Mile High Guy (3 page)

Looking out the window I can see Ireland’s Eye in the ocean so we must be very close. Somebody
grabs my skirt and wonders if the duty free bar is still open. I look at him like he’s completely mad, then run for my seat and strap myself in.

Thump. We land. I am beaming at the passengers now and they are all saying what lovely girls we are. Americans love the Irish air hostesses. They say we’re the nicest girls in the world, still smiling after all this time. I don’t know about everybody else but the reason
I
am smiling is because it is nearly time to go home and I have managed to survive yet another transatlantic flight.

I stand at the plane door wishing everybody a safe onward journey and I’m really glad I don’t have red hair or my name isn’t Eileen O’Hara.
Americans love red hair and Irish names. But because my name is Katie and I have dyed-blonde hair, that makes me a lot less interesting in their eyes.

Once the last passenger has got off, I do a quick security check to make sure nobody has left
anything ‘suspicious’ on board. But what I’m really doing is checking to see if anyone has left an interesting magazine like
Marie Claire
,
People
or
Vanity Fair
. My luck is down.
Somebody has left a copy of
The Enquirer
but it is soaking wet. It looks like
tea but I don’t like to take a chance so I leave it. I also leave all the torn copies of
USA Today
that are flung around the floor among the empty plastic teacups and filthy tissues. Now I’m ready to go home.

I meet Debbie at the carousel and we wait for our luggage. The reason we all carry such large suitcases is because we need them for all the ‘essential’ shopping we do in the States. Debbie is staring at me a bit weirdly. I smile back at her as if she just
looks like that all the time. She leans towards me and whispers something into my ear. I think she calls me a bitch so I don’t answer. I’m sure I’ve heard it wrong. I mean Debbie is a friend of mine so why would she be calling me names? But when
she repeats herself, I turn to her in surprised shock. She grabs my hand and slaps something into it.

It’s a blue boarding pass, which means it’s a first class boarding pass. I wonder if this is her idea of a little joke. I know it’s been a long night but she
hasn’t been drinking so there’s no excuse really. I take a closer look at the crumpled blue boarding pass. And I notice there’s a mobile number scribbled on it. I then take a look at the printed name on the card. It reads Mr A Kirrane. And I freeze. Because suddenly I’m enlightened. And Debbie whispers in my ear again. ‘He told me to give it to you,’ she hisses. ‘Bitch.’

I’d like to tell you that TV stars give me their number all the time. And that it’s no big deal. But you’d know I was lying. Because I’m really just an ordinary girl with a pretty ordinary life. Although I’m always kind of hoping this might change and
that one day I will in fact have a
great
life.

But a TV star giving me his boarding pass with his phone number on it is definitely a first. I’ve been approached by a few nutcases on flights all right, but that’s not exactly what you’d call flattering.
Because you know those guys are just chancers who ask everybody out. However nobody remotely famous has ever approached me before, so this is really pretty exciting.

Although I’m slightly ashamed to admit it, as soon as I get home I quickly google Adam’s name on the Internet. Just to be sure the guy is authentic. Then when I see all the hits he has on his fan site, well I’m more than a little impressed. Wow! I
mean this guy isn’t just big in the States, he’s massive. There are a zillion sites dedicated to him. And he has given his phone number to me. Imagine! Little old me. Katie, the air hostess.

I’m not going to ring him however. No. No
way
. Never. Well . . . not straight away anyway. Not for at least a day or two. Oh I know you probably think I’m mad, but I do have my pride and don’t want him thinking he’s some big star and I’m just another air head. He probably hands out his number
ten times a day. Yes, indeed. It’s probably a little game he plays to massage his massive ego. Well I’m not playing so I throw his number in the bin. Actually I don’t. But I do put it in the drawer of my desk where I can’t see it. Just so I won’t be at
all tempted.

I decide then to take off my uniform before going to bed. This might not sound like too much hard work but believe me after a transatlantic flight, anything that requires even the slightest bit of energy, such as removing a jacket, blouse, skirt,
tights and a scarf, is sheer torture.

I shouldn’t really tell you this in case you think
I’m a slob, but I’d sometimes sleep in my uniform in school in order to have more time to sleep on in the morning. And now, sometimes, when I come in from work I just fall on the bed fully-clothed and conk out.

I’m just about to let my hair loose from the awful bun they make me wear at work, when my mum bursts through the door.

‘Oh hello love, you look completely wrecked,’ she smiles while squinting at me. ‘And your roots need to be done. They’re dreadful.’

‘Get the hell out of my room,’ I say. ‘And stop insulting me for once in your life.’

Well actually, I don’t quite say that. No of course not. You see, although my gut instinct is to shout at her, I’m aware that I still live at home rent-free. Therefore although my mother has a habit of insulting me on a regular basis, I’m not really allowed to insult her back. Maybe you don’t understand. Perhaps your mum is one of those mums you see on American TV and on gravy ads, standing at an oven wearing an apron and a huge smile. If she is, you’re lucky. I often wish I’d a mum like that. One who’d told me I was a great kid. But unfortunately when God was giving out cheerful mums, I must have been at the very end of the queue. In fact I can’t have been anywhere near the queue. I probably couldn’t find it.

I don’t pay rent but I do pay for my keep here by doing nearly all the ironing and constantly buying
booze for my folks in the duty-free. My mother sometimes comes on trips away with me and stays in my hotel. She especially loves New York and stays in the other bed in my room. She has a happy knack of waking me at three in the morning by putting on
the kettle. I hear it whistling in the corner of the room and every time I wake up with fright.

She always looks astonished to see me sitting up in bed and says, ‘I didn’t wake you, did, I? It’s just that it’s now eight in the morning back in Ireland.’

