Chapter 9
Soumia:
Are you OK? I heard what happened
Callum:
Don’t panic, I’m fine. Just got to my hotel room
20:31
Soumia:
I can’t believe he punched you
20:31
Callum:
He didn’t punch me, who told you that? He only pushed me against the galley
20:32
Soumia:
Jason. He said he grabbed your tie then punched you and you’ve got a black eye
20:33
Callum:
I should have known it would be him. No grabbing, no punching, no black eye. Just a dented ego
20:34
Soumia:
Did you tell him his breath smelt of shit?
20:34
Callum:
Yes
20:35
Soumia:
Bloody hell babe, why?
20:35
Callum:
Because I shouldn’t have to put up with dickheads who think it’s ok to take the piss when they’ve had a drink
20:37
Soumia:
I know babe. But let the uniform absorb it
20:38
Callum:
Soumia, I’m not some kid who’s been flying a week
20:39
Soumia:
I know that. Jesus, what did Ivy say? Did she kill you
20:39
Callum:
No. She told the men to sit down and shut up unless they wanted to spend the weekend in a jail cell
20:40
Soumia:
If that was me, she would have thrown me out at 40,000ft
20:40
Callum:
I can’t help being loved
20:41
Soumia:
As long as you’re ok
20:42
Callum:
I’m fine. Well I will be as soon as I open one of the miniatures I’ve stolen.
20:43
I throw my phone onto the bed, unzip my crew case, pull out a sick bag, turn it upside down, and let the contents fall out.
Eight miniature bottles of vodka clink as they settle on the duvet.
Lifting a glass from the desk – cheap and plastic – I open one of the bottles screw caps with my teeth and pour in the clear liquid, adding a dash of Mountain Dew I bought from the vending machine in the hotel lobby.
My face winces as a gulp of the strong vodka hits the back of my throat.
Medicine. I put the glass down and go into the bathroom, turn the shower to scald, peel off my uniform which is now fermenting with the smell of Boeing, and jump underneath the scorching water.
The hotel is budget. No little bottles of shampoo.
Instead, an all-in-one shampoo/conditioner and shower gel is screwed to the wall.
The soap lathers up as I scrub the passengers’ dirt off my skin.
At least Muscles didn’t say anything else when he got off.
I could see him looking at my stomach and smirking.
Twat. I didn’t even ask Soumia about her flight!
I’ll ask her when I get out. I hope that stag gets jilted by his bride.
Bless Chantelle, what a first bloody flight.
Nice but dim. Jason’s probably right. If I hadn’t let myself go, Liam would still be at home now.
I need to get to the gym and tone up this flab…
The phone starts to ring. I never understood why there’s always a phone in hotel bathrooms in America, presumably for situations like this. I answer it, half in, half out the shower, dripping water onto the tiles.
‘Hello?’
‘Hiya queen, that bastard Rico has blown me off, fancy coming for a few beers?’ Jason’s camp tones squeal down my ear.
‘Not tonight. I’m having an early one.’
‘Suit yourself, I won't ask twice.’ Jason hangs up.
I turn the water off and climb out of the shower, grabbing a huge oversize towel, the size its only luxury.
It may have been soft and fluffy once, before a thousand boil washes, now it resembles a giant sheet of sandpaper.
I let the towel drop to the floor and pick up the hairdryer, turn it onto its hottest setting, and wave it over my body to dry my chest. Opening my legs slightly, I do the same for my balls. Much better than the towel.
I step back into the bedroom which is lined with mustard-coloured wallpaper, stodgy black furniture fills the floorspace.
If a hotel room could be described as depressing, this would be it.
Another swig of vodka. A mirror hangs, unclean and cracked, on the wall behind a very ancient TV, which no matter which channel you put on, seems to play an hour of adverts between five minutes of programmes.
The state of the room is a compromise for its location on West 48th Street, a few blocks away from Times Square.
The vodka, coloured a weak shade of green from the Mountain Dew, warms me from the inside.
I unscrew another miniature and top up my glass.
