Mile High Guy (17 page)

I ignore Mike’s puzzled expression and disappear back into my room.

I shut the d
oor and immediately run to the
mirror. Oh Jesus. I knew I wouldn’t exactly win a
beauty contest this morning but I didn’t realise I was looking
this
shit. My mascara has run half way down my face as I forgot to remove it last night and my skin is puffy and blotchy. I am so annoyed with myself for letting one of the pilots see me in this state. I’ll be the laughing stock of the airline. Hmm. Bet Mike is glad he picked Amy
over me. I’m sure he’s thanking his lucky stars he left me in the bar with Derek. Well, good luck to him, I think. I’m not going to worry about what he thinks. He might be cute enough but I wouldn’t go
near
him. Not if he was the last available man on the planet.

I sit down on the bed and wonder what to do with the rest of my day. I’m sure as hell not going to waste it thinking about Mike anyway. God, no. I’d like to go down to the leisure centre and sweat off last night’s drink fest in the sauna but am afraid of bumping into Mike in a near-naked state. He’s already seen my very unsexy just-got-out-of-bed look, but I simply refuse to let him see my cellulite too!

I think I’ll go down to Boston Common for a walk, that should clear my head. Then I might have
a root around Filenes’s basement to see if I can pick up any bargains. Mind you, with the head I’ve on me this morning, maybe a walk in the park is all I’ll have the energy for.

It takes me an hour to get ready. Thank God I’ve my heavy coat with me. Walking around Boston when you’re not appropriately dressed can be miserable.
Once outside, I immediately feel better. There’s something very claustrophobic about hotel rooms. Must be the air conditioning. It’s nippy though. Outside the hotel foyer, I hug myself against the icy morning chill.

When I get to Newbury Street, I wander around marvelling at the quaint little boutiques that line the street. If I’d lots of money I’d hang out here all the time, I think. I love everything about this street, especially the gorgeous little shops that sell exotic-looking ice cream even in the depth of winter. I walk and walk and walk and I’m soon feeling much better. Walking in Boston is therapeutic. My hangover is rapidly disappearing. Last night seems like months ago now. I’m wondering how Adam is getting on in New York. I’d half expected him to send me a text or something but there hasn’t been a peep from him. He’s probably really busy, I tell myself. He’d said something about meeting a powerful film executive. Adam wants to get into movies. He told me that. He doesn’t want to be a mere TV star all his life. Doesn’t want to be typecast. He has visions.

I love walking alone. It helps me think. I’m sure Amy is still in bed with the remote control watching
some mindless soap. I still can’t get over her behaviour last night. What did she think she was playing at, abandoning me like that?

After a while I’m in Boston Common and I sit on a bench watching kids skate on a frozen pond. The park looks really Christmassy, like a postcard. I wish I could stay in Boston a while longer. I’m not looking forward to going home. I never am.

I love my job, don’t get me wrong. Love the perks and the cities I visit. I just don’t like working the actual flights. I did at first because it was a novelty but I get bored easily, and now I just wish there was a bit more to my life. I fly to places and then fly back again but sometimes I just want to fly somewhere and keep flying.

I get up from the park bench because it’s too
cold. I consider heading to Filenes’s but then decide I can’t face the crowds. I’ll do it another time. Right now, I just want something to eat. I make for the nearest deli.

At the deli I help myself to a little bit of everything. The choice of food is wonderful and everything seems to be low fat so I can fill my plate without feeling guilty. I wish there were delis like this back in Dublin where I could always eat well. It’s a struggle to stay slim living in Ireland because even the salads are laden with calories.

After lunch, I head back to the hotel. Pick-up is in five hours. The coach will collect us outside the hotel. And then it’ll be back to Logan Airport where we’ll face the long flight home. The flight home is usually a lot shorter than the flight over, especially
if we’ve the wind behind us. But it always feels longer. Yes, coming home always feels a lot longer.