That’s another thing about my mum. She has a very annoying habit of pointing out the time difference wherever we are. Even if we’re only in France. Dad’s convinced my mum is going to be flying somewhere one day, only to meet herself coming back.

Poor Dad. He’s just such a quiet man. I often wonder how himself and Mum got together. I mean, she really does talk non-stop, only pausing every now and then to say, ‘Isn’t that right George?’

And Dad just nods. He nods more than Noddy ever did. But I think he does it just to keep the peace. He’s all for an easy life. That’s my opinion anyway. After all, he can’t really agree with her on everything, can he? I mean doesn’t he have opinions
of his own? I often wonder what Mum sees in Dad and vice versa. I wonder how they ever got together. Isn’t love odd?

Okay, I know you’re probably thinking I’ve no
right to complain. After all, my parents raised me and they’re still kind of stuck with me, God love them. But my living arrangements are not entirely my choice. I would definitely move out immediately if there was any possible way I could get a mortgage.
But the last time I went to a building society the smug man in the suit, sitting behind the desk, had a right old laugh at me when I showed him my payslip. I remember leaving his little office, positively fuming. I remember thinking that one day,
when I’m worth a million euro (after the screen play I’m writing is picked up by Hollywood) I’ll never invest my money with that particular building society.

But in the meantime I haven’t even written my script yet, never mind tried to sell it, and I know I’m never going to be very wealthy working as an air hostess. So what else can I do? Well, I could try and marry a rich man. But he’d need to be good-looking too.

Of course every other Irish woman is also looking for this particular guy, so my chances of winning the top prize are pretty slim, aren’t they? And even
if I did marry such a creature I doubt he’d let me just travel the world on his credit card. He’d probably want me to start having babies right away, and I’d just like to wait a few more years before even contemplating that.

And as I said, the other thing I want to do is write a screenplay. Seriously. Wouldn’t it just be so fab to be a scriptwriter and live somewhere like LA where the sun shone all the time and people always told you to ‘have a nice day’ even if you just bought a cup of coffee from them?

Well, that’s the big plan. I’m hoping to write some kind of Irish tragedy with lots of violence and alcohol abuse thrown in. I reckon the Americans will love that and I can get a hunk like Brad Pitt to star in it with any luck, and then I’ll be kind of famous
and very rich. That’ll suit me because I don’t want to be like mega-famous with people hassling me on the streets. And stalkers sending me threatening letters. But it would be nice to have a lot of money and not have to set my alarm at three in the morning any more.

I must get cracking on the script soon. Oh you didn’t really think I’d started it already, did you? Oh God no, I’m not that organised. I’m terrible for talking about things but never really getting around to it. I’m like Mum who is always talking about losing a half stone but never quite managing it.

I love talking about my script though. Just as much as Mum likes buying slimming magazines and clothes that she thinks she’s going to fit into one day. Dad thinks we’re as bad as each other. He says I’ll never write a script and Mum will never lose
weight. But I will, I will, I will. I just need to sort some things out. Like tidying my room properly instead of just shoving everything into the wardrobe. I really need to sort everything out. And put stuff in files and clear a proper space for writing. Maybe
I’ll ask Dad to build me a writing shed where I can have some peace. Then again, maybe not.

My head hits the pillow. I’m so exhausted now I’m afraid if I go to sleep I’ll never wake up. Within minutes I’m dreaming of film deals, shopping in
Beverly Hills and whizzing down Rodeo Drive in a convertible with a certain Mr Adam Kirrane.

‘It’s Tim on the phone.’ Mum’s voice frightens the life out of me. ‘Will I tell him to call back?’

‘Yes,’ I mumble grumpily. I can’t believe my mother woke me just to tell me about something as unimportant as the fact that Tim phoned. I feel like I’m hungover now even though I haven’t been drinking and my mouth feels like the bottom of a wheelie bin. Why did Tim phone my mum anyway? He must have tried my mobile, which is switched off of course. Surely to God he realises that when my mobile is off, I’m fast asleep and obviously do not wish to be disturbed.

But the main reason why I’m
particularly
annoyed is, because in my dream, Adam was about to kiss me and now I’ll never know whether I let him or not. Dammit. I close my eyes again and try
to get back into my dream but can’t so I decide to get up.

I sit up in bed and wonder what I will do with myself today. The curtains are drawn so I’ve no idea what the weather’s like. In fact I don’t have the slightest clue what time it is either. Flying really does mess up your sleeping pattern. I don’t even know whether it’s day or night. Stretching myself like a cat in the sun, I contemplate my options. If it’s still morning I think I’ll go and have some breakfast but if it’s evening, I’ll have some lasagne and
a nice glass of wine. Or a bottle. Why not? I could murder a good bottle of Chablis just now.

I pull back the bedclothes, so thrilled that I actually have a couple of days off to look forward to. My uniform is flung on the floor so I’d better take it to the dry cleaner and get that boring task out of the way. Then maybe I’ll have some time for me and get cracking on my script. Hmmm. Maybe not though. I’m too tired to have to think about something as depressing as that just now.

I wander down to the kitchen to see if I can look up any more info on Adam on the computer. I kind of like him a bit more now because of my dream. And there’s a lovely photo of him on his website.
It’s probably airbrushed but who am I to complain? I wonder has Dad fixed the printer so I can print Adam’s mug out and stick it on my bedroom wall?

As luck would have it my Dad is glued to the PC looking up something trivial as usual. He’s
always going on about the Internet being so wonderful with all the information on it. Then again, the local library has always had lots of information in it and he never used to go there. How much information does one person need anyway? Oh well, I
shouldn’t criticise anybody for surfing the net. I mean it’s not like I don’t spend hours looking up my horoscope, and wait till I tell you about the time I joined that online dating agency . . . then again, maybe I’ll wait until I know you a bit better.