up in first class has made its way down to economy courtesy of its owner.
I look up. Her eyes bore into me. If looks could kill, I would now be swinging from the aircraft ceiling, the straps of one of the yellow safety jackets around my neck. She says nothing for a few seconds and then turns on her heel and storms off.
‘Oh my God,’ the other girl pales. ‘Do you think she heard you?’
‘I dunno,’ I shrug. ‘She can’t prove I was talking about her, can she?’
‘Do you think she’ll write a report?’
‘I doubt it,’ I laugh. ‘Some man up in first class said he was going to write a nice comment about me, so if she writes something nasty it’ll just look like sour grapes.’
‘Was he nice?’
‘Who?’
Mile High Guy Page 9
