by Alyson Noel
“Sorry, I can’t take credit for that. Though I have to admit, I probably couldn’t do much better,” I said, twisting the bottle at the finish, just like I’d learned in the Atlas-sponsored wine course I’d taken several years ago.
“So what are you doing for dinner?” he asked, still gazing at me with his gorgeous brown eyes.
“Hanging in the galley, fighting the crew for leftovers.” I shrugged.
“No.” He laughed. “I meant in Paris. How long will you be there?”
“Twenty-seven hours and thirty-two minutes,” I said, noticing how his sweater was cashmere, his dark hair was freshly cut, and his teeth were very white, but most likely real.
“Would you like to have dinner with me? I’m staying at the Ritz, over on the Place Vendome. But I have a car and driver, so I can pick you up anywhere.” He smiled.
The Ritz? A car and driver? I was beginning to feel like Cinderella. “Sounds great,” I said casually, trying not to skip on my way back to the galley.
“What took?” Clay asked, glancing at me briefly. “These plates are getting all backed up.”
I looked at the cart, piled precariously high with plated meals that I no longer cared about serving. I mean, why am I still working in the galley when I’ve just been invited to the ball? “He asked me to dinner!” I smiled, struggling to balance the tray that now held three plates. “Hey, this is getting heavy,” I whined as he added a fourth.
“You’re way behind. In case you haven’t noticed, the other aisle is two rows ahead, which means we’re losing.” He shook his head and retrieved another meal from the oven, lifting the paper lid and watching the steam escape. Clay took his galley duties very seriously.
“Oh, I didn’t know we were racing,” I told him, feeling awful about being the weakest link.
“We’re always racing.”
“Well just wait till we get on the ice cream carts,” I told him. “I really kick ass on the sundaes.”
But by the time we were on final approach, passing out the coats and preparing to land, most, if not all, of my excitement had died. Mr. 2B had spent the last six hours in a deep, nearly comatose sleep, which meant our dinner plans were never finalized. And as I flipped down my jump seat, buckled my seat belt, and gazed out the tiny porthole at the early-morning Parisian landscape, I suppressed my disappointment, stifled a yawn, and fought to stay awake during landing.
“So what’s going on with dinner?” Clay asked, retrieving his bag from the closet and slipping into his coat.
“You wanna go to that little quiche place in Saint-Germain?” I asked, heading down the aisle, dragging my bag behind me.
“What’re you talking about? I thought the prince was sending his carriage?”
“No prince, no carriage.” I shook my head sadly. “It all turned into a big fat pumpkin.”
“But I thought you liked him?” he said, rushing alongside me.
“I did. He was the perfect passenger. Cute but didn’t act like he knew it, nice but not overly ingratiating, witty but not obnoxiously jokey. And he never rang his call light, never took his socks off, never attended to any highly personal grooming needs, never stuck his foot in the aisle for me to trip over, and sadly, never woke up in time to get my name and number.” I shrugged. “But it was good while it lasted.”
We stopped in the first-class cabin and waited for the rest of the crew; then we all headed into the jetway, anxious to get through customs and onto the hotel van, where we would break out the water bottles we’d filled with screwdrivers, galley-blend sangria, and mimosas, and enjoy a brief second wind before arriving at the hotel and falling into bed with exhaustion.
I released my hair from the tight ponytail that had been giving me a dull headache for the last three hours and ran my fingers through it, letting it fall loose around my shoulders.
“Wow. You have beautiful hair.” I looked up to see Mr. 2B waiting by the door, smiling. “I completely passed out. That’s so unlike me,” he said, shaking his head sheepishly and falling in step beside me.
“You missed dessert,” I scolded, noticing Clay had gone on ahead.
“Well, I’m hoping I can make it up to you. Are we still on for dinner?”
I nodded, noticing the rest of the crew already making their way through customs, and knowing I needed to catch up with them, quick.
“Is seven good?”
“Seven’s perfect,” I said, already rushing away.
“And where should I go? Who should I ask for?” he called.
“Hailey Lane, at the Grand Hotel,” I said, smiling as I ran toward customs.
READY POSITION
Flight attendants must sit on
their jump seats with feet
apart and hands placed under
their thighs, palms up.
At 6:55 I was standing in my room, naked and nervous. I mean, I knew nothing about this guy except for the few facts I’d pieced together from the passenger manifest list, combined with good old-fashioned observation. Like, I knew his name was Maxwell Dunne, and that he was an Atlas regular, having earned himself Platinum status—which meant he spent more time on a plane than I did. I knew he was really cute, liked red wine, didn’t like mystery meat, and was supposedly staying in one of the best hotels in Paris. Though his reason for being in Paris was unknown. And now I was about to get in a car with him and head out for God knows where in a city I’d explored many times before but that was nonetheless still foreign to me.
Glancing at the clock, I slipped on my silky off-white cami, shrunken black blazer, Citizens for Humanity jeans, and gold stiletto sandals. Then I reached for my purse and headed out of my room and toward the elevator.
Was I crazy for going out with this guy? I wondered, pushing the down arrow. I mean, just how much faith could I really put in the Atlas passenger-screening process anyway? It was like, our conversation had been so brief that the only reason I was going out with him was because of his gorgeous eyes and great smile. And yet, wasn’t that the basis for all first dates?
