“A little,” I said, gazing out at the Manhattan skyline, wondering how, out of the millions of people living there, I could be so sure I’d found the right one.
“Just don’t forget about the little people,” he said, tapping me on the shoulder. “You know, the ones who bar crawled with you, sample sale-shopped with you, held your hair back when you got sick from that bad coach-class lasagna, and basically stood by you long before you had that M-R-S in front of your name.” He frowned at me.
“Clay, I could never forget you,” I said, grabbing his hand and squeezing.
“Please, that’s what they all say. But it’s an age-old story. Every fag loses his hag eventually.” He shook his head and turned toward the window, pressing his forehead against the smudgy glass.
“First of all, you’re my best friend.”
He turned and smiled.
“And second, don’t call me a fag hag; it creeps me out. Besides, Michael
loves
you,” I insisted.
Clay just looked at me, brown eyes wary.
“Okay, so he tolerates you. But I promise,
nothing will change!
You’ll see.” I nodded my head and smiled brightly. But all the while I hoped I wasn’t just saying that.
When we arrived at my building, I leaned over and gave Clay a quick kiss on the cheek. “I’ll call you tomorrow. We’ll meet for coffee, and I’ll give you all the dirty details and show you the ring. I promise,” I said. Then I grabbed my bags and ran inside, anxious to get upstairs and out of my ugly polyester uniform that smelled faintly of everything I’d come in contact with the last two days.
Riding the elevator to the fourteenth floor, I performed my usual striptease, so by the time I walked through the front door I was shoeless, jacketless, and just about to step out of my skirt when I noticed a navy blue blazer lying on the Turkish rug we’d gotten at the Grand Bazaar last spring. Vowing to be a better housekeeper once we were actually married, I flung the jacket lightly over my arm and pushed through the partially closed bedroom
door and straight into a scene I’d heard about many times before, but never expected to see in real life.
There, sitting on the edge of our queen-sized bed, was my future husband, Michael. Dressed in the gray cashmere sweater I’d bought for his birthday, with his dark denim jeans pushed all the way down to the top of his brown suede driving mocs. His head was thrown back, his eyes were shut tight, and his lips were moist and parted, while a petite, dark-haired flight attendant in a crisp white shirt and navy blue uniform pants knelt between his legs, head bobbing up and down
rhythmically.
I stood there in shock, watching
someone else
do what I had done just two days earlier, right before running out the door to catch the bus to Newark International Airport. Then suddenly, there was a horrible, loud scream.
It came from me.
“Hailey! It’s not what you think!” Michael yelled, his face frantic and panicked, waving one hand in the air to distract me while using the other to cover the evidence.
“Oh my God!” I screamed.
“What is going on, Michael?”
“Hailey, relax. Everything’s fine,” he said, tugging on his black bikini briefs that were all knotted and twisted around the leg of his pants.
“What the hell is going on?”
I repeated, unable to move or close my eyes to the sight of his little friend cowering at the foot of our bed.
“Hailey, please just—
shit!”
he yelled, hopping one-legged around the room, teetering dangerously, while his underwear squeezed around his thigh like a boa constrictor. “I can explain, just . . .
fuck!”
“WHO THE HELL IS SHE?”
I demanded, my eyes darting between Michael and the tiny dark-haired girl whose face was pressed tightly into the folds of the bed skirt.
And then they both looked at me.
And then I saw.
It wasn’t at all what I thought. It was much worse than that.
She was a
he.
“Oh my God!” I whispered, clutching my stomach.
“Hailey!”
“Oh, I feel sick,” I said, backing out of the room.
“Hailey!
Dammit!”
Michael cursed, kicking off both his shoes and pants, and having to start all over again.
I stumbled blindly into the living room, zipping my skirt and searching frantically for my shoes. I had to get out of there,
immediately!
I spotted my navy pumps right where I’d thrown them, under the glass-topped coffee table, and was crouched on all fours, butt stuck in the air like a bull’s-eye, when I heard a tentative voice say, “Hailey? Can I please have my jacket? I’m going to be late for signin.”
And I looked up to see the guy who just moments ago had a mouthful of my boyfriend’s dick. Then I gazed down at the jacket I’d been clutching all this time, thinking it was mine.
And then I threw it at him, grabbed my bags, and ran.
And as the door closed behind me, I heard Michael scream, “Hailey, wait! I can explain!
Don’t tell anyone!”
From the moment I gained consciousness I went directly into the stream of questions that mark the start of every flight attendant’s day:
Where am I? What hotel is this? Did I miss my flight? How come I didn’t get my wake up call? Where’s the bathroom?
And in my particular case,
Who’s this hairy person lying next to me?
Slowly opening one eye, I tried to muster the courage to turn over and see just who was spooning my left shoulder. And as I rotated my head to the side, I was greeted by the steely-eyed stare of Conrad, the snub-nosed Persian named after Kat’s third husband. And then all of yesterday’s events came rushing back.
All of it.
Crap.
After fleeing the scene, I’d flagged down a taxi and without even thinking I gave the driver Kat’s address. But it made sense. I mean. Clay was honeymooning in Chelsea, and all the girlfriends I’d hung with when I first got to New York were now either married, had just given birth, had transferred to another base, were no longer working for Atlas, were commuting to another state, or all
of the above. Besides, ever since Kat and I worked a trip to Madrid five years ago, she’d become like a mom to me (although a lot less judgmental than my real mom). And since she was the only one I knew who was senior enough to fly to Istanbul and Athens during the middle of the week, I figured she’d probably be home.
The second she’d opened the door she’d taken one look at me and said, “I’m pouring you a drink.”
