Chapter 16 First Class
First Class
The morning after the premiere, Natalie told Aaron that she wanted to return to Hong Kong.
"Why?" he had asked. She told him. Aaron had thought for a moment, took her hand and said, "Natalie, darling, I wish that you could stay.
I truly do. But these will be busy weeks promoting the film and we won't have much time to spend together.
When I return to Hong Kong, I promise that it will be only us.
You and me. Please do not give up on me. "
Juan, from the hotel, got out of the passenger seat. As he pulled her fluorescent yellow jaune-accented Louis Vuitton Horizon luggage set from the trunk, Natalie stepped out of the back.
She wore a Totême ivory silk-blend shirt dress, a narrow Saint Laurent black leather belt. On her feet were Chanel beige-and-black slingback flats. Her Celine Triomphe bag sat against her hip, and her Tom Ford sunglasses were tucked into the neckline of the dress.
As the car pulled away to circle the airport, Juan set the suitcases upright, extended the handles, and placed her passport and ticket folder under one arm. He rolled Natalie's luggage through Door 5.
Natalie walked beside him.
"Thank you, Juan," Natalie said, "for helping me."
"Yes, ma’am."
Inside, the terminal opened around them in tall glass and polished floors.
There was the usual noisy, busyness of every airport departure floor.
At the Cathay Pacific departures desk, economy check-in stretched one way in snaking queues: families balancing passports and snacks, backpacks slipping off shoulders, luggage carts blocked at angles, a man kneeling on the floor to move shoes from one suitcase to another with the solemnity of battlefield medic.
First class was to the left.
There was no line.
Juan guided Natalie there without hesitation.
It should have felt wonderful.
But it didn’t.
The Cathay Pacific agent smiled with professional warmth. “Good evening.” Juan gave the agent Natalie’s paperwork and hoisted her Horizon 70 case onto the scale.
“Ms. Chan. Traveling to Hong Kong tonight?” the agent asked.
“Yes,” Natalie said.
The agent weighed the Horizon 70. She tagged the bag, and placed a priority tag on it with smooth, practiced hands. She slid Natalie’s boarding pass across the counter inside the passport: CX 883, Los Angeles to Hong Kong, seat 2B.
“Your luggage here.” She pointed at the stickers.
“Your Diamond Club lounge invitation is here,” the agent said, indicating a separate, smaller ticket. “Boarding will begin at ten forty-five. You may use the priority security lane.”
“Thank you.”
“Enjoy your flight, Ms. Chan.”
The checked bag was placed on the conveyor belt and disappeared at the end as Natalie and Juan walked away.
The smaller yellow Horizon 55 remained with Juan, who turned to her. “Security is just there. The lounge is after the escalator.”
“I’ve got it.”
He hesitated only once before releasing the handle.
Natalie took the suitcase.
Juan nodded. “Have a safe flight.”
“Thank you, Juan.”
He turned and walked back toward the doors to the street, already pulling out his phone to alert the driver that he was ready to be picked up.
Natalie stood with her boarding pass in one hand and the handle of the Horizon 55 in the other.
She went through security.
First class security was not magic, but it was pretty close. The line moved quickly. Shoes stayed on. People spoke softly. Even the bins seemed cleaner, which was probably impossible and yet emotionally true.
Afterward, she followed the signs to the lounge.
Pale wood. Low lighting. Armchairs arranged in civilized distances.
A bar with champagne on ice. Quiet televisions.
A buffet with small sandwiches, fruit, dim sum in bamboo steamers, cookies under glass domes.
A shower suite sign. People pretending that this was ordinary and that they weren’t tickled pink to be here.
Natalie found a seat near the window.
Outside, planes moved slowly in the last light.
She set the Louis Vuitton carry-on beside her chair, placed her Celine bag on her lap, and ordered sparkling water from a hostess who came by.
Natalie felt rundown. Hollywood was amazing… at first. But now it was a nightmare. She couldn’t wait to get out of here.
By tomorrow, she would be on the other side of the world and could pretend that this was all a bad dream.
After a few hours of, let’s just be quite honest here, wasting time, Natalie decided to move to the departure lounge.
She certainly didn’t want to miss her flight.
Boarding began with first class.
Natalie had flown enough in her life to understand the usual choreography of airports: wait, stand, shuffle, wait again, be treated as a dumb animal with a passport.
This was different. Her group was called first. She walked past the long line of tired passengers waiting to board later and, as she approached the front, she felt depressed about being allowed to go before them.
