Chapter 13
Does it feel a little bit like I’m selling my soul to go to New York? Yeah, a little bit, but it is a damn sight cheaper than paying the hefty price with money.
And, you know, there’s money and then there’s moneeeey.
Flying to New York, staying in whatever their equivalent of a Travelodge is, ain’t exactly cheap, but it’s more doable than flying first class, staying in a fancy hotel next to Central Park.
I’m going to get a taste of the high life – perks of stalking a CEO, or whatever he is.
The big boss, with the big money, and the big old expensive taste.
I’m here, at Heathrow airport, and it doesn’t matter how many steps I take, I’m constantly finding myself feeling baffled when no one stops me.
I mean, come on, there’s no way anyone is looking at me and believing I can afford to be here.
Everyone around me looks like they’re wearing clothes by a who, not a where, and unless we’re suddenly counting George (of Asda) as a designer, I don’t think I have anything that qualifies.
Still, with big money comes big respect, so even though I look I’ve wandered into the VIP area by mistake, the fact I have a ticket means that everyone is treating me like royalty.
And here’s me thinking everyone is going to Pretty Woman me on sight…
but that could be because I’m wearing over-the-knee boots which, in hindsight, probably weren’t the best shoes for flying, but I was thinking of how cold it is here, and how cold it will be there.
I’m not saying I’ve got impostor syndrome, but even going through security is making me nervous, and I know that’s my passport.
Checking in and passing through security takes minutes – I’m through in a flash, which is something I could get used to – and now I’m in the first-class lounge, and it really is first class.
You know when something as simple as the lighting makes a place seem expensive?
Or the kooky décor? I’ve never seen life-sized horses with lampshades on their heads but here they are, standing proud.
They work though; they seem at home (although I suppose they do technically live here).
I just feel like I’m in another world, a world where the drinks are free and diffusers are pumping delicious fragrances into the air.
The last time I flew, a crappy porn star martini cost ￡27 and the room smelled like the puke of the stag do at the next table.
There’s something, I don’t know, strange – but not in a bad way. I don’t know, it feels a little bit like stepping back in time. I can see men in suits reading newspapers – the big broadsheets, not a cheeky Daily Star , and women (who, frankly, look like supermodels) serving them drinks.
‘Is it your first time flying?’ the employee at the gate asks me when it is time to board.
‘Erm, no,’ I reply, but I’m definitely giving off nervous energy.
I should probably say something, lest he thinks I’m up to something.
I could’ve lied, just said yes, but my passport would contradict that – is this a test, to see who is potentially dodgy, or am I overthinking it? It is definitely the latter.
‘It’s my first time in first class,’ I explain.
‘Lucky you! You’re going to love it,’ he insists. ‘We only have eight first-class seats and you’ve got one of them.’
Wow, only eight? The last time I flew, there were eight people within touching distance.
I’m greeted by a flight attendant who says she will lead me to my seat. I follow her through what I assume is business class and, honestly, it looks great, I would have been more than happy with this. Then again, I would’ve been happy in the cargo hold, if it meant a free trip to New York.
‘Here we are,’ she announces and… oh my God.
‘Wow,’ I blurt.
She smiles.
‘This is your suite. Get settled in, have a glass of champagne, and I’ll be back to see if you need anything,’ she tells me.
What else could I need? I’ve got my own little pod.
My own private little space with not one, but two windows.
There’s a generously sized TV and some kind of console that controls it.
There are so many buttons – some for adjusting the seat too – I’m terrified to press any, because who knows what they do?
It could be anything from ejecting me with a diamond-encrusted parachute or summoning Tom Hardy to read me a bedtime story (in case you ever wondered what my idea of luxury was).
On my table there is a little bowl of nuts and a glass of champagne. I suppose I should raise a toast to Ben, really, because when you think about it his tragic little dick pics are the reason I’m sitting here today.
‘What’s so funny?’ a voice asks me – I must have been laughing to myself, like an evil genius – as though this was my plan all along, rather than me being incredibly lucky to land on my feet.
I look up and see Jordan – Paige’s ex-husband – standing next to me.
‘Oh, nothing,’ I reply. ‘Hello.’
He narrows his eyes at me.
‘Hello,’ he replies. ‘We’ve met before…’
‘In the lift,’ I remind him. ‘At Matcher HQ. It got stuck.’
