Mile High Guy (12 page)

‘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.

‘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.

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 unless 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.