She didn’t want to stand out. She didn’t want to be known. She didn’t want to be the object of envy by those who didn’t know how lonely she felt inside. She didn’t want to be a target for people like Skye Madison.
She wanted to be part of a group, any group, and be surrounded by ordinary people. Being nobody special meant freedom. Freedom to do what you want, say what you think and hear other people do the same.
But she went anyway.
The woman at the counter scanned her ticket and passport and, once the approval beep had sounded, gestured for her to walk down the gangway.
The gangway was empty.
At the aircraft door, a flight attendant greeted her. She looked at Natalie’s ticket and said, “Welcome aboard, Ms. Chan.”
After returning her ticket, the attendant took Natalie’s Horizon 55 case by the handle and led her to her seat which was just a few steps away.
A wide leather armchair angled toward a large screen, with polished surfaces, storage compartments, a pillow, blanket, amenity kit, slippers, orchids in a tiny vase, and plenty of legroom.
Her carry-on slid into its compartment. The Celine bag fit beside her.
There was a place for everything, and everything had its place.
Natalie sat down.
A flight attendant came back with champagne.
“Yes, please,” Natalie said.
She took the glass and looked across the aisle.
The man seated opposite her was Chinese, maybe early forties, in a navy blazer and no tie.
Slightly round face, neat haircut, glasses, cheap watch, soft hands.
He had the alert, hopeful expression of a man who had discovered that the beautiful woman across the aisle was alone and had immediately begun negotiating with his own courage.
He looked up.
Natalie smiled politely.
He smiled back too fast, then appeared to regret the speed.
He seems nice, she thought. I like him.
The flight attendant came through with menus. Another offered pajamas. Another asked if Natalie wanted a pre-departure drink after the champagne, which felt a little too Alcoholics Anonymous for her taste.
The man across the aisle adjusted his glasses.
Then, with visible bravery, he leaned slightly toward her.
“Excuse me,” he said. “Are you also going home?”
Natalie turned.
His English was American-educated, with a Hong Kong softness around the vowels.
“Yes,” she said. “Hong Kong.”
“Ah. Me too. Well, sort of. I live there now. I’m Peter Wang.”
“Natalie Chan.”
“Nice to meet you.” He paused. “I promise I am not usually the person who talks across the aisle before takeoff.”
“That’s a shame. I was hoping you were.”
He laughed, relieved. “No, no. I was deciding for five minutes whether it would be rude.”
“What was the conclusion?”
“Still unclear.”
“At least you took the risk.”
“First class gives false courage,” Peter said. “It’s the champagne.”
Natalie smiled into her glass.
The safety video began.
Peter immediately sat back, attentive, as if there might be a pop quiz later. Natalie watched him watch it and felt, for the first time since leaving the hotel, something in her chest loosen.
During takeoff, he gripped both armrests.
He seemed tense.
When the plane leveled, he released them with dignity.
“Not a good flyer?” she asked.
“I am an excellent flyer,” he said.
“You looked very committed to those armrests.”
“Let me assure you that it was for their sake, not mine.”
She laughed.
He looked pleased with himself in the small startled way of a man who had made the pretty woman laugh and intended to treasure the experience privately.
The first meal service began somewhere over the Pacific.
The food was excellent in the way airplane food could be excellent when enough money had been thrown at it: caviar with blinis and crème fra?che, a small salad, warm bread, sea bass that did not taste like it had been caught in a sewer, vegetables with actual texture. Wine arrived. Then more wine. Then tea.
Caviar.
Natalie looked at it.
Peter leaned slightly across the aisle. “Do you like caviar?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?”
“I’ve had it at events where everyone agreed that they would pretend to like it because it is expensive. That makes it hard to tell.”
“Personally, I’d prefer a bag of potato chips,” Peter whispered.
“Yeah, me too,” Natalie whispered back.
“But it’s expensive so we’ll just have to eat it. If we asked for potato chips, they might kick us out of first class.”
Natalie grinned. Peter was funny.
“What do you do?” she asked.
“I am a businessman.”
“What business?”
“Logistics software. Very boring.”
“I work at an art gallery. You can’t scare me with boring.”
His face brightened. “Art gallery? Really?”
“Yes.”
“I know nothing about art,” Peter said immediately, then looked horrified at himself. “Sorry. That was not a good opening.”
“It was honest.”
“Can I try again?”
“Please.”
He sat straighter. “I have always been fascinated by art but have not yet found the right opportunity to deepen my understanding.”
Natalie considered.
“Worse.”
“Yes. I felt it happening.”