As he moves away, I slump down again in my stool. An air hostess with fair hair in a French plait comes and sits down two bar stools away. She smiles at me, and I smile weakly in return.
I don’t know how other people manage their careers, I really don’t. Like my oldest friend, Lissy. She’s always known she wanted to be a lawyer—and now, ta-daah! She’s a fraud barrister. But I left college with absolutely no clue. My first job was in an estate agency, and I only went into it because I’ve always quite liked looking around houses, plus I met this woman with amazing red lacquered nails at a career fair who told me she made so much money, she’d be able to retire when she was forty.
But the minute I started, I hated it. I hated all the other trainee estate agents. I hated saying things like “a lovely aspect.” And I hated the way if someone said they could afford three hundred thousand we were supposed to give them details of houses costing at least four hundred thousand, and then kind of look down our noses, like, “You only have three hundred thousand pounds? God, you complete loser.”
So after six months I announced I was changing careers and was going to be a photographer instead. It was such a fantastic moment, like in a film or something. My dad lent me the money for a photography course and camera, and I was going to launch this amazing new creative career, and it was going to be the start of my new life.…
Except it didn’t quite happen like that.
For a start, do you have any idea how much a photographer’s assistant gets paid?
Nothing. It’s nothing.
Which, you know, I wouldn’t have minded if anyone had actually offered me a photographer’s assistant’s job.
I heave a sigh and gaze at my doleful expression in the mirror behind the bar. As well as everything else, my hair’s gone all frizzy. So much for “Salon Serum—For That 24-Hour Professional Salon Look.”
At least I wasn’t the only one who didn’t get anywhere. Out of the eight people in my course, one became instantly successful and now takes photos for Vogue, one became a wedding photographer, one had an affair with the tutor, one went traveling, one had a baby, one works at Snappy Snaps, and one is now at Morgan Stanley.
Meanwhile, I got more and more into debt, so I started temping and applying for jobs that actually paid money. And eventually, eleven months ago, I started as a marketing assistant at the Panther Corporation.
The barman places a vodka and tonic in front of me and gives me a quizzical look. “Cheer up!” he says. “It can’t be that bad!”
“Thanks,” I say gratefully, and take a sip. That feels a bit better.
I ought to call Paul and give him a report. But I just can’t face it. Anyway, he’s probably still out at his awards lunch. He won’t want me disturbing him on his mobile. It can wait until Monday.
I’m just taking a second sip of vodka when my mobile starts to ring. I feel a beat of nerves. If it’s the office, I’ll just pretend I didn’t hear.
But it’s not; it’s our home number flashing on the little screen.
I press “answer.” “Hi,” I say.
“Hiya!” comes Lissy’s voice. “Only me! So how did it go?”
Lissy is not only my oldest friend but my flatmate, too. She has tufty dark hair and an IQ of about 600 and is the sweetest person I know.
“It was a disaster,” I say miserably.
“It can’t have been that bad!”
“Lissy, I drenched the marketing director of Glen Oil in cranberry drink!”
Along the bar, I can see the air hostess hiding a smile, and I feel myself flush. Great. Now the whole world knows.
“Oh, dear.” I can almost feel Lissy trying to think of something positive to say. “Well, at least you got their attention!” she says at last. “At least they won’t forget you in a hurry.”
“I suppose,” I say morosely. “So, did I have any messages?”
“Oh! Erm, no. I mean, your dad did phone, but, um, you know, it wasn’t …” She trails off evasively.
“Lissy. What did he want?”
There’s a pause.
“Apparently your cousin’s won some industry award,” she says apologetically. “They’re going to be celebrating it on Saturday, as well as your mum’s birthday.”
“Oh. Great.”
I slump deeper in my chair. That’s all I need. My cousin Kerry triumphantly clutching some silver best-office-furniture-salesperson-in-the-whole-world-no-make-that-universe trophy.
“And Connor rang, too, to see how you got on,” adds Lissy quickly. “He was really sweet. He said he didn’t want to ring your mobile during your meeting, in case it disturbed you.”