As the elevator doors slid open, I nervously ran my hands through my hair and double-checked my outfit. Get a grip, I thought, heading toward the lobby. I’m just a girl, he’s just a guy, and we’re just having dinner.
And when I looked up, I saw Maxwell Dunne striding through the glass doors, dressed in khaki slacks, a crisp white shirt, and a brown leather jacket flung over his shoulder.
“I got us a table at Jules Verne,” he said. “Have you been?”
I gazed at him and shook my head. Le Jules Verne was the restaurant at the top of the Eiffel Tower—well, the second level to be exact. And the high-priced menu, along with the hard-to-get reservation, didn’t exactly make it a layover staple.
“We’re in luck; it’s such a clear night that the view should be spectacular.” He smiled. “I mean, if that’s okay? Because we could go somewhere else if you’d rather,” he said, stepping outside and leading me to a black Mercedes-Benz.
“Sounds great,” I said, smiling as the driver opened the door, and I slid across the tan leather seat.
The thing about the Eiffel Tower is that it can be seen from just about every where in Paris, which means you always think it’s a lot closer than it really is. So by the time we finally arrived, I couldn’t believe how long it took.
“Should we take the stairs?” Max asked. “At last count there were only one thousand six hundred and sixty-five, give or take a few.” He smiled.
“Well, I would, except I happen to have the inside scoop about a private elevator, that’s reserved just for restaurant patrons,” I told him. “There’s a sign over there.” I pointed.
“Lead the way.”
We rode the south elevator all the way up to the restaurant level, and the climb was so quick and steep that my ears actually popped along the way. And when the doors finally opened, I felt my shoulders sink with disappointment as I took in the dark, angular space that looked more like a nightclub than one of the world’s most r
omantic restaurants.
But after Max palmed the maitre d’ with a fistful of euros, we were led to a cozy window-front table with such a stunning view of Paris that my earlier impression was all but forgotten.
“This is amazing,” I said, gazing at the city below.
“Glad you like it,” he said, gazing at me.
“Do you come here a lot?” I asked, opening my menu and wondering if he was in the habit of picking up flight attendants and showing ’em a good time. Not that I cared, as long as he showed me one too.
“Just once,” he said, reaching for the wine list. “A long time ago.”
Leaning back in my chair, I gazed at the lights of Paris, thinking how awesome Max was. He was interesting, smart, well traveled, and even more important, he had a great sense of humor. And we’d just finished a three-hour food orgy that left me happy, sated, and more than a little curious about what would happen next.
“Where to now?” he asked, signing the check and finishing his wine.
I looked at him and shrugged. I was willing to follow him just about anywhere after a meal like that.
“Have you been to Temple?” he asked, sliding his wallet into his pocket and looking at me.
“Um, I’m not Jewish.” I squirmed, wondering why he asked.
But he just laughed. “It’s a club,” he said. “C’mon, it’ll be fun.”
I followed behind, not entirely convinced about clubbing being “fun.” The last time I’d gone out like that in New York, I’d ended the night feeling too old, and terminally unhip. But maybe things would be different in Paris.
We found our driver, Jean Claude, leaning against the Mercedes, smoking a cigarette and chatting on his cell phone. And after twenty minutes of weaving in and out of Parisian traffic, we stopped in front of a newly renovated three-story building with a small, unmarked entrance.
Max checked in at the door, then led me upstairs to a small private booth lined in soft suede upholstery with sheer, filmy drapes on either side. “Not a typical club like you were probably thinking.” He smiled, browsing the drink menu.
“Is this one of those private members-only clubs?” I asked, glancing around at the sexy, sleek decor and even sleeker patrons and feeling like some all-American, milk-fed farm girl with my curly hair and jeans.
“Yeah. And I hear there’s even a wait list now.” He smiled.
I knew that he lived in Boston and traveled to Paris often, but I hadn’t realized it was that often. “You must spend a lot of time here,” I said.
“For the last six months it’s been one to two weeks every month.” He shrugged, squinting at the menu. “Mow does brandy sound?”
Brandy sounded great, but suddenly remembering my flight the next morning, the ban on drinking within eight hours of sign-in, and Atlas’ penchant for collecting our urine into little plastic cups and testing our breath for alcohol in a supposedly random manner, I shook my head and said, “I should probably just stick with soda.”
But Max just smiled and slid even closer.
Here comes the kiss, I thought, fiddling nervously with my earring and wondering if I should go through with this. On the one hand I hadn’t kissed anyone but Michael in over four years, so the whole idea of making out with someone new seemed a little awkward. Not to mention that I was leaving tomorrow and would most likely never see him again.
Yet, wasn’t that also a very good reason for why I should kiss him? I mean, so far everything about the night had been perfect, so why not try to make it even better?
I glanced up to see Max gazing at me with his gorgeous, heavy-lidded, sexy brown eyes, and I felt myself being drawn to him as though by some undeniable, magnetic force. And as he leaned in and pressed his lips against mine, all I could think was Bermuda Triangle as I drifted into oblivion.
