Up for Love in London (2 page)

I must have
been daydreaming, for the next thing I hear is the F/O’s
announcement, “Cabin crew prepare for take-off.”

I flip down the
jump seat at the forward door beside Richard and buckle myself in.
I have a clear view to the aft cabin. As the Triple-Seven rolls
down the runway, I plant my feet on the floor and lean into the
headrest. It’s the required safety position, but also a way for me
to enjoy the thrill as the plane collects speed and lifts off the
ground.

I love flying.
Some folks think of flight attendants as glorified waitresses, and
that’s true to a point. But being in Boston one minute and
California, Europe or South America a few hours later never gets
old. And this position does require responsibility. Some passengers
are terrified of flying, or they’re traveling with kids and need
extra help. There’s always something I can do. And the jerks—and
there are plenty of them—can’t just behave badly and walk away, as
they do in restaurants. On a plane, bad behavior can get you
arrested. I’ve reminded people of that a few times.

I
close my eyes briefly, mentally rehearsing the emergency drill.
When I reopen them, I see Charles leaning on his elbow, head angled
to one side. I think he’s trying to look up my skirt. He smiles and
I look away.
This could be
trouble
.

CHAPTER 2 ~
Up in the Air

We haven’t even reached cruising
altitude and I’m already busy. It’s too steep to pull out any
trolleys, so I dig through the first class coatroom and unearth a
pile of British newspapers and magazines. Due to the short taxi,
there wasn’t time to distribute them on the ground. It’s a good
opportunity for me to interact with my passengers.

I position the
newspapers on one arm and the magazines on the other and stroll
into the cabin. Thank God Charles is in the third row or I might
run out of papers before I reach his seat.

“Would you care
for a newspaper, Mr. Sterling?”

“No, thank
you.”

“How about a magazine?” I crouch slightly so
Hello
magazine is under
his nose and he looks up, a smile curling at the edges of his
sensuous lips.

“No, thank
you.”

He pushes his
sleeve back to glance at his watch and I do too. Cartier. Nice. No
wedding band. Nicer. “What time are you serving dinner?”

“In 45 minutes
or so. We do have a quick cold plate option if you’d prefer to dine
earlier.”

“No, I’ll wait
for the …” and he glances at the menu, “steak.”

“Certainly,” I reply. I thought a bit more rapport might be
forthcoming but Charles is now more reserved. Maybe he only flirts
in private. I finish distributing newspapers and slip a copy of
British
House and Garden
into my jump seat before changing into fatigue
shoes.

As Richard takes meal orders, David starts the bar service.
I’m glad he’s asked another gay flight attendant to work with us,
rather than some hot, younger female flight
attendant
. Can’t believe I thought that.
What am I, ancient at thirty-three?
David
is sweet and immensely competent though I hope Richard doesn’t try
to distract him with a little in-flight flirtation.

We’re offering
three entrée choices tonight - steak, chicken and pasta. It’s
usually a variation on that same theme, with the sauces and
vegetables changed up for variety. Most passengers don’t expect a
Cordon Bleu experience at 42,000 feet, but what we lack in
substance, we make up in style.

I’m into the
flow of the service now, setting up trolleys and calculating
cooking times. “David, the pilots’ meals will be ready in five
minutes. Can you ask them if they want to eat together and also,
what they want to drink? Thanks sweetie.”

I’ve almost
forgotten about my sad romantic life when the flight deck door
opens. The captain, Jim, is best buddies with my ex. As he slams
the door behind him, Charles sweeps the curtain aside and they both
step into my galley.

“Lauren, sorry
to hear about you and Brad splitting.” Trust Jim to spell the beans
in public.

“Thanks, Jim.
It was mutual.” If you could call a roving eye and the normal
response of a self-respecting woman “mutual.” I bow my head in a
gesture of heartache, but not before glancing at Charles. He’s
eying me intently.

Jim grabs the
washroom door handle and looks at Charles, “I’ll be right out.”

“Not at all, I
have a question about the steak.”

Jim continues.
“Come for a visit after the service. Melissa said you were really
upset.” He catches my eye contact with Charles. “Well, maybe not
that upset.” And he enters the lav.

