Chapter 16
The cabin on this aircraft hasn’t been updated since its wheels first rolled out of the Boeing factory thirty years ago.
The premium cabin has four rows with six seats in each.
These aren’t the luxurious seats you’d find on flag carriers and Middle Eastern airlines; these are reminiscent of the bulky green chairs my gran used to have in her back room.
Each one is thick with a padding which would go up like a firework near any stray spark.
There’s a wooden lever on the side of each seat to extend your leg rest and make the seatback recline.
Most of the levers are damaged and their sharp edges have been covered in silver tape, making them look like the limbs of a cartoon mine victim.
There’s no seat back tv screens or sockets for your personal devices in this cabin, or the economy one.
Instead, a projector suspended from the ceiling in the middle beams a movie onto a screen on the bulkhead.
The movies, like the furnishings, are vintage; Home Alone plays on every flight in a triple feature with Stand by Me and Dirty Dancing.
The cabin is full today. A couple on their honeymoon have been upgraded by the check-in staff and they’re making the most of the free bar.
You can always tell people who don’t belong in premium a mile off, they’ll be the ones taking selfies and asking for a top up every time you walk past. The real premium passengers tend to stay quiet, don’t need much looking after, and apologise to you if they need to disturb you from your duties.
The couple on honeymoon explain they’re going to hire a car at Boston and drive down the West Coast. I don’t have the heart to tell them that Boston is East, very East. They might be coming back divorced.
I suck my stomach in and make my way to Olly, or Mr O.
Barry to be precise, information I obtained from the passenger manifest. The sun pierces through the cabin window illuminating his features.
A small shadow is cast from a tiny bump in his nose.
He catches my eye and gives me the widest smile I’ve ever seen.
It’s a smile that says: talk to me, I don’t bite, and for a brief second, I want him to, on my neck, where it makes me quiver.
But then I remember, I’m off men, and I’m definitely off men who stand me up.
Though his blue eyes are hypnotising, I imagine them inviting me to throw myself over his lap and lick his face and taste him, but then I remember, I’m definitely off men, and I won’t be easily bought with a smile, no matter how beautiful it is.
His stubble, the same length as his jet-black hair, is neatly groomed, which emphasises his chiselled jaw.
He’s not muscled but he’s lean, a white shirt with the top two buttons undone shows off a little chest hair.
I want to straddle him and rip his shirt wide open and run my fingers through it and see if his kisses are as lustful as I imagined.
Then I remember, I am categorically, 100% allergic to, and not interested in MEN, especially ones that left me standing in the rain in Spinningfields while a bouncer gave me sympathetic looks.
Not even ones that should be on an underwear advert and sprawled on signs at every bus stop. I am just not interested.
OK, Callum, play this cool. Don’t show him you’re bothered or attracted to him in any way shape or form.
‘Afternoon Mr Barry, would you drink me. I mean…erm… would you like a drink?’ Okay, I might be a little interested.
‘You can call me Olly, you know. And yes, please, can I get a vodka and tomato juice?’
I’m torn between wanting to pour the drink all over him for standing me up or offering him whatever he wants as long as he sits and drinks it naked.
‘Not a problem Mr Olly… erm… Olly. Would you like my nuts, salted nuts, peanuts?’ I can feel the blood rushing to my cheeks.
‘Sure, I’ll sample your nuts.’ He winks.
And with that, I die. My face burns redder than the flashing beacon on the aircraft wing. I try to laugh it off, but it comes out overly fake and loud.
‘Ha Ha Ha.’
Olly reaches out and touches my arm. ‘Does this mean we’re friends?’
And I’m not sure, because as beautiful as he is, he’s the man that left me hanging for a kiss and left me drenched in the rain.
‘I think it might be best if we keep this professional, sir.’
I skulk back to the galley before I can be subjected to any more humiliation, only to be served it by Soumia and Trev, who have been watching the exchange.
‘Would you like to gobble my nuts, sir?’ Soumia says in a mock seductive voice.
‘Fuck off.’ I squeeze past her to open the bar cart and remove a miniature vodka and a tiny can of tomato juice.
‘That was smooth. Here, put your nuts on my tray.’ Trev’s laughing at his own joke, Soumia joins in.
I cringe even more.
I snatch the tray off Trev, place Olly’s order on it, accompanied by a glass with ice and a napkin, then head back to 4E.
‘Your tray table is in your arm rest.’ I direct Olly to lift the cover.
He struggles; I lean over to help and inhale his scent deep into my lungs. It’s my favourite, Jean Paul Gautier. Despite all the warnings, I go weak.
‘Woah, watch out.’ Olly says as he helps me keep my balance. ‘You had a couple of these yourself,’ he smiles.
‘I wish, but I’m sure I’ll have a few when I land.’
‘Really? Are you and the crew going out tonight?’ He takes a sip of his cocktail and then licks the little drop he’s spilt off his fingers – I’ve never been so jealous of somebody’s digits before.
Snap out of it, Callum.
‘We’ll probably have a sociable drink or two in the hotel bar, but nothing wild, we fly back tomorrow night.
We don’t have enough time to go out partying.
’ Although we have all done it a thousand times before.
I continue in my well-practised cabin crew voice when talking to premium paying passengers. ‘And what takes you to Boston, sir?’
‘Come on, you know I’m called Olly. And work.’
‘You didn’t get made redundant in the end then?’
‘Actually, I did. This is my new job.’
I’m about to narrow down the job field when a passenger call bell chimes and I’m forced to stop the conversation and make an effort to serve the other twenty-three passengers in the cabin.
‘Have you managed to have a look at the menu?’
‘I have, but I’m not hungry at the minute. I’ll just stick to your salted nuts.’
He winks and I’m not sure if he’s flirting. It doesn’t matter anyway; he’s a good twelve out of ten, and I like to consider myself a solid seven. Besides, I have a new rule: never flirt with a man who’s stood you up for his brother.
I’m not as attentive to the other passengers in the cabin as I dash to take their orders.
I’m aware I’ve spent service time chatting to Olly, and heads have started to turn in my direction to enquire when the drinks will arrive.
Once my pad is filled with a list of chosen beverages, I take my place next to Soumia in the galley and hand her the orders.
‘Trev’s gone to help down the back. Jason called up the front to say they haven’t got any cutlery?’ Soumia’s wearing oven gloves and tipping the inflight meals from the foil trays they’ve been cooking in onto white plastic plates.
‘Not even on the meal trays?’
‘Nope.’
‘And what’s the choice down the back?’
‘Usual, sausage, mash and peas. Here, start taking these orders out, will you? They’re 1A and B.’
Soumia hands me two plates of chicken and posh chips. The Sahara has more moisture than this cremated poultry. Soumia has picked off so much brown lettuce from the salads that a wafer-thin slice of red onion and a pickle is all that’s left.
‘Did he recognise you?’ Soumia asks.
‘Yes. But I’m not interested.’
‘Did you ask him why he stood you up?’
‘I’m hardly going to ask him that when I’m working and he’s a premium paying passenger.’
Trev’s voice comes over the PA system, ‘Ladies and gentlemen, we hope you’re enjoying your flight with us this afternoon.
Very shortly we will commence the inflight service and deliver delicious hot food for you to enjoy.
Unfortunately, there’s been a small mix up with the caterers and we don’t have any cutlery on today’s flight.
We do however have plenty of drink stirrers to help you scoff your peas. ’