I’d stumbled into her expansive marble foyer, trying to contain the nausea building inside me. “I think I’m going to be sick,” I’d warned.
“Nonsense. Just leave your bag and follow me. I want to hear all about it,” she’d said, draping her arm firmly around my shoulders and leading me down the long hall and into the library where she keeps her stash.
She steered me to a red velvet sofa, and I burrowed deep into the cushions, watching as she busied herself behind the broad mahogany bar. As always her clothing was immaculate, her makeup professionally drawn, and her golden blond bob blown into perfect, shiny submission. And as she reached her long, heavily ringed fingers toward her collection of cut crystal glasses she squinted at me with her piercing blue eyes. “No, this is definitely not a champagne moment,” she said, reaching for a highball and adding several fingers of vodka.
I was in no mood for alcohol, but I took the glass anyway, sipping the clear, cool liquid and feeling a trail of burn as it made its way down my throat. Then I looked at her and took another, because Kat is not a woman you want to argue with.
Katina Wilkes-Noble-Whitmore is a Fifth Avenue penthouse-dwelling flight attendant with over thirty years of seniority. A woman who in her amazing life had both served and dined with heads of state. She was thrice married, now widowed; and with no children of her own, she’d taken on Clay and me as sort of unofficial adoptees.
When husband number three, Conrad, dropped dead of a heart
attack four years ago, she’d become wealthier than she’d ever imagined. And after taking a six-month leave of absence spent in serious mourning, she’d returned to flying. Instantly becoming the enemy of every single junior flight attendant who, stuck in a system ruled entirely by seniority, spends their entire career waiting for women like Kat to either quit or
drop off.
But Kat couldn’t
not
fly, since she was a complete sucker for other people’s drama. And other than an emergency room doctor, or a family court judge, no other occupation can compete with the drama that unfolds at thirty thousand feet.
“Kat, I—” I began.
“Don’t talk, just sip,” she said, motioning toward my drink, which I had to admit was beginning to taste quite good.
So I took another sip, carefully placed my glass on the table before me, and completely lost it in a spasm of uncontrollable tears. And when I finally looked up, Kat was standing by with a fistful of tissues. “Thanks,” I said, blowing my nose so loudly I should’ve been embarrassed. But embarrassment was all relative, and at this point honking with my nose was nothing compared to what I was facing, “I’m sorry.” I shook my head and dabbed gently at my face. “I’m a wreck.”
“Nonsense,” she said, settling onto the chaise across from me. “Just tell me what happened, and we’ll get it all sorted out.”
So I took a deep breath and told her.
She just stared at me, eyes growing wider than I’d ever seen them. “Are you sure?” she asked. “About what you saw?”
I reached for the bottle of vodka she’d left on the table, topped off my glass, and closed my eyes, consulting the movie screen in my head that was featuring the
Michael Gets a Blowjob
clip over and over again. “Yeah, I’m sure.” I sighed.
“Well, who was it? Anyone I know?” she asked, her eyes narrowing as though already plotting revenge.
“I doubt it.” I shrugged. “lie flies for Lyric.”
“The discount carrier?”
She was completely aghast. Kat considered
the tracksuit-clad, white tennis shoe-wearing discount travelers to be the very end of a civilized society.
I just nodded and reached for the box of tissues. Another breakdown was the only thing I could count on.
“Well, I’m not surprised,” she said, shaking her head and shuddering. “They’re complete animals over there, with their all-coach cabins, and their food for sale.”
“But I’m such an idiot! I actually thought he was going to propose!” I said, shaking my head and burying my face in a wad of tissues.
“Well, you weren’t going to say
yes
were you?”
Excuse me?
I looked up to see Kat peering at me with such obvious disapproval that I immediately regretted coming over. I mean, I was looking for sympathy, pure and simple, and there was nothing sympathetic about what she’d just said.
I watched as she uncurled her feet from under her and leaned toward me, resting her hand on the table between us. “Hailey, I know you don’t want to hear this, but I really think it’s all worked out for the best.”
I leaned against the cushions and closed my eyes, determined to block out the sound of her voice.
I should have gone to Clay’s,
I thought,
I should have gone to a hotel. I should have set up camp deep in the bowels of the subway with all the other lonely people. BUT I NEVER SHOULD HAVE COME HERE!
“You’re too young to get tied down!” she continued.
And
this
coming from a woman with three marriages under her belt!
I folded my arms across my chest, refusing all eye contact.
“Besides,” she said, oblivious to my inattention. “Aren’t you glad you found out
now,
rather than five years from now? When you’re stranded in some tax-tree suburb with your four little brats, while Michael jets around the world, stopping by just long enough to drop off his dirty underwear and the occasional box of duty-free chocolates?”
Okay, even I had to admit that was way bleaker than my current predicament. “But how could this even
happen*?”
I begged, desperate for answers. “I mean, how could I not have
known?
Clay always tells me I’ve got amazing gaydar, yet when it comes to my own boyfriend, I’m totally clueless!”
But she just sipped her drink and shrugged. “So what are you going to do?”
I headed to the bar for more ice, listening to the cubes clink and crackle as they merged with the vodka; then I looked at her and shrugged. “AH I know is that I’m now officially single and homeless. Do you think I could maybe stay here a few days? Just until I get my stuff and figure something out?”
“Of course you can stay!” she’d said, her face warming into a smile. “Harold, Conrad, William, and I would love the company!”
I’d glanced at the three Persians who bore the names of her three former husbands (even the girl cat Conrad), as they eyed me from their perch on the velvet settee. Oh, God, I’d forgotten all about the cats, and I was deathly allergic to them. But my immediate prospects were pretty dismal, and I could do a lot worse than hanging out at Kat’s kitty-filled penthouse for a few days.