Weaving his fingers into my hair, he cradled my face and continued to kiss me so passionately and so fully, and so well, I was completely lost in him. Then he unbuttoned my blazer and slid it slowly down my shoulders, taking my camisole straps along for the ride. And as he lowered his head, I closed my eyes and enjoyed the feel of his lips nipping at my earlobe.
But when his hands began to migrate from my shoulders to my breasts, I stopped and pushed him away. I mean, I was all about a nice little public display of allection. But breast cupping? Not so much. Even if we were in Paris.
“Are you okay?” he asked, leaning toward me and tilting my chin, forcing me to look at him.
“Yeah, but I should go. I have to fly back to New York in the morning.”
“But it is the morning,” he said, displaying the face on his watch. It was 1:00 A.M. Paris time.
“Well, then I really gotta go,” I said, leaning in to kiss him again.
“Wow, it must’ve been good, cause you look like hell,” Clay said as we walked down the hall and headed toward the elevator.
“It was all right.” I shrugged, remembering every amazing moment.
“Are you kidding? Your skin is inflamed and you have a sex beard!”
“We did not have sex,” I whispered, touching my tender, raw chin and cheeks and smiling at the memory. “We just kissed a little, that’s all.”
“And?” he asked, clearly hoping for something more.
“And, it was pretty amazing.” I smiled, watching the elevator door close before us. “So, what did you do?” I asked, anxious to change the subject. I’d had a great date with Max, but the odds of seeing him again were zero. A fact that I wasn’t so eager to dwell on.
“Ate, did some shopping, ate again, slept a little.” He shrugged. “Picked up that Louis Vuitton wallet that Peter’s been lusting after.”
“I thought you two were through,” I said, glancing at him as I dragged my bag into the lobby.
“I decided to withhold judgment, and give him a second chance.” He shrugged.
“I think that’s a very wise decision,” I said, stopping at the front desk to drop off my key and pay for the pot of coffee I’d ordered from room service.
“Are you Mademoiselle Lane?” asked the tall, slim receptionist.
“Uh, oui,” I answered, using up just about all the French I knew.
“We have something for you. Wait right here.”
I watched as he disappeared into a back room, wondering what it could possibly be. Had I inadvertently left something in the lobby while we were waiting for our rooms?
But when he returned he was carrying a beautiful bouquet of flowers, in a cut-crystal vase, and I knew immediately they were from Max. He was a class act, and definitely the grand gesture type.
“What does the card say?” Clay asked, peeking over my shoulder.
‘“Thanks for a wonderful time. Bon voyage. Max.’”
As I climbed the stairs to my apartment, I was completely exhausted. My late night with Max, the endless glasses of wine, and the lack of sleep had definitely caught up with me. And as magical as the first half of the trip was, the way home was a whole other story.
You can really tell a lot about a person by the way they treat the people who serve them, and I’d just spent the last eight hours serving a planeload of people who’d somehow gotten the idea that I was their personal servant. I was yelled at when I ran out of newspapers, berated when I ran out of pillows, insulted when I ran out of chicken, and threatened when we had to wait for a gate. I’d had an underage pop star try to trip me when I refused to serve her alcohol, a movie star who insisted on communicating only through her assistant, and a famous newscaster who became completely enraged at the gate when it was her turn for a random security search.
But these days, it wasn’t just the passengers doling out the abuse; it was coming from Atlas management too. As they expected us to work overbooked flights with half the staff, search the airplane for bombs before boarding, defend ourselves against violent passengers with dialogue learned in a Verbal Judo seminar, and act as an unarmed human shield for pilots who, securely locked in their cockpit, were now packing heat. They had cut
my pay, cut my benefits, scheduled longer workdays with shorter layovers, demanded a doctor’s note for every sick day taken, and basically deleted any last crumb of dignity ever associated with the job. And for my efforts I received weekly e-mails from smug OOs admonishing me for the drastic drop in revenue, on-time departures, and customer satisfaction.
But now that they were laying off thousands of employees and forcing the pilots into drastic pay concessions (while top-level executives stuffed their pockets with bonuses, stock options, and secured pensions) I found myself fearing the loss of something I didn’t even particularly like. Because for every horrifying moment during the course of a flight, there were still times like Paris, and the glaring fact that no other job that I was currently qualified for could provide that kind of perk.
So after clumping my bags and climbing out of my uniform and into my favorite flannel PJs, I poured myself a glass of Lisette’s duty-free wine and sat on my couch, gazing back and forth between Jonathan Franzen and Max’s flowers.
And when I got up to refill my glass, I saw a note lying next to the phone:
Halley—
I’m sorry, but this isn’t working.
You have two weeks to find a new place to live.
Lisette
Kat was serious about retiring. Just days after mentioning it, I was sitting at her kitchen table staring at my computer screen while she filled out all the necessary paperwork. And to say I was envious would be putting it mildly. I had just one week to find a new place to live, and no idea how I could possibly sign a lease when I didn’t even know if I’d still be employed three months from now. Not to mention that it’d been well over a week since I said au revoir to Max, and I’d yet to hear from him.
“What are you doing?” Kat asked, signing the very last document.
