Chapter Eight #2
‘Oh Mel,’ I say sadly. ‘He does that to people. Casts spells like a sexy magician.’
‘He is sexy.’
I wrinkle my nose, horrified with myself for letting that admission slip out.
I can hear Mel chuckling as I scurry off.
Callum is waiting for me a little way off and we silently join the security queue together, tension crackling between us.
It’s a bit less busy today, so I guess I must have hit a hectic period in my first two bites at the cherry, but there’s still a line of people up ahead.
Something to remember for Monday Four, I find myself thinking before having a sharp and horrified word with myself.
No, Nina!
It would be super dangerous to start assuming that this is going to happen forever.
I will one hundred per cent lose the plot.
Even entertaining that kind of defeatist thought will not help.
I’ve got to stay positive and have hope.
Maybe a physicist is working on the answer to my problem right this minute!
Maybe there is help out there. This glitch won’t last forever.
‘EINSTEIN!’ I shout suddenly, and quite loudly, as I finally remember the name of a famous science boff. Embarrassing that it took this long, to be quite honest with you.
Callum turns to me, eyebrows sky high, jaw set in surprise.
‘Have you … spotted him?’ he asks, amused.
‘No,’ I backtrack. How do I style this one out? Quick, frazzled brain of mine, think! ‘I was just playing a game with myself. The … “name some famous physicists” game.’
Yes, that’s it, very normal.
Callum folds his silly strong arms in front of his body and skewers me with a gaze so penetrating that I couldn’t move if I tried. He looks like he’s trying to understand what’s going on inside my head, which is fair, I guess. I am behaving somewhat like an odd bod.
‘Right,’ he says eventually. ‘And how many other famous physicists have you come up with?’
Balls.
As a stalling tactic, I pretend to urgently search for something in my bag while ordering my brain to come up with more options.
There must be some. I can practically hear my mum shouting: ‘Did you learn nothing at school, Nina Moss?’ As I fake rummage, my travel toothbrush comes loose from my cosmetic bag and falls to the floor.
Of course, gravity!
‘Isaac Newton,’ I blurt out proudly. Is gravity physics? Honestly eff knows at this point but I have just named another revered scientist so ha, Callum, ha.
‘And Stephen Hawking!’
Christ, I’m on a roll. I must add this new-found knowledge to my CV in case anyone wants a physics-themed party organizing in the future. There have been stranger requests than that, let me tell you.
Callum looks like he’s trying not to laugh as he scoops down and picks up my toothbrush.
‘Thanks,’ I say, about to put it back in my bag.
But he’s still holding on to one end.
‘I’m not sure you can use that now it’s been on the airport floor,’ he says.
‘Obviously not,’ I grunt, even though I might have been about to do exactly that. ‘I’ll put it in a bin when I see one. What must you think of me!’
It’s my turn to fold my arms and I pull out my phone as a clear signal that our conversation is over. Trust Callum to cast aspersions on my levels of dental hygiene, I think irritably. I’m a flosser! I mouthwash after lunch!
‘Did you say something?’ Callum asks as we wait for our bags to come through the scanners.
And, in truth, I possibly did mutter the words ‘stupid swine’ under my breath as he stepped out of the body scanner. But do I admit that to him? No, I do not.
Well. Walking upstairs on an Airbus is the single fanciest thing I’ve ever done. This is a moment. I’m trying not to gawp as Callum and I are ushered towards our seats but it’s not easy, and I end up skipping to my seat like Winnie-the-Pooh headed straight for a jar of honey.
I say seat but it’s more of a pod. My fingers flutter as I wonder where to begin.
Rifle through my own personal bag filled with tiny toiletries?
Poke at the buttons which control my desired level of lighting?
Flip out the foot rest in front of me? Is it too soon to crank this seat back into bed position?
My eyes are wide as I take in this taste of a life miles from my own.
Everything is so plush! My gaze moves around the cabin, eventually snagging on Callum.
Turns out he was already watching me with a smile on his face which he corrects into something more measured the moment I catch his gaze.
He’s probably judging me for being so awestruck.
He just loves to judge. Does he even know that I know what happened at the office Christmas party?
Surely he wouldn’t be looking so pleased with himself if he did.
Just look at him now, so at ease. So at home in this space.
No doubt he travels like this all the time, with his perfectly puttogether outfits and impressive hair.
My mood threatens to darken but I won’t let Callum Bang spoil this indulgent flight. Besides, there’s even more space between me and him up here. Yes, we’re still next to each other, but the pods are huge.
A flute of champagne is offered and I accept it with an open heart. Why not?! I’m also handed a lavender-scented hot towel, like I’m a guest at Meghan Sussex’s Montecito mansion, which I press into my neck.
This is the life!
Turns out I’m still doing that gawping and grinning combo because the next thing I know, a woman in the row behind has caught my eye.
