A Perfect Life: A Novel (30 page)

She went to the desk in the lounge at eleven, to make sure that everything was on schedule. The woman looked at her computer, and then back at Blaise with a reassuring smile.

“You’re fine.”

“What time will we be boarding?” All Blaise wanted to do was get on the plane. She hadn’t texted Salima about the delay. She didn’t want to worry her, and she would still be home with plenty of time, or just enough to help Salima get ready and dress her.

“Eleven-fifty,” the Air France agent said, still smiling. But the dazzling airline smiles were beginning to look fake.

“Then the flight must be late. It’s supposed to leave at noon. If you board three hundred passengers starting at eleven-fifty, we’re going to leave an hour late.”

“We always make it up in the air,” the woman said. They were the kind of answers that were supposed to lull naïve passengers into believing they were on time when they weren’t. Blaise knew better. She traveled too much not to know the pat phrases they used when they were lying to their passengers. Blaise did not want to be lied to this time.

“Is the plane here?” Blaise asked, sounding curt, and the woman in the Air France uniform got instantly defensive. Passengers like Blaise who demanded real information were their least favorite to deal with.

“Of course,” she said with a haughty look. But at twelve-fifteen they hadn’t boarded yet, and Blaise was beginning to seriously panic.

“Look, I have to get to New York as soon as possible. I have the feeling you don’t have the plane here yet. I can’t play around here. If I fly back to Paris, what can I get on, to get me to New York?” It would slow her down, she knew, but maybe less than a flight from Nice that might not leave for several hours, and she no longer believed a word the woman said. History had proven her right too
many times before, and this time it really mattered to her. She would rather have kept the president of the United States waiting than be late for Salima’s recital or, worse, miss it entirely. She shuddered at the thought.

The agent checked her computer again. She said that she had a flight leaving for Paris in ten minutes, and the doors weren’t closed yet, but she said that Blaise’s bags were on the direct flight, and they couldn’t put her on the Paris flight until they got her bags off the one she had already checked into.

“Which means I can’t make the Paris flight. Okay, let’s get my bags off now. What
can
you get me onto after you do?”

“I have a flight leaving for Paris in an hour.”

“Perfect.” She was reminding herself to breathe and not lose control.

“But it’s full, except for one coach seat in the back row. Will you take it?” she asked with an evil grin, delighted to be punishing Blaise for the trouble she was causing.

“I’ll take it,” Blaise said without hesitation. The woman punched something into the computer, and then shook her head, while Blaise tried to resist the overwhelming urge to strangle her.

“Sorry. There was an error in the computer. There’s an infant in that seat. The flight is completely booked.”

“When can you get me to Paris, and from there to New York?”

“We have a three o’clock,” she said primly. “You can connect with our five-forty flight to Kennedy.”

“What time does it land?” Blaise asked through clenched teeth.

“It lands at seven fifty-five
P.M
. local time.” Eight o’clock. Blaise
did a rapid calculation. If she landed at eight, she’d get her bags and be out of customs by nine, and in the city at ten, completely missing the recital.

“That won’t work,” Blaise said with a deep sigh of exasperation. “What other city can you get me out of? London, Zurich, Frankfurt. Anything you’ve got. I have to be in New York City by six
P.M.
, which means I can land no later than four.” It was one
P.M
. in Nice by then, and the direct flight was going nowhere. They weren’t even boarding the plane. “I still need to get my bags off this plane.”

“We have a baggage handler strike here today, just a partial one. One out of three baggage handlers didn’t come to work.” Welcome to France.

“Terrific.” She was ready to kill somebody and would have gladly left her bags in France if she could just get to New York, with or without them. She didn’t care. But even that wasn’t possible because of security.

And with that, they announced that her original nine
A.M.
flight was leaving at three
P.M
. from Nice, and would be boarding at two ten. Blaise did another rapid calculation. The flight would arrive at five
P.M
. local time. She could be in the city at seven. But she couldn’t get Salima ready and take her to the concert. She’d have to meet her there, and it would be close. If there were any further delays, she would be screwed, and despite the best of intentions, she would miss the recital Salima had prepared for months.

