State We're In (15 page)

I didn't indulge in anything similarly healing or commemorative. Swamped in the shame of knowing I'd hurt Martin severely and cost my parents a fortune, I didn't feel entitled to whiz away anywhere exotic, even though my friends and Lisa advised me that it would be a good idea. I've travelled since the split, but shorter distances. I've had three mini-breaks with three different boyfriends. Liam and I flew to Copenhagen; with Jamie I visited Rome; and it was Paris with Ben. I can't remember much about the airport from any of those trips, as on each occasion, I was consumed with giddy excitement. At least, I was on the outward journey; the returns were all considerably more downbeat. Truthfully, I probably do have a tendency to be a little bit too optimistic about the significance of a guy asking a woman to go on a mini-break; on each occasion I was devastated that a proposal wasn't forthcoming. I'm not saying that I'd have married any one of them, but I am saying I would have liked to be
asked
by one of them.

‘Why do they even want to go abroad, if not to propose?' I asked Lisa forlornly after the third disappointment. I tend to think of Lisa – a married woman – as the font of all knowledge when it comes to stuff about men (but only if I like what she says). My sister just rolled her eyes and suggested, ‘Great weather, food, architecture, or just to get drunk.'

‘I know, I know there's all that stuff. I'd just enjoy it more if I thought it was to be shared on an ongoing basis,' I admitted forlornly. Then Lisa invited me along to a two-week all-inclusive family break in Spain.

‘Won't I be in the way?' I asked.

‘No, we see you as an on-tap babysitter,' Lisa replied; she wasn't entirely joking. That holiday was fun (noisy, chaotic and exhausting), and the huge beach bag finally came in useful for carrying spare nappies, blow-up beach balls and buckets and spades. But somehow it made me miss my honeymoon more not less.

OK, so. Onwards and upwards. Deep breath. It's essential that I approach this trip with some Zen-like thoughts. I have to put good karma out there, because obviously I am asking quite a lot of the universe in terms of return investment, I realise that. I have to be positive and calm. I need to be focused and determined. Truthfully I feel a dangerous mix between giddy with excitement and sick with nerves. I replay the conversation I had with Martin again and again in my head. If I think about my plan for any length of time I begin to feel a bit faint. The only possible answer is not to think about it for any length of time.

I distract myself by wandering around the duty-free shops, spraying expensive fragrances and gleefully snaffling up any available freebie samples of tinted moisturiser. I dawdle around the luxury clothes shop, lusting after outfits that I can't afford. It's an odd comfort that I can at least tell myself that even if I
could
afford these gorgeous clothes, I don't have anywhere to wear them now I'm unemployed. Of course, if I wasn't unemployed I'd have had occasion to wear them and I might have been able to afford them too; again I decide not to dwell on this fact for long. Not comfortable. Not helpful.

I spend an age in WHSmith as I want to pick out something to read on the plane. As usual, I naturally gravitate towards the self-help books and I'm gratified to find a new title that I haven't read (I've read most of them).
Hook Him. Have Him. Hold on to Him: a modern woman's guide to maintaining relationships.
I flick through to see if there's a section that offers tips on hijacking someone else's wedding. Not too surprisingly, there isn't. But there is a chapter that claims to address ‘The ten grave errors to avoid that most women make with men' and another that promises to reveal ‘The differences in how men and women think about dating, sex and relationships'. Frankly I think that section probably needs more than one chapter; have they glossed? Still, I decide to buy the book.

I'm so engrossed in chapter two that I nearly miss the announcement over the loudspeaker that rather stiffly instructs passenger Joanna Russell to make her way to boarding gate number 24, as the plane to Chicago O'Hare International is ready to depart.

Panicked, my promise to have Zen thoughts is pushed aside as I run through the airport, faster than I've ever run before, inwardly cursing my disorganisation. My feet slap down painfully on the tiled floor as I duck and dive to avoid other passengers making their way to their flights, most of whom seem to be walking in the opposite direction to the one I need to go in; I'm a fish swimming upstream. The relief when I spot gate 24 and four airline staff, standing like soldiers, is tremendous. I try to ignore the fact that they're all glaring at me icily.