Putting on a pair of blue and white Aussiebums and posing in front of the dirty mirror, I breathe in and turn from left to right to see if the image staring back at me gets any better depending on the angle, it doesn’t.
Another swig. I put one hand on my tummy and pull it in to see what I’d look like with a tummy tuck.
I could go from bear to otter with one cut of the surgeon’s knife.
I pick up my phone and open Spotify. This is an evening for Sugababes.
I select shuffle and play the music through the mini speaker that lives in my bag for night stops.
My drink is gone by the time the babes finish the last chorus of Push the Button.
Go on then, just one more. The beat changes.
It’s a slow one, Too Lost in You. I sit down on a wooden chair with a thin lumpy cushion.
It’s as uncomfortable as my mood. I sing along to the chorus and continue to sip.
The track changes lifting my vibe, Hole in the Head.
It would be rude to not top myself up whilst the girls are singing.
Phone still in my hand, confident from the liquor, I take Jason’s advice and load up Grindr to find an American boyfriend.
A grid of available men within New York state stares back at me.
The nearest one just 40 metres away, I click on it and instantly regret it.
It’s Jason, using a picture before he had cosmetic enhancements.
I hope he can’t see I’ve clicked on him and thinks I’m interested.
My phone vibrates with a message. A Grindr notification: I’ve been tapped. Hudson (how very New York) is thirty-three, bearded, 5ft10, sports a buzzcut, and is drop dead gorgeous.
Hudson:
Evening. What are you doing?
21:50
CallumSUB:
In my hotel room listening to music and having a drink
21:50
Hudson:
Visiting? Where from?
21:51
CallumSUB:
Yes. Manchester, UK. What you up to?
21:51
Hudson:
Getting ready for a night out. You been out in NYC?
21:52
CallumSUB:
No. Wouldn’t know where to go
21:53
Hudson:
Good looking man like you shouldn’t be staying in on your own
21:54
CallumSUB:
You smooth talking devil
21:54
Hudson:
What?
21:55
CallumSUB:
Nothing. Just pouring another
21:56
Hudson:
Pouring me one?
21:56
CallumSUB:
Sure
21:57
Hudson:
You’re close. Which hotel you in?
21:57
CallumSUB:
Westside Grand
21:58
Hudson:
Nasty
21:59
CallumSUB:
Tell me about it
22:00
Hudson:
Get out whilst you still can. Come and join me and my friends
22:00
CallumSUB:
I can’t I’m flying tomorrow. Need to have an early night
22:01
Hudson:
You know where I am if you change your mind
22:02
Bottoms up. The lid makes a crack as I twist another bottle open.
I should have got some ice from the machine in the corridor.
Not that it matters now, I can feel I’m tipsy.
I lay on the bed and open my socials. Soumia has posted a picture of her and the rest of her crew having a civilised meal in a bar and grill in Boston.
Her smile is beautiful. She’s wearing jeans and a white vest top. Effortless as always.
I continue to scroll. The usual attention-seeking selfies, pictures of food, dogs, happy birthday messages and what the fuck…
A picture of Liam with his cheeky smile beaming from ear to ear, his stubble just long enough to tickle his top lip.
He’s got his arms around his new boyfriend and my friend Alex.
Well, she was my friend, I’ve not seen her much over the last four months.
Nausea floods over me with the power of a tsunami.
The picture torments me. I feel like I’m watching him walk out all over again.
A tear smears itself down the side of my nose, tickling as it flows.
I knock back the poison, take a deep breath, and another.
Closing the phone, I climb up off the bed and step away from it.
One, two, three, four, he looks happy, five, six, his fella is slimmer than me.
Another tear. One, two, three, four, why is he with Alex?
This is why I blocked him on everything.
I down another drink. The lack of mixer in the last glass hits me.
You absolute bastard. Deep breath. There are only two bottles left.
I open one. I don’t bother pouring it into the glass.
I open my mouth and pour the vodka straight down. I open the app.
CallumSUB:
I’ve changed my mind. When and where?
22:23