Back in my hotel room I wonder if I should grab a couple of hours kip before my flight. If I can do it, the flight home will be more bearable. Then
again, I don’t want to lie in bed tossing and turning with one eye on the dreaded clock. That often happens. I’m not one of these people who conks out the minute my head hits the pillow. I wish I was.

Sometimes I see passengers sleeping on the short
hop from Dublin to Manchester. As soon as we take off, they’re out for the count and wake up as the wheels hit the runway. They must be very peaceful, those people. I can never sleep because my mind is always racing. And I’m always worrying about things. Stupid things. I read somewhere that most things people worry about never happen, and the things that do happen, there’s nothing you can do about them anyway. Therefore worrying is completely pointless. But that nevertheless doesn’t stop me.

I worry a lot. About people not liking me and not achieving everything I want to. Sometimes I worry about being left on the shelf, but equally worry about marrying somebody I don’t really love. I worry about not being able to have children but
also worry that having children will take away my freedom. Most of all though, I worry about really small, really insignificant things.

Like my roster.

My roster is something I’m never terribly happy about. In fact I resent the fact that somebody I don’t know is organising my life, deciding what time I get up at, what country I’ll have lunch in, and who I get to spend the weekend with.

If I were a successful scriptwriter I could write whenever I pleased, in whatever country I chose. I would write my own roster, and not even stick to it if I didn’t want to. Now somebody else does that. Somebody else decides if I get Christmas or New Year’s Eve off. They decide what time I must set my alarm and God do I hate that.

One day, I’m going to do it
my
way. That’s the dream anyway. I want to live my own life. And not have to ask someone for permission for a weekend off. If I go to the doctor it should be own private business. I don’t want to get a written note explaining everything to my employer. God, some things should be sacred!

I get undressed. I think I’ll have a bath anyway. A nice hot bath where I can relax using the luxurious hotel bath gel. A bath is a luxury I rarely indulge in at home. Mainly because there’s somebody always in the bathroom. And if there’s not, there’s always someone trying to get in.

If I had my way, I’d have a bath every day and then go to the hairdresser too because that’s the
secret to looking great. No matter how tired you are, if your hair is shiny and blow-dried, you can get away with murder.

I’ve one toe in the water when the phone rings.
Dammit. I bet it’s housekeeping wondering can they clean my room. Well no, they bloody can’t, I think irritably, retrieving my toe from the bubble bath and reaching for the phone.

‘Hi, it’s Amy,’ says the voice although it doesn’t really sound like Amy. It sounds like an impersonator. What does she want anyway?

‘Hello.’ I don’t sound very enthusiastic. Not surprisingly really since Amy is not my favourite person since her surprise party-piece last night.

‘How are you?’

‘I’m fine. In fact I’m actually about to get into the bath Amy so if you don’t mind . . .’

‘Oh I’m sorry, I really am. I was just ringing to apologise about last night.’

‘What happened last night?’ I pretend not to care what she’s talking about. I’m not going to give her the satisfaction of knowing that she hurt me.

‘I left without saying goodbye.’

‘Oh yes. So you did. I’d completely forgotten. You see, Derek and I were having such a laugh, we didn’t even notice you’d gone.’

‘Oh.’ Amy sounds subdued.

‘Yes. Well see you later.’

‘Katie?’

‘Yes?’
My bath is getting cold. Can’t we talk later? Like on the plane? Or preferably never?

‘I think Donald is cheating on me.’

I don’t say anything. My blood has run cold. How much does she know? Did somebody tell her about Debbie? Does she know I know? Suddenly I don’t care about my bath any more. I actually feel sorry for Amy. There’s nothing more horrible than suspecting someone you love, or even like, is cheating on you.

‘I’ll come around to you and we can talk properly,’ I tell her. ‘What room are you in again?’

* * *

Amy looks like I looked this morning when I bumped into Mike, only worse. Her eyes are red and her skin is ropey-looking.