“You have a
question about the main course, Mr. Sterling? Unfortunately, I
can’t cook the steak to your liking. We only reheat the casseroles
onboard.”

“I know. That’s
the problem with flying on commercial aircraft.”

He may be a
hunk but he’s starting to appear high maintenance. Still, this is
my job. I put on my best smile and try to be charming and
professional. “If you prefer your steak rarer or more well-done, I
could see if…”

He cuts me off.
“As rare as possible. And thank you, it’s not very often crew
members are so obliging.”

I’m not so
obliging; I want him out of the galley before Jim returns to the
flight deck. But his comment makes me smile. So many passengers,
first class and otherwise, don’t even notice we exist. It’s no
wonder we like to spend time partying and commiserating with our
airline colleagues.

Jim exits the
bathroom just as the plane starts to jiggle, so he heads straight
for the flight deck. “Let’s talk later,” he says, so I’ve missed my
opportunity for an update on Brad. But what could Jim tell me
anyway? That Brad misses me? That he realizes he made a mistake? Or
that he was prowling all over Paris with Jennifer on his arm. I’m
sensing that my hurt is turning into anger. While I’m not sure if
that’s a good thing, it’s better than the pain I felt before.

Thankfully the
minor bumps don’t erupt into full-blown turbulence. The seat belt
sign stays off for now and the service is in full swing. Hot towels
follow one round of cocktails and I send David out to collect them
while Richard starts with table linen. I remove Charles’ steak from
the oven, set the temperature for 325 degrees and then turn the
timer on for 20 minutes. I’ll pop his casserole in later. Hopefully
the meat will stay rare.

It’s like a
ballet in the first class cabin. Richard and David are working in
tandem, handing out trays, offering bread, pouring wine. In the
economy section, passengers are probably finishing their main
course but up here, the hot casseroles won’t be ready for another
five minutes. I’ve just finished setting up the dessert trolley
when the plane starts to sway.

I’m sorry for
people who are frightened by turbulence. Even with all the safety
drills we perform, I never worry about crashing. A pilot once told
me the most dangerous part of the journey was the drive to the
airport. Planes are my comfort zone. I feel safer here than on the
ground.

China cups and
plates rattle and coffee pots clatter as a loud “ping” heralds the
seat belt sign. Jim’s announcement is short and reassuring. “Ladies
and gentleman, we’re passing through a pocket of rough air. It
shouldn’t last long but I’ve turned the seat belt sign on as a
precaution. I hope you’re enjoying the excellent service offered by
our flight attendants tonight.”

The bumps
subside as quickly as they began, so we opt to continue. I pull the
hot casseroles from the oven and sort them by seat and row number –
1A, 1B etc. to make it easier for Richard to serve.

I touch
Charles’ foil-covered steak. It feels hot on top but may not be
heated all the way through. Well, he did want it rare. The food is
all pre-cooked, so he’s not likely to die from anything, at least
not on this flight. I decide to take it to him myself.

“Your steak,
Mr. Sterling,” I announce as I place it on his table.

He appears to
be surprised and grateful. “Thank you, Lauren.”

That was a
shock. Even though I wear a name tag on my uniform, hardly anyone
ever uses it.

“You’re very
welcome. I hope it’s as you like it.”

“I’m sure it
will be.”

~

Richard hands
the coffee and dessert service to David and me so he can open the
In-Flight duty free shop. I’ve heard stories from senior flight
attendants, ones who flew during the golden age of aviation, about
first class passengers buying gifts for them, like Hermes scarves
or Chanel perfume. I never saw those days, so I can’t really miss
them and I hear that first class these days is about as good as it
gets.

We arrive at
Charles’ seat with the coffee trolley. He touches my arm and
smiles. “The steak was perfect.”

“I’m glad you
enjoyed it.” My standard reply, but this time I mean it. The
conversation might have progressed but David pushes the trolley
forward and I back through the curtains and into the galley.

The interphone
bell chimes and I’m hopeful it’s Jim, inviting me to the flight
deck. It’s a call from the aft cabin. “Lauren, it’s Olivia.
Remember we flew to Paris in September?”