‘Sorry, sorry, sorry,' I yell as I approach. I always think it's best to get in there with the apologies as soon as possible; it disarms people, because we live in a world where no one takes responsibility for anything and so saying sorry has the surprise effect of being at least novel. No one acknowledges my apology but no one actively shouts at me, so I'm relieved. In silence one woman takes my boarding pass and starts to type something into the computer. The other three share looks of irritation. The run through the airport has left me breathless; I try not to show that I am panting but I can feel the beginnings of a stitch in my waist and sweat is trickling down my back. It's not a good look or a good feeling. Welcome to my world.

‘I'm sorry, but there's a problem with your seat,' says the chilly airline lady at the computer.

‘What problem?' I ask fearfully.

‘You were allocated the bulkhead seat but we've given that to a passenger who is travelling with an infant.'

I feel a surge of indignation. It isn't fair. The woman with the infant is in a relationship (or even if she isn't in one right now, she has been; after all, that's how babies are made), and
yet she has my comfortable bulkhead seat
too
. Some women have all the luck.

‘In fact, I'm afraid we've completely oversold in the economy section of the plane.'

‘But I just booked that seat a couple of hours ago; they said they released it last minute. I've got a ticket. It was a really expensive ticket.'

The airline woman holds up one beautifully manicured hand, which effectively silences me. She continues to type something with the other hand. ‘And we're also oversold in World Traveller Plus.'

‘This is exactly why we advise our passengers to build in plenty of time at the airport,' adds one of the other members of staff stiffly. I glare at him but don't bother to mention that I sneaked out of Lisa's at 5.30 this morning and have been here since 6.45. It took me three hours to gather the courage to call Martin and buy the ticket; I've spent another two hours in the terminal shops. I know he doesn't care.

‘I
have
to get on this plane,' I insist. ‘I'm going to a wedding. It's vital I get on the plane.'

I slam my book down on the counter. I'm not particularly trying to make a statement or a commotion, that's not my way. I'm simply exasperated. The woman behind the computer fidgets from one foot to the other, anticipating a row. She looks to the counter in an effort to avoid my gaze and then she clocks the title of the book. Suddenly her chilly manner shifts, like a glacier cracking, and her face collapses into a broad beam. Not a mocking grin, but a wide, warm, sympathetic smile. She puts her ringless hand on my arm and I recognise her as a sister; we both know it can be cold out there. She says, ‘I don't think we have any alternative; we're going to have to upgrade you to club class.'

D
ean had hardly been aware that there was a delay in the scheduled departure, although he had felt the rumblings of low-level dissatisfaction in the passengers surrounding him. They'd shuffled in their seats, glugged back more free champagne than was wise at this time of the morning and rattled their newspapers impatiently. Dean had stayed dead still in his chair, drained beyond an ability to fidget. He was just glad to be back in his comfort zone. This was where he belonged, a plush business-class seat rather than an unyielding hospital visiting chair. When the tardy passenger who'd caused the delay finally stumbled through the aircraft door, there was a furtive chorus of fractious grumbles. Dean didn't contribute. It seemed petty.

Hers was the seat next to his. No sooner had she sat down than she leapt up again and started to bundle her bags into the overhead locker. He'd planned on ignoring her completely, but as she struggled to put her luggage away, she lost her grip on her book and it fell, hitting his shoulder. As he retrieved it, his eyes slipped over the blurb.

What to do if your man has a roving eye … How to cheat-proof your relationship … The top three things women do that irritate men and kill confidence.

Dean had been drowning under a tide of anguish and trauma, but he came up for air and thanked God that at least he wasn't a woman. He wondered who published this crap. Who read it? As he handed the book back to the person who'd dropped it on him, he was surprised to discover that extremely attractive women – with great tits, cute smiles and straight teeth – read this crap.

‘I am so sorry, did I hurt you?' she asked.

‘I'll live,' replied Dean. Not unpleasantly, but in a tone that he hoped would end the exchange.

