Chapter 13
My bedroom door flies open. I turn my head around in time to see a bunch of bananas hurtling towards my face.
‘I thought the monkey might be hungry.’ Soumia stands with a beaming smile, giggling to herself and enjoying my suffering far too much.
‘Fuck off you bitch.’ I’m serious but joking and let out a chuckle along with a painful moan as I quickly turn around to throw the covers over my naked arse.
‘No need to cover your modesty in front of me, you’ve already shown everyone else.’
‘I don’t know what you mean.’ I know exactly what she means.
Soumia makes monkey noises and thumps her chest like a chimp. I laugh.
‘Don’t make me clench, it hurts.’ I laugh even harder.
‘Babe, seriously, what are we going to do with you?’
Luckily, she’s been away on back-to-back trips whilst I’ve been suffering in silence, living off ice pops and the occasional cup-a-soup. It was our plan to minimise the risk of her catching the mpox. I’d never forgive myself if I gave it to her.
‘Well, I won’t be shagging anymore men for a long time, I’m off sex for life. Nothing is worth this much pain. If Russel Tovey offered to take me on a date to Paris, I’d shoo him away with a cattle prod.’
I’m twisting my neck trying to talk to Soumia.
It’s been two weeks since I went to the clinic and I’ve been lay on my front ever since.
The pain has been intense. I’ve googled mpox; the good old right-wing press are labelling it the new gay disease.
It’s easily transmitted from person to person, and the latest outbreak has been traced to a sex party in Germany.
Ironically, it’s the one country I’ve never been.
Soumia sits on the floor beside my bed.
‘You shouldn’t be in here, you know I’m contagious,’ I warn her.
‘I’ll take my chances, besides, no matter how much you beg I’m not rubbing cream into your arse.’
‘I bet I could get someone round to do it for me. There’ll be some sort of fetish for it.’
‘I’ll have no randoms back in my house, thank you very much.’ Soumia looks at me like a teacher warning their student.
‘Honestly, I’m done. No more men. More trouble than they’re worth.’ I mean it.
‘Give me your phone then.’
‘It’s there on the side.’
Soumia reaches to my bedside table and takes my iPhone.
‘Don’t look at the pictures.’
‘I don’t want to see your dick pics.’
‘It’s not dick pics, it’s septic arse pics. The only way I can see if its healing is by bending over and taking pictures with the front camera. It’s a good job you didn’t walk in twenty minutes ago, you’d have seen right into my soul.’
‘You’ve got a message notification, Olly4u.’
‘What does it say?’
‘Usual pin?’ Soumia asks, my phone in her hand.
‘Usual pin.’ I confirm.
Soumia is the one person I trust with my life and pin number.
I’ve given the task of de-gaying my room should I ever be hit by a bus.
Not that I’m ashamed to be gay, but it’ll be less embarrassing for my ghost if she’s gone into my room and emptied it of the jock straps, poppers, and the toys I keep in my top cupboard before my mum makes her biannual visit to see me and cries into one of my t-shirts.
I might not see her from one year to the next, but mum always sends a birthday card with a book token in it, and I wouldn’t want her finding my leather harness if I’ve snuffed it in a plane crash.
Soumia met my mum one night purely by chance; she turned up unannounced after splitting with yet another man.
She collects ex-husbands like other people collect stamps.
She stayed for three weeks, doing her best to wind Liam up every day – Soumia thought she was a legend – before she declared her love for a man who has a black pudding stall on Bury Market, then disappeared again for another six months.
I’ve told Soumia in the event of my death she can put the leather harness from my wardrobe on eBay; she’ll get a good few quid for it.
I bought it after a few medicinal miniatures I’d rescued from onboard, the dose made me think I could get away with wearing it amongst the Muscle-Marys.
When it arrived, it was clear I couldn’t.
It’s lived in the dark corners of the closet ever since.
Soumia reads out the message from Olly4u. ‘He says, he’s really sorry, and can he take you out for that drink?’
‘Absolutely not. No more men, ever.’
‘Are you ready to delete the apps?’ Soumia asks.
‘More than you’ll ever know.’
Although I hate all men, what are you supposed to do when you’re in isolation for three weeks except swipe left and right on potential suitors?
I had a couple of nice conversations; one with a forty-year-old GP who passed one evening telling me about embarrassing stories his patients had come in with.
He told me his friend who’s a nurse had just treated her first case of mpox and that it was the most inflamed arse hole she’d ever seen. I blocked him.
Soumia takes my phone. ‘I’m doing it. Grindr, deleted. Scruff, bye bye. Tinder, gone. Hinge, terminated.’ Soumia puts my phone back on my bedside table. ‘Shall we have a cup of tea to celebrate?’
‘Yes please. And can you bring me an ice-pop too?’
‘As long as you promise not to shove it up your arse.’ It’s like she can read my mind.
Soumia heads downstairs. The water pipes clank and clang, a sign of their infirmness, as Soumia fills up the kettle. I wiggle a little to try and get comfortable. Impossible. I pick my phone up and reread the conversation I had with Alex earlier that morning.
Callum:
Hey you, what you up to?
10:32
Alex:
Hungover
10:45
Callum:
Go anywhere nice?
