Chapter 28, Winging It

Chapter 28

The guest house entrance has two battered wicker chairs which look out through a rectangular window to a barren field. Its long grass leans over to the right in the wind like a gymnast stretching. I’m sitting on one chair and Soumia on the other. The chairs shed flakes of paint every time we move.

We’re both wearing our emergency night stop kits; jogging bottoms and baggy jumpers.

Experienced crew pack for all weathers, knowing they may end up in a completely different destination to the one they had planned for.

The sky’s dim. The shadows it casts hides the grubbiness of the hotel grounds.

The streetlights are not yet shining. We’ve both slept most of the day but are still hazy from working a night flight.

It always takes a few days for my body to get back into its natural circadian rhythm, just in time for me to fly and do it all again.

Soumia’s painting her nails post box red. The smell from the varnish fills the reception. A potted plant clings to life in the corner beside the pine check-in desk, and a square table containing leaflets tries to tempt tourist with information of various outings.

Soumia’s got the tip of her tongue falling out the corner of her mouth as she takes care to layer each nail. ‘Did he say what time he’d be back?’

‘No, he said he’d be at the airport most the evening trying to fix the piece of shit.’ I’m tempted to nudge Soumia but don’t want to end up wearing the nail varnish.

‘Has he found out why it happened yet?’

‘No.’

The tall teenager on reception from this morning has clocked back on for another shift and is pulling at a loose cotton thread on his orange shirt.

I turn to him and give him a wave to catch his attention to ask for a cup of tea.

He returns my greeting with a goofy grin then disappears into a side room.

‘What happened between you last night?’ Soumia is blowing on her freshly painted left hand.

‘We just chatted and cuddled.’

‘Yeah, right.’

‘We did! I promise you we didn’t bum. He was the perfect gent.’ The teenager is back. ‘Excuse me.’

‘Ja,’ he responds, then taps away on his computer, conversation over.

Soumia looks up, ‘He’s as much use as chocolate teapot,’ then swaps hands to continue the painting.

Soumia’s phone illuminates with a call. She looks at the screen and sends it to voicemail.

‘And what about McBride. did you sneak into his room for a threesome with him and Skerrow?’

‘And risk the wrath of Jason? No chance. Plus, you know, Skerrow’s a little bit gay and his wife’s a little bit pregnant.’ Soumia uses a cotton bud to clean up a smudge of varnish.

‘I bet he’s one of those men who’s fathered a hundred kids at a sperm bank. There’ll be a small army of Skerrows out there.’ I lean into Soumia. ‘Anyway, you need to be careful, the police will probably want to speak to you for cradle snatching.’

‘Nob off.’ Soumia gives my chair a playful kick.

‘Don’t kick it, it’ll disintegrate.’

‘Like your hair line.’

‘Bitch.’

Soumia turns back to her nails, concentrating hard not to smudge them.

‘This is shit.’ She dabs the brush back in the bottle.

‘Sacherelle, what sort of brand is that?’

‘A cheap one. I couldn’t justify thirty quid on my usual.’

The receptionist is back. He’s shuffling papers and being very loud about it. I try communicating again. ‘Two teas, please.’ I show two fingers then pretend to drink out of a hot cup.

‘Nei takk.’ He shakes his head and picks up the stapler, a symbol of his power.

I turn back to Soumia. ‘He’s thick as pig shit that one.’

Soumia snorts and paints the length of her little finger red. She wipes it off with a cotton pad. Her phone rings again. She silences the call.

A man, mid 40s, grey beard, wearing jeans and a grey hoodie approaches us.

‘Excuse me, do you know what time we’ll be flying home? I’ve been calling customer services and I can’t get through. It’s appalling. No one’s told us a thing.’

He’s the third passenger to tell us the same story.

I look at Soumia; she takes her cue. ‘I’m sorry sir, we don’t have any information. We know as much as you.’

‘I’ve got a funeral to go to,’ the passenger says.

It’s funny, delay a passenger and suddenly they have a diary full of engagements that you’re personally responsible for keeping them from.

You can see their minds trying to figure out which missed fake engagement will get them the most compensation.

I want to tell him he can complain all he wants, but it’s five middle-aged women in our head office who deal with them and they’re all going through the menopause.

Dot spends more time walking to and from the thermostat than she does at her desk.

‘It’s bloody ridiculous,’ he moans.

I really can’t be arsed with passengers right now. Especially ones that seem to forget we shared their experience. ‘I know sir, you should have gone with BA.’

He scuttles off like a cockroach up the stairs to his bedroom, his phone’s on load speaker as he tries to connect to Dot.

Soumia’s shaking her head at me.

‘What?... Bloody hell, your phones going again, someone really wants you,’ I say.

‘No caller ID, it’ll be someone flogging shit.’ She turns the screen upside down and continues painting, adding a fresh layer to each nail.

‘Have you seen the others since you’ve been sat here?’

‘No. Sandra’s probably on the phone to her cats.’ Soumia blows on the wet paint.

My watch alerts me to a message on my phone.

Olly:

This is a lost cause. I’ll be back in the hotel in an hour