‘It always gets stuck,’ he replies as he settles into the pod next to mine. ‘Oh, yeah, I remember you. You were freaking out.’
He says this like it’s surprising.
‘Yeah – the lift was stuck,’ I remind him.
‘Yeah – it happens all the time,’ he says in a similar tone. ‘So, you’re Paige’s minion, huh? Has she sent you to check up on me?’
‘What? No,’ I insist.
Now it’s his turn to laugh.
‘Relax, I’m only kidding,’ he tells me. ‘I told her I didn’t need an assistant. She thinks I’m useless. Still, at least you get a trip out of it, eh? A nice break from the office.’
I probably shouldn’t mention that I haven’t worked in the office yet – or that I’ve been stalking him around the globe.
He pulls off his jumper to reveal a soft-looking grey t-shirt that matches his grey comfy tracksuit bottoms – the kind that can make a girl feel powerless.
‘Are those to stop you getting a DVT?’ he jokes, nodding towards my over-the-knee boots, as he takes off his own shoes.
‘What? Oh,’ I reply. He’s making fun of me.
‘There are slippers, in there,’ he tells me. ‘PJs too, if you want to make yourself at home.’
‘Thanks,’ I reply.
How will I ever take a regular flight again? Without slippers or PJs. Sounds awful.
‘Is there anything I can do for you?’ I ask him. ‘Anything you need me to look over, check…’
‘I don’t need an assistant, really,’ he insists. ‘But thank you.’
It was never going to be that easy, was it?
‘Well, I’m here if you change your mind,’ I remind him.
It’s only a few seconds before two flight attendants appear out of nowhere and they’re on him like a rash.
‘Can I get you anything, Mr Bill?’ one asks him.
‘Would you like another glass of champagne?’ says the other.
‘I have everything I need right now, thank you,’ he replies, flashing them a winning smile.
Oof. There’s that dangerous charm Paige warned me about.
He’s that devastating combination of gorgeous, charming, confident, living his best life – but aren’t they always the ones who are total dogs?
Paige made it sound like he would sleep with anyone who batted their eyelashes at him.
I need to make sure I keep my eyes still and open – like a shark.
I glance over at him, unable to stop one of my eyebrows from rising. So much for being shark-like.
‘What?’ he asks with a grin.
‘Nothing. You just seem… popular,’ I reply.
‘I am,’ he says, deadly serious. ‘Flight crew love me – I’m a good passenger.’
‘Ohhh, is that it?’ I say.
‘If you need anything, and you want me to ask them for you, give me a shout,’ he jokes. ‘That way you know they’ll say yes.’
‘So, you’re my assistant now, eh?’ I dare to joke.
‘Certainly looks that way,’ he replies. ‘What’s your name, boss?’
‘Liberty,’ I tell him.
‘Like the statue,’ he jokes. ‘I guess you’re going to the right place. I’m Jordan.’
He reaches across the aisle to shake my hand.
‘I know,’ I reply. ‘Just because, you know, you’re my boss.’
Not because your ex-wife made you my mark or anything.
‘Right,’ he says with a laugh. ‘How long have you been at Matcher?’
‘Since that day, actually,’ I reply. ‘So still the new girl.’
He smiles.
‘Well, it is a great place to work,’ he replies. ‘Our employees are always happy, our benefits are great.’
Not if I don’t swap these contracts, they’re not.
‘The lift really is the only downside,’ he adds. ‘But sometimes it’s a nice break.’
I laugh.
‘I’m enjoying it so far,’ I tell him. Well, I am; so far it’s pretty much only involved going on holidays and crap dates.
‘Good,’ he replies, pulling out a laptop. ‘I’m going to try get some work done once we’re in the air. I always try to beat the jetlag but I always get it wrong.’
‘Okay, well, I’ll leave you to it,’ I reply. ‘I think I’ll watch a movie.’
I say that, but I can’t seem to stop myself watching him. Everything he does is cool. Unbothered. Stylish, even. Like he’s a model for the airline. The poster boy of first-class travel.
I do feel sort of bad for him, and for not being honest with him, but it’s not actually going to cause him any harm. I’m fixing a mistake. Righting a wrong. I’m doing this for my job, for Paige, for women everywhere… maybe.
I need to stick to the plan and it will be done and dusted before I know it, and Jordan will be none the wiser.
Just as soon as I realise how I’m going to do it, that is.