10:45
Alex:
Only into town. Beefcakes
10:47
Callum:
Beefcakes. You. Who dragged you in there?
10:48
Alex:
Just a mate
10:50
Callum:
The same mate from the pics last month?
10:51
Alex:
Don’t make this awkward
11:16
Callum:
I’m not. I didn’t know you stayed in touch, that’s all
11:17
Alex:
I’m not choosing sides
11:20
Callum:
I’m not asking you to
11:20
I am absolutely asking her to choose sides.
I want to be petty and tell her she was my friend first, but I know how high school that sounds.
Alex and I met at a room party in Dubai.
I’ve never seen anyone as drunk as her, I loved her instantly.
The loudest person in the room, she commanded everyone’s attention.
She retold a story of how she fled Saudi after breaking into the Chinese restaurant on the American compound in the middle of the night to steal their sadiki: a home brewed wine so potent you have to mix it with coke to stop the body naturally wanting to vomit the rotting potion immediately.
We were both in Dubai on a night stop working for rival airlines.
One of my crew invited everyone in the hotel’s Crew Lounge for a room party when the hotel staff told us off for being too loud.
Alex had her heels in her hand whilst smoking a roll up.
At one point she nearly inhaled a 4-inch stiletto.
She blew the smoke out the window, a skill crew who flew in the 90s and early noughties got particularly good at to avoid hotel room smoke detectors.
The skill was put to good use on board too.
Back when you could get away with it, the crew would take it in turns to have a mile high nicotine rush.
They’d place a condom over the fire alarm in the toilet to prevent the siren from sounding, and blow the cigarette smoke down the sink drain, which sucked the smokey air away.
Alex:
Good, because I won't choose
11:23
I don’t know what else to say to her at the moment, apart from, if that’s true then where the hell have you been? I decide not to reply and leave her on read.
Soumia places the freshly made tea on the floor and hands me a brown ice pop, cola flavour.
‘The dates come through for my interview for senior,’ she says.
‘When is it?’
‘A week on Friday.’
‘You’ll be fine. The job’s yours.’
‘Don’t say that you’ll jinx me. You haven’t heard who’s interviewing me yet.’ There’s a warning tone to Soumia’s voice.
‘Ivy Walsh?’
‘How did you know?’
‘Only Ivy would make you pull that face.’ I bite into my ice pop; it instantly gives me brain freeze. ‘Oh fuck.’ I press the heel of my hand into my eye socket in a futile attempt to make it stop.
‘Drama queen. She’s going to fail me. Why couldn’t I have Dominic? He’s a walk over. Bloody Sandra’s got him.’
Soumia doesn’t usually sulk, but she’s right.
Sandra is her closest competition, although she trails into insignificance compared to Soumia.
If Soumia is Concorde, then Sandra is a 35-year-old 737 whose only destination should be the Arizona scrap yard.
Known as Sandra Scandal on account of her clumsiness, Galley FM recently went into overdrive when she spilt a hot drink over a soap star in the premium cabin and ended up being mentioned in a not so very nice social media post. At least she could find comfort knowing it wasn’t a major celebrity, there’s no risk of any ‘A lister’ ever flying Tiny World.
Dominic is our base manager, often described as less use than a 737 MAX.
Rumour has it that he’s scared of flying; not a great quality in a cabin crew base manager.
When the job in the office came up, he jumped at the chance to keep his feet on the ground.
Tall and meek, he lets the crew get away with murder and hands over all the difficult conversations to Ivy.
If Ivy says no, the crew go straight to Dominic, his knees start to tremble when he sees their uniform approach.
‘I wouldn’t worry. Sandra will get lost in the car park and not make it in.’ I try to alleviate Soumia’s concerns.
‘I need the money more than anything. I can’t continue to run this house on a cabin crew salary with the cost of everything going up.’
Soumia takes a slurp of tea; I reach for mine and gulp. It mixes with the flavour of the ice pop. Not nice.
‘I don’t mind if you need to put my rent up, I know you’re doing me a favour.’ And I mean it, she is.
I’m better off now I’m not paying for the apartment by myself and only renting a room.
‘Things aren’t that bad.’
‘What about asking your dad if you’re short this month?’ I know I’m on dangerous territory bringing her dad up.
‘Not a chance. Each pound would come with a thousand conditions. He’d love the chance to say, “I told you Soumia, you should have joined the family business.”’
‘You’d make a brilliant farmer; you’ve often been called a cow.’
Soumia leans forward and slaps my bum.
‘Arggghhhh.’ I scream in pain.
‘Any more lip and I’ll shove those bananas up your arse.’
I’m laughing and holding my bottom in agony at the same time.
‘You know what he’s like, it broke his heart when I left the countryside.’ Soumia pulls herself up. ‘Oh god, let some fresh air in here, it smells like a fucking Boeing.’
Soumia pulls the curtains open letting daylight into my bedroom for the first time in seven days, then swings open the window. The fresh air rushes in like it does when you open the aircraft door down route and the hot air from the foreign sun hits you in the face.
‘I’ve never been in so much pain.’ I pull a puppy dog face at Soumia.
‘That’ll teach you for being a slag.’