“It sounds like the three o’clock from here is going to be my best bet,” Blaise said to the agent.

“I always thought so, madam,” she said with pursed lips.

“No, you thought so when it was leaving at noon, and before that at nine
A.M.
It hasn’t done either. And if the damn plane isn’t here from Paris now, so we can board at two ten, I’m going to have hysterics in the airport,” Blaise said, beginning to seriously lose her cool. “I
have
to get to New York.”

“I’m sure you will, madam. Try to be patient.”

“Look,” Blaise said, willing to lie through her teeth if it would impress them, “my name is Blaise McCarthy, I am a journalist in network news, and I have a meeting in New York to interview the president of the United States tonight. And I need you to get me there.” Blaise was willing to do anything to get on a plane to New York. Even lie. She couldn’t disappoint Salima again.

“Very well, we’ll preboard you,” she said, as though preboarded seats would leave sooner than the others. It made no difference, Blaise knew, except that you got a jump start on the champagne, and she couldn’t drink now anyway, which might have helped. She hadn’t had this frustrating a day in years. And all that mattered to her was Salima and being there for her recital. She would have paid double for the seat on the plane if they could guarantee getting her there on time.

“Shall I still take your bags off, Miss McCarthy?” she said with a vacant smile.

“Of course not. We just agreed that I’m taking this flight to New York. Why would you take my bags off now, especially when you didn’t before, when I did want them taken off and you said you had a strike.”

“We do.”

“Fine. Just leave my bags on.” She had the ticket stubs for her
checked luggage in her purse. She texted Salima then that her flight had been delayed, but she would get there. She couldn’t meet her at the apartment, and would meet her at the concert hall. She would be there no matter what. It was seven
A.M.
in New York by then, and she was sure that Salima was still asleep. Instead, she texted back within seconds.

“Please, please, please get there. I need you.” Her words ripped Blaise’s heart out, and she started to feel sick. It had been a stressful morning, and she was terrified there would be some further delay.

“I promise I’ll be there,” she texted back, and Salima answered back with “ok.” Blaise prayed she was telling Salima the truth.

After that, Blaise waited tensely until they announced the flight to New York, which began boarding at two fifteen, another five minutes late. Blaise headed toward her gate, and already exhausted, she boarded the plane and took her seat, and turned down magazines, newspapers, pajamas, toiletries, orange juice, and champagne. It felt like a bazaar with everything they offered. She accepted a bottle of water and sank back into her seat, praying they would close the doors soon. She texted Salima that she was on the plane, and then had to turn off her phone before she got a response. And at three fifteen they slowly rolled away from the gate. She should have been landing in New York by then. If she had, it would have worked perfectly. Now she wasn’t sure.

They finally took off and headed toward New York, and Blaise sat nervously, glancing at her watch for the first two hours and then gave up. There was nothing more she could do. She would have to do all her rushing on the ground at JFK. And before she took a nap in the comfortable seat, she told the purser that she needed to verify
VIP assistance on the ground, to get through the terminal and customs quickly. She told him the story about interviewing the president too. She didn’t know if he believed her or not, but he said he’d check what he could do. And after that she watched a movie for a while and fell asleep. She didn’t wake up until they were serving the meal, most of which she didn’t eat. And after that three different flight attendants asked her for autographs. She wasn’t in the mood but signed them anyway. She was tense for the rest of the flight, checking every half hour on their ETA.

“I thought you were supposed to make up time in the air,” she said, looking anxious.

“Yes, but we’re fighting headwinds today.” Blaise felt like she was fighting all of Air France, headwinds, and the universe. It had been a nightmare so far, of contradictions, delays, and lies, which were standard fare these days for flying on all airlines in every part of the world. It wasn’t unique to Air France.