“Really?”
For the first time today, I feel a lift in spirits.
Connor. My boyfriend. My lovely, thoughtful boyfriend.
“He’s such a sweetheart!” Lissy is saying. “He said he’s tied up in a big meeting all afternoon, but he’s canceled his squash game especially, so do you want to go out to supper tonight?”
“Oh,” I say, pleased. “Oh, well, that’ll be nice. Thanks, Lissy.”
I click off and take another sip of vodka, feeling much more cheerful.
My boyfriend.
It’s just like Julie Andrews said. When the dog bites, when the bee stings … I simply remember I have a boyfriend—and suddenly things don’t seem quite so completely shit.
Or however she put it.
And not just any boyfriend. A tall, handsome, clever boyfriend whom Marketing Week called “one of the brightest sparks in marketing research today.”
I sit nursing my vodka, allowing thoughts of Connor to comfort me. The way his blond hair shines in the sunshine, and the way he’s always smiling. And the way he upgraded all the software on my computer the other day without my even asking, and the way he … he …
My mind’s gone blank. This is ridiculous. I mean, there’s so much that is wonderful about Connor. From his … his long legs. Yes. And his broad shoulders. To the time he looked after me when I had the flu. I mean, how many boyfriends do that? Exactly.
I’m so lucky. I really am.
I put my phone away, run my fingers through my hair, and glance at the clock behind the bar. Forty minutes before the flight. Not long to go now. Nerves are starting to creep over me like little insects, and I take a deep gulp of vodka, draining my glass.
It’ll be fine, I tell myself for the zillionth time. It’ll be absolutely fine.
I’m not frightened. I’m just … I’m just …
OK. I’m frightened.
16. I’m scared of flying.
I’ve never told anyone I’m scared of flying. It just sounds so lame. And I mean, it’s not like I’m phobic or anything. It’s not like I can’t get on a plane. It’s just … all things being equal, I would prefer to be on the ground.
On the way up here this morning, I was so excited about the meeting, it was almost a distraction from my fear. But even so, I kept feeling bursts of panic. I kept having to close my eyes and take deep breaths. And ever since I landed, it’s been ticking away at the back of my mind: I have to fly back again. I have to get on a plane again.
I never used to be scared. But over the last few years, I’ve gradually got more and more nervous. I know it’s completely irrational. I know thousands of people fly every day and it’s practically safer than lying in bed. You have less chance of being in a plane crash than … than finding a man in London, or something.
But still. I just don’t like it.
Maybe I’ll have another quick vodka.
By the time my flight is called, I’ve drunk two more vodkas and am feeling a lot more positive. I mean, Lissy’s right. At least I made an impression, didn’t I? At least they’ll remember who I am.
As I stride toward the gate, clutching my briefcase, I almost start to feel like a confident businesswoman again. A couple of people smile at me as they pass, and I smile broadly back, feeling a warm glow of friendliness. You see. The world’s not so bad after all. It’s all j
ust a question of being positive. Anything can happen in life, can’t it? You never know what’s around the next corner.
I reach the entrance to the plane, and there at the door, taking boarding passes, is the air hostess with the French plait who was sitting at the bar earlier.
“Hi again!” I say, smiling. “This is a coincidence!”
The air hostess stares at me. “Hi. Erm …”
“What?” Why does she look embarrassed?
“Sorry. It’s just … Did you know that …” She gestures awkwardly to my front.
“What is it?” I say pleasantly. I look down, and freeze, aghast.
Somehow my silky shirt has been unbuttoning itself while I’ve been walking along. Three buttons have come undone and it’s gaping at the front.
My bra shows. My pink lacy bra. The one that went a bit blobby in the wash.
That’s why those people were smiling at me. Not because the world is a nice place but because I’m Pink-Blobby-Bra Woman.
“Thanks,” I mutter, and do up the buttons with fumbling fingers, my face hot with humiliation.