‘I'm really nervous,' she gabbled. Oh great, he was sitting next to a nervous flyer; just what he needed. As though reading his mind, she corrected herself. ‘Well, not so much nervous, I should probably say excited. I've never flown club class before.'

Then the woman did the most extraordinary thing. She jumped up and down on the spot and clapped her hands together, like a child. Dean looked on, bemused. He doubted he was ever up to this level of excitement, and he knew for certain he wasn't up to it today. ‘It's amazing, isn't it?' she went on. ‘Look at these magazines and this blanket and these headsets!' With each object listed, she grabbed and caressed it as though the magazine was a lover and the blanket was a dear family member. ‘Do you think we get to keep them?' Before Dean could say no, you didn't get to keep them, the woman started to talk again; he thought he was probably going to need the headsets she so admired, to lock her out. ‘And it's ridiculously roomy! We can lie flat! And look, I can turn round in the aisle without bumping into anyone!'

The woman then chose to demonstrate just how open the cabin was by doing exactly that. It was indeed spacious, but because she decided to wave her arms while rotating, she immediately bumped into the flight attendant, who was carrying a tray of champagne. Even though the attendant did his best to right the tray, three glasses clattered to the floor. The sly grumbles from the other passengers were replaced by sudden blasts of outright disgust.

‘For fuck's sake.'

‘Who the hell is she?'

‘Is she drunk?' people demanded of no one in particular.

‘Oh my gosh. I'm so sorry.'

Just as Dean was wondering who said
gosh
any more, she started to wipe his arm in an attempt to mop up the champagne that had soused him. Dean tightened his bicep a fraction; he couldn't help himself, it was just a reflex under an attractive woman's touch. She pulled her hand away as though she'd been scalded. And blushed.

‘It's fine,' Dean muttered. What did he care? In the grand scheme of things, this mishap didn't even register in his disastrous twenty-four hours. He wouldn't give the irritable and spoilt passengers any satisfaction; he knew they were all hoping he would tear a strip off her.

The champagne dripped down his arm and leg and on to the floor. ‘Is your suit one of those washable ones? The type that you can just pop in the machine?' she asked hopefully. Her gaze lingered on the quality fabric and the elegant cut; she looked crestfallen. ‘No, I don't suppose it is. I don't suppose there are many of those sorts of suit in club.' She paused. ‘Can I give you some money for the dry cleaning?' It was clear from the way she chewed on her bottom lip that she was really hoping he'd say no.

‘It's fine,' repeated Dean. He hoped his curt response also said, ‘Now please sit down, shut up and stay silent for the next nine hours.' It didn't, at least not to this ebullient woman. She did at least finally sit down, but only because the flight assistant insisted on it, so that the spillage on the floor could be dealt with.

‘Do you travel club class often?' she asked. Dean stared at her with something between incredulity and a reluctant admiration. Even he wouldn't think to hit on someone after delaying their flight, assaulting them with a book and then drenching them with alcohol, but this woman had just tried the aviation equivalent of
Do you come here often?

‘Yes.' One-syllable answers surely said, ‘Shut up, I'm not interested.' Dean wasn't interested in talking, to her or anyone. He just wanted to get home. It had been a mistake to come here. A huge, hideous mistake. The sooner he was back in Chicago, the better. He'd put it all behind him. He'd pretend it had never happened. He didn't want to linger a moment longer; he hadn't even found the energy to visit Zoe or meet with Rogers.

The engines started to rumble, filling the cabin with a sense of purpose and progress. Having checked their phones were turned off, people finally settled into their seats, tightened their belts and then – all but the truly neurotic – steadfastly ignored the flight attendant who was earnestly demonstrating the correct use of oxygen masks and pointing out the emergency exits.

‘This is just amazing,' said the woman, looking around in wonder. ‘Isn't it?'

As another flight attendant passed through the cabin, checking that people were fastened into their seats, Dean caught her eye and said, ‘I've changed my mind. I will take a newspaper, please.'

‘Which one, sir?'