Chapter 8
The captain flicks off the seatbelt signs then immediately puts them back on, two high-pitch chimes ring out in the cabin: the signal that take-off is imminent and we, the cabin crew, should harness ourselves into our crew seats.
As we turn onto the runway, I look out the tiny viewing window and see a child with his grandparent in the viewing park flying a paper plane.
The child stops and waves at the aircraft, I wave back, doubtful he’ll be able to see me, but thinking it just might make his day if he can.
The engines roar as the heavy piece of metal uses every last inch of the runway to rotate up and disappear into the grey skies of Manchester.
The wind catches the rear of the aircraft causing turbulence in the back cabin.
I don’t mind turbulence; it has before now rocked me gently to sleep on take-off – a cardinal sin whilst on duty.
Today, the turbulence reacts with my stomach making its contents swish like a washing machine.
The effects of last night’s vodka returns with a vengeance from its earlier ceasefire; I’m sitting in my crew seat trying not to concentrate on the vomit I’ve caught in my mouth.
He really thinks his fella shagged a fatty.
No, Callum, don’t concentrate on that either.
One, two, three, just how fat does he think I am?
One, two, three, four, I could always put something in the bastard’s food, five, six, seven, eight.
Eyedrops. He’ll be shitting from Northern Ireland to JFK.
Nine, ten. Oh god, I’m gonna… I twist the buckle on my harness and release myself from my crew seat and take two steps forward to the toilet door, swing it open and park my anxiety in the toilet bowl.
I instantly feel better. I hope Soumia is having a better flight, she took off ten minutes before us.
On a flight tracking app, it would look like we’re racing each other across the Atlantic.
I return to the galley as the captain turns off the seatbelt sign.
Passengers leap from their seats and stampede towards the toilets, forming a queue to relieve themselves from the multiple drinks they’ve consumed in the airport bar.
I flick on the water brewer; no inflight service will start until I’ve had my brew.
‘Do you want a tea or coffee?’ I ask Jason as he stands in the cramped galley placing lip gloss on his filler enhanced gob.
‘No thanks hun.’ He pouts into the galley mirror. ‘So that couple, you going to meet them in New York?’
‘God no.’
‘Yes, you’re right. Get yourself a nice man whilst we’re down route. I’m meeting Rico. I met him when I was here last week.’ Jason pops the lip gloss in his waistcoat pocket. Tiny World doesn’t supply waistcoats, but Jason wears his own for aesthetics.
‘I’m having a quiet night in. Who the hell keeps pressing that call bell?’
Jason glances at the little LED screen which informs the cabin crew who has dared to summon assistance.
‘It’s for you.’ Jason’s eyes widen at the opportunity for drama as he informs me the swingers are responsible for the irritating call for attention.
All cabin crew believe the call bell should only ever be pressed if you’re dying, not because you want another gin and tonic or a cheese and ham toastie.
‘Oh god. Will you get it?’
‘I can’t. I don’t want to.’
‘Bastard.’
I stomp past Jason and approach the couple from behind, press their call bell to turn it off, and ask if everything’s OK?
‘Two white wines,’ Muscles hisses at me.
‘We’ll be out shortly with the bar service sir.’
‘Now,’ he clicks his fingers.
‘As I said sir, the bar service will be out shortly and then the crew will be more than happy to serve you.’
‘Are you saying you’re not happy to serve me?’ The muscled prick is clearly wanting to escalate this.
Derek stays silent with his headphones in, pretending not to hear. I have visions of grabbing Muscles and banging his head on the seat in front of him, then drowning him in the gravy of his in-flight meal. Instead, I smile and crouch down to his level.
‘Perhaps if you had a few more carbs your fella might want to fuck you too.’ I stand up and raise my voice so other passengers can hear, ‘Yes sir, the miracle cream is fantastic! It will do wonders for your bags. The duty free will be round before landing.’
I walk back to the galley, crossing my fingers that’ll be an end to it, and that Muscles isn’t about to show me how powerful his biceps are with a punch in my face.
Or worse, storm to the front of the cabin and demand to speak to Ivy Walsh and have me fired.
Not that I think I care. I pour a glass of water and raise it shakily to my mouth.
I swallow both the water and my nerves hard.
I look at my smart watch to see how many calories I’ve burnt so far today.
There’s no way I’m eating another thing on this flight in the hope I can be a couple of pounds lighter by the time Muscles passes me as he disembarks.
‘Are the meals ready yet?’ Danielle, today’s number six position, flounces into the galley.
I’ve flown with Danielle a few times before.
Late twenties, about 5’6, a size 12, I’m guessing (I’ve never paid much attention to the female figure), lips enhanced by filler but not the full beak Jason is pouting.
‘Couple of minutes left. I turned the ovens on before take-off.’ Another cardinal sin.
All galley power much be switched off for take-off, but all crew break this rule, cooking the meals as soon as the aircraft pushes back from the stand.
It allows us to lob the tasteless reheated chicken – or beef – at the passengers as quickly as possible once airborne and get back to the galley for a good gossip: Galley FM, as it’s affectionally known.
You’ll hear the ins and outs of all the crews’ lives broadcast over this radio station.