She looks very business class. A perfectly styled bouncy blonde hair cut, sunglasses still on, cable-knit V-neck sweater that probably cost more than a month’s rent on my flat.
‘I like your outfit,’ she says in a clipped European accent. ‘Black is always chic.’
‘Oh! Thank you. It was twenty quid from Sainsbury’s.’
She gives me a look which suggests I might be speaking in a different language.
As I turn to face forward, I find Callum smirking at me.
‘Dearly beloved,’ he mutters under his breath.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘She likes your all-black outfit.’ He gestures towards my trackpants and sweater. ‘I’m just pointing out that it could be funereal.’
I glower at him, my brain scrambling to make sense of what he just said while also dealing with mega-fun bubbles of booze shooting through my bloodstream.
That was definitely my line.
I remember being quite pleased with it, actually, back on Monday One when Callum made a comment about our matching outfits and I pointed out that I was dressed for his funeral.
It was about the first witty thing I’d managed to come out with all day.
And now, three Mondays in and Callum Bang is stealing my lines?
Typical.
‘If you could stop talking about my clothing, I’d appreciate it. It’s actually very inappropriate.’
Callum holds both hands up in surrender, and I nod stiffly.
‘Better,’ I say. ‘Now, I intend to make the most of this upgrade and will be living my superior life for the foreseeable so—’
‘You want me to stop talking, I get it,’ sighs Callum, as if this kind of shutdown happens all the time.
‘Well, yes actually,’ I falter.
‘Fine, Moss. Enjoy your ride.’
I’ve taken seventy-two photos on my phone and we’ve barely even flown over France.
I can’t help it, everything in business is so luxurious!
I’ve got pictures of my pod, pictures of me making the peace sign in my pod, a picture of all the buttons I can press, a picture of the coat hook where I’ve hung up my sweater, six pictures of the tiny toiletries (clean toothbrush included, thank goodness!), another selfie now that I’m wearing the massive headphones linked up to my giant entertainment system. The list goes on.
I stretch my legs out and rest my feet on the little padded shelf in front of me while perusing the menu.
Herb-crusted lamb? Don’t mind if I do!
And there’s a drinks menu, too, with actual vintage wines on it, which reminds me of the time Hamish and I popped into Waitrose for bougie snacks and found someone else’s shopping list in our basket. On it were scrawled the words
Dom Perignon – 2008 vintage
Hamish and I laughed so hard about that. Imagine putting together your supermarket shopping list and the only thing you absolutely need is a specific vintage of champagne? No milk or eggs for this person! We googled it and learned that a bottle of 2008 Dom Perignon would set you back about ￡300.
Shit!
Hamish!
In all the excitement of today’s upgrade I had almost clean forgotten about the one that got away, who is currently sitting downstairs while I luxuriate in business like a hippo in mud.
Taking a cursory look in Callum’s direction, I see that he is studiously ignoring me in his own little cabin, which settles it.
I can busy myself making a Hamish-shaped plan.
Our first remeet left a lot to be desired. It was almost as if Hamish hadn’t changed in all these years, and the things I used to find mega-attractive, like his sense of adventure and nonchalant attitude, are now slightly irritating.
Which can’t be right. It’s on me to open up some different channels of communication. Because when Hamish and I get it right, we really get it right.
It didn’t help that he spent most of our reunion asleep.
Next time around (if there is one) I’ll simply have to make sure the man is heavily caffeinated early on, so he doesn’t drop off during our romantic reunion.
Couple that with having some beautiful memories of our time together ready to reminisce about, and he’s bound to be putty in my hands.
I scroll back through the photo library on my phone, joy rippling through me as our pictures come into view.
I’ve looked at them so often now that I could tell you exactly what kind of blue Hamish’s eyes are in each and every picture.
They seemed to change daily, hourly even, depending on the lighting and his mood.
Quite magical. I could tell you what we were both wearing that time we ran out of the cinema halfway through a very terrible film and spent the rest of the night laughing in a crappy bar.
Or how Hamish’s smile was at its very best when I snuck a photo of him coming in from the surf one day.
That familiar warm glow wraps around me like a blanket as I look back on the happy memories.
As I scroll, I favourite some and add them to a new album which I call Take Me Back.
This way, when Hamish and I get to reconnect again, I’ll have the photos ready as an aide-memoire for him.
He’ll be powerless to resist my charms next time around!
A flight attendant comes over and sets me up for my first meal of the day, which involves throwing a crisp white tablecloth over the giant tray table that pulls out in front of me.
I go for a juice, some smoked salmon to start and the herb-crusted lamb, which I eat with silverware because I am very posh now.
I should probably start wearing pashminas and elongating my As to really keep the vibe going.
‘Grass. Arse,’ I say, practicing the long A sound.
A stifled snort emerges from Callum’s seat.
‘Having fun?’ he asks, taking a smug sip from his glass of red.
How does Callum always manage to bring me crashing back down to earth like this? It’s a peculiar power.
‘I was,’ I shoot back.