‘You don’t look well at all,’ I say grimly.

‘Thanks.’

She looks miserable in fact.

‘So,’ I sit on the end of her bed. ‘What makes you think Donald is cheating?’

‘Well I’m not one hundred per cent sure,’ she leans forward in the bed. ‘But I have my suspicions.’

‘Oh?’ I play dumb.

‘Yes. So last night I was quizzing Mike to see if I could get any information out of him.’

Aha. It’s all beginning to make sense now. So Amy wasn’t trying to lure Mike into the sack last night after all. What a relief! She was merely using him as a means of finding out information. Well, that makes me feel a lot better.

‘I hope you didn’t think I was ignoring you in the bar. Donald’s strange behaviour has been on my mind for quite a while now, so last night I just grabbed the opportunity to get some inside information. You know yourself.’

‘Mmm.’

‘Yes, and I didn’t want to let on that I was Donald’s girlfriend, so I started asking Mike about lots of other pilots so he’d think I was, you know, just taking a general interest.’

‘Very wise.’

‘I asked him about Gary Teller and his girlfriend Shelley. And then about Tony Kent and his fiancée Aileen and then about Donald and . . . I pretended I’d forgotten the name of his girlfriend.’

‘Oh my God, I’ll have to remember that one.’ I chuckle.

‘I wasn’t happy with the answer I got though.’ Amy’s face crumples and horror of horrors, a lone tear rolls down her face.

‘Who is she?’

I’m starting a slow descent towards panic. I’m absolutely dreading the answer to this one. Does she know Debbie is my friend?

‘Rose.’

‘Sorry?’

‘He said her name was Rose. He’d met her at a wedding they were both at recently.’

What!

‘How recent?’ I blurt out.

‘Last week.’

Oh my God. Shock and double shock. I wonder if Debbie knows anything about this? How dare Donald three-time my best friend like this! I’ll bloody kill him!

‘As soon as I heard that, I wanted to leave the bar straight away,’ Amy continues, reaching for a tissue. ‘I felt really bad because Mike really didn’t want to leave.’

‘Did he not?’ I ask, suddenly perking up.

Amy shakes her head. ‘I got the feeling he was pretty pissed off for being dragged away.’

‘Yeah?’

Now, I’m suddenly seeing Mike in a brand new
light.

‘Not that he said anything,’ Amy adds hastily.

‘Of course not.’

I feel awful now for being so rude earlier on.

‘I just told him I was sick and needed to go back to the hotel.’

‘I understand.’

‘And then this morning he called to my room with croissants and freshly squeezed orange juice. Said he wanted to make sure I was feeling okay.’

I feel jealous. What happened to my croissants?

‘He’s cute, isn’t he?’

‘Hmm?’

‘Mike,’ Amy says. ‘He’s pretty cute.’

‘Oh I don’t know,’ I shrug. ‘I’m seeing somebody at the moment so I don’t really notice other men.’

‘Is it serious?’

Is it? I don’t know, do I?

‘I’m not sure.’

Should I tell her about Adam? Is it safe?

‘I hope he treats you well,’ Amy says with a self-pitying sniff.

‘All men are bastards at the end of the day,’ I say, in a feeble attempt to bring a smile to her face.

It doesn’t work though. Her face crumples again. She reaches for another tissue.

‘Speaking of bastards . . .’ I venture, wondering if I’m treading on thin ice here but going ahead and treading on it anyway, ‘. . . what were you going
to tell me yesterday about Adam Kirrane?’

There. I’ve done it. It wasn’t too bad. Now I’m holding my breath, already afraid of the answer.

‘Why? Is he a bastard too?’ Amy asks after she finishes blowing her nose.

‘Um, I don’t know. He’s good-looking and all good-looking men are bastards, aren’t they? I mean, the only men who aren’t bastards are ugly, because they can’t get away with treating women like shit.’