Who’s slept with who (Jason and Captain Skerrow), who’s given birth (Captain Skerrow’s wife), who the father is (Captain Skerrow), who the father really is (First Officer Young), who got pissed down route and punched another crew member (Captain Skerrow and First Officer Young), who’s been hauled into the office for a bollocking after telling a passenger to fuck off under their breath (Danielle), and in my case, who’s left who.
After Liam left the whole base knew I was single before I came back into work.
Soumia had told one person and that person told WhatsApp.
I was met with sympathetic looks and the usual, ‘there’s plenty more fish in the sea,’ and a whole load of, ‘it’s about time, he was a complete dickhead,’ which surprised me, as no one ever said that when we were together.
‘Give me a hand pulling this cart out.’ I tap the cart top; Danielle comes to help me.
I place my foot on the green pedal to release the brake, and we both pull out the trolley containing forty-eight matching grey trays of inflight meals.
I put a white cardboard meal box on top of the trolley, don my oven gloves, and start loading the meals from the oven into the box ready for Danielle and Jason to put on the little trays and serve the passengers.
Danielle takes a tea pot out the cupboard and tosses a giant teabag inside. ‘I don’t know why they all pay to eat this shit; I wouldn’t give it my dog. And don’t serve those wankers in the stag party any more to drink, one of them has just pinched my arse.’
Jason stands upright like he’s got a rod shoved up his behind, observing our work but not participating himself. ‘Who cares? Sell them a couple of bottles of champagne, I’m putting the commission towards a bit of Botox.’
‘If you have any more Botox your forehead will be down your back,’ I reply.
‘Jealousy doesn’t suit you, love. Maybe if you’d taken better care of yourself, that man of yours wouldn’t have left you for a younger model.’
‘Jason.’ Danielle warns him.
‘What? I’m just saying.’
One, two, three, four, five, just a queen who doesn’t know when to shut up. Six, if I didn’t gain so much weight, maybe he would have stayed. Seven, eight…
‘Callum, you’re getting water all over the floor.’ Danielle takes a stack of paper towels off the galley top and starts mopping up the water.
‘Shit, sorry.’ I release the switch on the water brewer to stop the flow.
‘Bloody hell queen, it’s been months, get over it already. Find yourself a nice Rico.’ With that comment, Jason heaves the heavy trolley into the cabin to hand out the reheated sweet and sour chicken.
Nick and Dave, the number three and four, both responsible for the second set of doors on the aircraft, join us in the galley. Fearful that he’ll lose him down one of the two aisles, Dave grips Nick’s hand.
‘Is our meal cart ready for us?’ Dave asks.
‘I’m just doing it now if you can set up a drinks trolley for me?’ I reply.
Stay busy, don’t think.
Nick and Dave are the golden boys of the airline.
The perfect couple. They make me sick with their loved-up glances at one another across the aisle.
Both perfectly polite, until the first gin is poured, then Nick has a mouth like a sewer, and Dave spends the rest of the night keeping him on a short leash.
Not because Nick has any intentions of cheating, but he once fell headfirst into a water fountain on his way back to his hotel room from the bar.
He was dancing to Rasputin by Boney M at the time – according to Galley FM.
‘The special meals are on the top of the cart. I’ve put the list of seat numbers where they’re going under the box,’ I tell Danielle.
‘I’ll take them now. Boys, will you follow with the rest?’ Danielle flashes her blinding Turkey teeth.
With everyone out of my galley I can clean up.
A tidy galley is a happy galley, or at least that’s what this month’s round robin management email would have you believe.
In my experience, a happy galley is when the crew have raided the miniatures from the trolley and put them in their crew bag ready for a room party.
‘Sorry love, push the door in the middle to open it. No love, don’t pull it,’ I say to the woman who is battling to get into the lavatory. I’ll say that sentence at least ten more times on this flight. It perplexes me how so few people can operate a bi-folding door.
‘Ey mate, can I have six vodkas and coke?’ A stocky man with stubble enters the galley wearing an Adam’s STAG t-shirt with BEST MAN printed on the back, along with his surname, REILY.
‘How about I serve you six cokes, and we’ll see how you sober up.’
‘Mate, I’m not pissed.’ The best man leans on the galley top to keep his balance and shouts into the cabin, ‘Gaz, Gaz, come here pal.’
A taller friend joins him. I assume he’s less significant to the wedding party as he only has his surname on his t-shirt, WOOD.
‘Do you need a hand?’ Wood asks.
‘Na, he won't serve us, tell him we haven’t had much,’ Reily demands.
‘We’ve only had a couple, we’re sound, I’m telling you. We’re not causing any trouble.’ Wood defends Reily, despite his glazed eyes telling me he’s more than a couple of drinks in.
‘I’m sorry, your group’s being a little loud and we have families on board. Give it an hour and if you’ve all had some water then we’ll see about the vodkas,’ I tell Wood and Reily.
‘Mate don’t be a dick, we fucking pay your wages innit. Just get us the vodka.’ Reily drops his pretence and lets his inebriation shine through.
‘I’m sorry, but we won’t be serving you any more alcohol at the minute.’
‘What is it, do you want to kiss us?’ Reily steps towards me making a limp action with his wrist.
Put a group of straight men together and introduce a gay man into the mix and time how long it takes for some subtle homophobia to creep into the conversation. Or blatant, for that matter.
‘No sir,’ I smile. ‘I make it a habit never to kiss a man whose breath smells like shit.’