It takes a
moment for me to picture her. “Olivia, hi! How did you get on
board? Are you travelling as a passenger?”

“No, I’m
working. I was supposed to fly to Frankfurt tonight but I was
drafted because someone from your flight called in sick. I was late
boarding, that’s why you didn’t see me.”

“Why don’t you
come up for a coffee? I just finished serving dessert.”

“That’s why I
rang. Give me a few minutes and I’ll bring my tablet too. I’ve got
some great shots of you and Brad by the Eiffel Tower. I meant to
email them earlier but you know how time flies in this job.”

Do I ever. It
seems like only last week the entire crew was out walking in
Luxembourg Gardens, digesting after a hearty meal of steak frites
and red wine at Chez Francois. Olivia was playing with her latest
digital camera, which is about as complicated to operate as this
aircraft.

I didn’t
realize that was when Brad met his new girlfriend Jennifer. She got
tipsy on wine during dinner and grabbed onto Brad’s free arm as we
all meandered through the park. I thought she was cute - harmless
and a bit immature. She laughed and draped herself over him while
Olivia clicked shot after shot. “It’s my first flight to Paris. I
want pictures with all the crew, even the pilots.”

“Lauren? Are
you still there?” Olivia’s voice jolts me back to the present.

“Yes, sorry.
See you soon, okay?” and I hang up.

I really don’t
want to see any pictures of Brad, but surprisingly, I’m curious
about Jennifer. I only met her once, but it’s easier to put one and
one together in retrospect. I realize Brad and I weren’t an ideal
match, especially since I’d like a steady beau, someone to have fun
and share my life with. Maybe not marriage, not yet, but something
more substantial that what I’ve had so far. Olivia had called Brad
a serial monogamist. She might be right, though I’m not sure about
the monogamous part during his “transitions.” He said nothing had
happened with Jennifer yet, but I’m not completely naïve.

I don’t know
how long I’ve been sitting, staring at the coffeemakers, when I
feel Olivia’s hand on my shoulder. “Lauren, I’m sorry to hear about
you and that bastard Brad. But I’ve got some great photos of you –
maybe for an online dating site?” She pulls the other jump seat
down and sits beside me.

I feel a lump
rising in my throat and tears sting my eyes. “How did you
know?”

“Richard just
told me, he overheard me talking to you, but darling, you know what
a small world this business is. It doesn’t take long before
everyone knows what you’re doing.”

She leans in
for a hug. “Don’t be upset. You deserve better, and until you find
him, have fun, like I do.”

My tears are
more from embarrassment than they are from heartbreak. Everyone
knows it was Brad who got tired of me, for all he said I was the
“perfect woman.” I suppose that phrase alone should have warned me.
My parents taught me that no one is perfect, and that when you love
someone, you accept that—without being a doormat.

But Olivia is
right. The world is full of men. Finding them is another matter.
Some women are just naturally outgoing and men flock to them. For
me, dating is hard work. I don’t want to go out with someone if
there’s no immediate chemistry. Even then, I get nervous about what
he might expect. And if I’m more interested than he seems to be, I
feel like a puppy at the pound on adoption day.

“Do you have
any plans for the layover?” I ask.

“I’m going to
visit family. And I’m returning on the earlier flight so I won’t
see you then either.”

The interphone
rings again. It’s Richard, asking for Olivia’s help in the aft
cabin.

“Duty calls.”
We both stand and she hugs me again. “I’ll email but in the
meantime, let me be the first to wish you a Merry Christmas or as
we say in the U.K., a Happy Christmas. I hope Santa is good to
you.”

“Thanks Olivia.
Same to you.”

I’m wiping away
a tear when Charles pulls aside the galley curtain. “I hope I’m not
interrupting.” He seems slightly embarrassed. “It seems as though
you just lost your best friend.”

“Hardly.” I
sniff and continue. “Would you like something?”

“A coffee would
be wonderful.”

“Decaf or
regular?”

“Now, that’s a
good question. If I wanted to sleep, I’d choose decaf. But as the
captain says we’re landing a half hour early…”

“We are?”
Damn, I must have missed
his announcement while chatting to Olivia.