“It hasn’t been your day, has it?” says the air hostess sympathetically, holding out a hand for my boarding pass. “Sorry. I couldn’t help overhearing earlier.”
“That’s all right.” I raise a half smile. “No, it hasn’t been the best day of my life.” There’s a short silence as she studies my boarding pass.
“Tell you what,” she says in a low voice. “Would you like an onboard upgrade?”
“A what?”
“Come on. You deserve a break.”
“Really? But … can you just upgrade people like that?”
“If there are spare seats, we can. We use our discretion. And this flight is so short.” She gives me a conspiratorial smile. “Just don’t tell anyone, OK?”
She leads me into the front section of the plane and gestures to a big, wide seat. I’ve never been upgraded before in my life! I can’t quite believe she’s really letting me do this.
“Is this first class?” I whisper, taking in the hushed luxury atmosphere. A man in a smart suit is tapping at a laptop to my right, and two elderly women in the corner are plugging themselves into headsets.
“Business class. There’s no first class on this flight.” She lifts her voice to a normal volume. “Is everything OK for you?”
“It’s perfect! Thanks very much.”
“No problem.” She smiles again and walks away, and I push my briefcase under the seat in front.
Wow. This really is lovely. Comfortable seats, and footrests, and everything. This is going to be a completely pleasurable experience from start to finish. I reach for my seat belt and buckle it up nonchalantly, trying to ignore the flutters of apprehension in my stomach.
“Would you like some champagne?” It’s my friend the air hostess, beaming down at me.
“That would be great,” I say. “Thanks!”
Champagne!
“And for you, sir? Some champagne?”
There’s a man in the seat next to mine who hasn’t even looked up yet. He’s wearing jeans and an old sweatshirt and is staring out of the window. As he turns to answer, I catch a glimpse of dark eyes, stubble, a deep frown etched on his forehead.
“Just a brandy. Thanks.”
His voice is dry and has an American accent. I’m about to ask him politely where he’s from, but he immediately turns back and stares out the window again.
Which is fine, because to be honest I’m not much in the mood for talking either.
Two
OK. The truth is, I don’t like this.
I know it’s business class; I know it’s all a lovely luxury. But my stomach is still a tight knot of fear.
It’s about ten minutes into the flight, and they’ve switched off the seat belt signs. While we were taking off, I counted very slowly with my eyes closed, and that kind of worked. But I ran out of steam at three hundred and fifty, so now I’m just sitting, sipping champagne, attempting to read an article called “30 Things to Do Before You’re 30” in Cosmo. I’m trying really hard to look like a relaxed business-class top marketing executive. But every tiny sound makes me start; every vibration makes me catch my breath.
With an outward veneer of calm, I reach for the laminated safety instructions and run my eyes over them for the fifth time. Safety exits. Brace position. If life jackets are required, please assist the elderly and children first. Oh, God—
Why am I even looking at this? How will it help me to gaze at pictures of little stick people jumping into the ocean while their plane explodes behind them? I stuff the safety instructions quickly back in their pocket and take a gulp of champagne.
To distract myself, I look around the cabin. The two elderly women I noticed earlier are both laughing at something. The guy with the laptop is still typing. Behind him is a little blond boy of maybe two, sitting with a beautiful dark girl. As I watch, the boy drops a plastic wheel on the floor. It rolls away, and immediately he starts to wail. The two elderly ladies pause in their laughter, and I’m aware of the man next to me looking up.
“Is everything OK? Can I help?” An air hostess is rushing up to the toddler’s seat.
“Don’t worry.” The dark girl waves her arm. “He’ll calm down.”
“Are you his mum?” The air hostess smiles at her.
“Nanny.” She reaches in her bag and produces a lolly, which she starts to unwrap. “He’ll keep quiet now.”
“Excuse me,” I say. “He dropped his toy.” Everyone turns to look at me and I flush. “That might be why he’s crying,” I explain.
The dark girl looks at me without expression. “It’s just a piece of plastic. He’ll get over it.” She jams the lolly in the boy’s mouth and he starts to suck it, but tears are rolling down his cheeks.