She went back to sleep then under the blanket, and felt the gentle roundness of her stomach. She would be five months pregnant in a few days, and she was wearing loose shirts and tops that covered the slight bulge. Unless you looked very carefully, it really didn’t show yet, but she knew it would soon. She had managed to conceal Salima until she was six months pregnant, but after that the cat was out of the bag. She had been a young network star then, just starting out, and people thought it was cute, even her producers. She had been twenty-seven years old. She didn’t know how cute anyone would think it was at forty-seven and unmarried. She suspected that Zack would be less than amused, particularly if it caused a problem for them. Blaise intended to see that it didn’t,
but she was concerned. It could even start Zack on a bad roll again, looking for another Susie Quentin. Or worse, another Blaise McCarthy. But there was nothing she could do—she would have to take a few weeks off to have the baby. She smoothed her shirt over her belly, and lay in her seat, “praying” the plane toward New York. So far they were on time, and the only thing that could delay them further now was if they had to circle the airport in New York instead of land, due to storms or traffic.

She had tea and a light meal before they landed—it was foie gras, smoked salmon, cheese, and champagne. She skipped the champagne and ate the cheese and foie gras, and twenty minutes before they landed, the flight attendants put everything away and asked them to bring up their seats. Blaise went to brush her hair and suddenly realized that she was going to have to wear the dark blue linen slacks and white shirt she had on, and sandals, to the recital in New York. She wouldn’t have time to go home and change. She quickly brushed her teeth, combed her hair, and put on makeup, and she looked very chic and impeccable when she went back to her seat. Even in casual clothes, she looked like a star. But she was chic for the French Riviera, not New York. At least Salima didn’t care, as long as she was there for the performance, and she prayed God she would be.

It was 5:01 in New York when they landed, and there was an Air France VIP escort waiting for her. They took her off the plane first and literally ran with her to immigration, and stayed with her while she waited for her bags. A porter and the VIP person took her to customs, and she said she had nothing to declare. It was 5:29 when she left customs and raced outside to the curb. Mark had arranged
a town car for her since Tully was with Salima, and Blaise texted her as soon as she got in the car, or tried to, only to discover that her cell phone was dead. So Salima had no idea that her mother had landed and was in the car. She tried to call her from the car phone, but Salima’s phone was off.

The driver wove her expertly through traffic, and it was six forty-five when they approached Lincoln Center in rush-hour traffic, where Salima would be singing at Alice Tully Hall. Blaise got out and literally ran across the plaza, to the theater, and produced the ticket she had fortunately put in her purse in Nice. She was so glad she had it with her. Lucianna had arranged a front-row seat for her, as well as seats for Becky and Mark. Blaise was out of breath when she took her place between them, and Mark looked relieved when she got there and beamed. Blaise glanced up at the empty stage, with the grand piano on it. There were two other students performing after Salima, and she was scheduled to go on first. Blaise had just made it by the skin of her teeth, but she suddenly realized that this was the first time she ever had. And she had never tried this hard to come home. Something had changed. Suddenly not being there for Salima seemed wrong, and moving heaven and earth to be there for her was right. And Blaise certainly had.

The audience took their places and the stage manager turned down the lights, as Blaise held her breath, and a moment later Salima walked onto the stage with Lucianna, who left her front and center, close to the edge of the stage. She was wearing a sad, worried look, and Blaise realized that Salima still didn’t know her mother was there. And with a sudden surprising gesture, Blaise left
her seat, took two steps toward the stage, and said just loudly enough for Salima to hear, “I’m here,” and suddenly Salima beamed. She had heard her. And a moment later the performance began. She sang like an angel, the crowd applauded thunderously when she took her bow, and Lucianna led her proudly off the stage into the wings. The thrill of victory was on Salima’s face, and Blaise hadn’t stopped crying while she sang. It had been the most beautiful night of her life.

Blaise found her backstage afterward, and Salima threw herself into her arms.

“You came! You did it! I didn’t think you would.”

“I damn near had to hijack a plane to do it. I nearly assaulted a ticket agent in Nice in the first-class lounge. I got here two minutes before you walked onstage.”