Poor little thing. Isn’t she even going to try to get the toy?
Suddenly my eye is caught by a patch of bright color on the floor. It’s the wheel. It’s rolled under a row of empty seats, right over to the window.
“Oh!” I say. “Look—there it is!”
To my slight disbelief, the nanny shrugs. “He’s not bothered,” she says.
“He is bothered!” I retort. “Don’t worry,” I add to the child, “I’ll help you.”
Telling myself it can make absolutely no difference to the safety of the plane if I stand up, I unbuckle my seat belt. Somehow I force myself to my feet. Then, with everyone’s eyes on me, I bend coolly down to retrieve the wheel.
OK. Now I can’t reach the bloody thing.
Well, I’m not giving up, after I’ve made this big deal about it. Without looking at anyone, I lie right down on the plane floor.
Oh, God. It’s more wobbly than I expected.
What if the floor suddenly collapsed and I fell through the sky?
No. Stop it. Nothing’s going to collapse. I shuffle forward, stretch as far as possible … and at last my fingers close around the plastic wheel. As nonchalantly as I can, I get to my feet, banging my elbow on a seat tray, and hand the plastic wheel to the little boy.
“Here,” I say in my best Superman, all-in-a-day’s-work voice. “I think this is yours.”
He clasps it tightly to his chest, and I glow with pride.
A moment later, he hurls the wheel on the floor, and it rolls away, to almost exactly the same place.
The nanny gives a stifled giggle, and I can see one of the elderly ladies smiling.
“Right,” I say after a pause. “Right. Well … enjoy your flight.”
I get back into my seat, trying to look unfazed, as though this is what I planned all along.
“Nice try,” says the American guy next to me, and I turn, suspicious. But he doesn’t look as if he’s laughing at me.
“Oh.” I hesitate. “Thanks.”
I buckle up my seat belt and reach for my magazine again. That’s it. I’m not moving from this seat again.
“Excuse me, madam.” An air hostess with red curls has a
ppeared by my side. “Are you traveling on business?”
“Yes.” I smooth down my hair. “Yes, I am.”
She hands me a leaflet titled “Executive Facilities,” on which there’s a photo of businesspeople talking animatedly in front of a clipboard with a wavy graph on it.
“This is some information about our new business-class lounge at Gatwick. We provide full conference call facilities and meeting rooms, should you require them. Would you be interested?”
I am a top businesswoman. I am a top high-flying business executive.
“Quite possibly,” I say, looking casually at the leaflet. “Yes, I may well use one of these rooms to … brief my team. I have a large team, and obviously they need a lot of briefing. On business matters.” I clear my throat. “Mostly … multi-logistical.”
“I see.” The hostess looks a little nonplussed.
“Actually, while you’re here,” I add, “I was just wondering. Is that sound normal?”
“What sound?” The air hostess cocks her head.
“That sound. That kind of whining, coming from the wing?”
“I can’t hear anything.” She looks at me sympathetically. “Are you a nervous flyer?”
“No!” I say at once, and give a little laugh. “No, I’m not nervous! I just … was wondering. Just out of interest.”
“I’ll see if I can find out for you,” she says kindly. “Here you are, sir. Some information about our executive facilities at Gatwick.”
The American man takes his leaflet wordlessly and slips it into the seat pocket in front of him without even looking at it. The hostess moves on, staggering a little as the plane gives a bump.
Why is the plane bumping?
Oh, God. An avalanche of fear hits me with no warning. This is madness. Madness! Sitting in this big, heavy box with no way of escape, thousands and thousands of feet above the ground …
I can’t do this on my own. I have an overpowering need to talk to someone. Someone reassuring. Someone safe.
Connor.
Instinctively I fish out my mobile phone, but immediately the air hostess swoops down on me.
“I’m afraid you can’t use that on board the plane,” she says with a bright smile. “Could you please ensure that it’s switched off?”
Can You Keep a Secret? Page 2
