The Nearly-Weds (41 page)

‘Us
both
?’ I ask, wiping my T-shirt. ‘I thought I was, to be honest.’ I say this politely, sweetly almost. But I’ve taken enough management course assertiveness modules to know that it must be said.

He pauses and looks at me, smirking again, which really gets up my nose. ‘Well, let’s not worry about it. Just one of those things.’

I go to reply, but his expression stops me in my tracks. It strikes me that he probably thinks I did this on purpose, because I fancy him, like Meg Ryan in a 1990s rom-com. I suddenly want to get out of there. ‘I’d better go. Thanks for the napkin,’ I add, to show there are no hard feelings, except as I wave said napkin in front of his nose, I manage to drop it.

So I bend over to pick it up, at which point the two pots of jam in my pockets plop onto the floor, next to a smattering of chocolate muffin. He picks them up and adds them to my plate with another hint of a smile.

There is an awkward silence and, as ever (despite the obviously useless assertiveness modules), I am engulfed by the hideous need to fill it. ‘I collect jam jars,’ I announce, as if such a hobby would be any less embarrassing than having the appetite of a ravenous water buffalo.

He blinks, clearly unable to think of a reply to that one. ‘Right. Well. Have a nice flight.’

I nod and force a smile, then head back to the girls, thanking the Lord that I never have to see him again.

Chapter 4

He’s on the flight. Of course he is. I’m rifling through my complimentary bag of up-market toiletries when I register someone walking past and realise it’s him. He’s removed his soaked shirt and is down to a grey marl T-shirt. I take a deep breath and pray that he doesn’t sit next to me.

He pauses, surveying the seats as he glances at his ticket, before sailing past to sit two seats in front. I exhale with genuine relief.

Nic and Meredith are together in two seats by the window, while I’m in the middle, adjacent. It matters not that we’re separated by an aisle – in this utopia of aviation
nothing
matters.

Meredith leans over to me, wide-eyed. ‘There’s that guy!’ she hisses.

‘Hmm?’ I say vaguely, as if I hadn’t noticed.

‘The GUY! The one you threw your drink over.’ Meredith jabs her finger at him as if providing driving directions to a half-blind simpleton, and Nicola, torn between amusement and feeling my pain, nudges her and tells her to shush.

Meredith lowers her voice – slightly. ‘Oh, come off it, Nicola Harris. Tell me you’re not thinking exactly what I’m thinking?’

Nicola raises her eyebrows innocently, with a half-smirk. ‘What would that be?’

‘That we need to stop neglecting our duties and get our Imogen off with a gorgeous bloke like that. He’s SO hot!’

‘I’m saying nothing,’ replies Nicola diplomatically, going back to her book.

‘That sounds like an excellent idea, Meredith,’ I hiss sarcastically, drawing a finger across my neck just as Hot Guy spins round, prompting me to slump in my seat, pretend I’ve never met this woman before in my life and do everything in my power to concentrate instead on enjoying my first ever business-class flight.

It’s already amazing, and we’re not even off the tarmac. Oh, the luxury, the sophistication . . . the prospect of not sitting for two and a half hours with my knees in the optimum position for a triple pike. The air hostesses are smiling angels – attentive, but not overly so – offering to cater to our every whim, with the possible exception of supplying Ryan Gosling and several tubs of whipped cream (this isn’t exactly on the menu, but you get the picture). Plus, the majority of passengers are seated and ready for take-off, and it’s looking like the three seats next to me are going to be free. If I was in economy, my heart would leap at this prospect – I could stretch out! – but here, no stretching into an area other than mine is required; my own legroom is so vast, I could probably undertake an entire Pilates session in it.

‘What are you reading, Imogen?’ Nic asks, leaning across Meredith as I take my book out of my bag.

‘
The Book Thief
. I’ve been trying to get this started for a while, but life’s got in the way. This time it’s going to be different.’

I used to read constantly – everything from chick lit to classics such as
Great Expectations
and, my all-time favourite,
Captain Corelli’s Mandolin
. These days, reading represents a luxury that I don’t have enough time for. Consequently, I first opened
The Book Thief
in 2010 and got to chapter three. I tried again that September, then in January 2011, then March this year. Those first three chapters were bloody good, so this time I am absolutely determined to get through it.

I open the first page and re-acquaint myself with the haunting words of its opening passage. ‘
Here is a small fact: You are going to die
.’

This might not be an optimal reminder just before take-off, but I persevere. I get to the third line before I am abruptly interrupted by a sound similar in volume to that of a Cape Canaveral rocket launch.

‘
WAHHHHHHHHH!’

The piercing screech of the small boy who has suddenly appeared in the seat next to mine is discernable only nano-seconds before his foot lands with a violent thud on my chin.

Neither of my friends witness this; indeed, it’s only when Meredith breaks her momentary gaze at Hot Guy in front that she does a double take. ‘Have you got a nosebleed?’ she asks me.

‘Oh . . . bugger!’ I grab the complimentary lemon and bergamot wipe from my cosmetics bag, rip it in half and shove it up each nostril as the captain announces we’re ready for take-off.

‘Anisha. Now. NOW!’ The source of these frenzied pleas is the chubby little boy’s mother. She looks like an Arabian supermodel, with perfect eyeliner, glossy hair and a figure so tiny it’s impossible to believe that belly ever contained not one but two children. Ironically, it’s not the boy who she’s shrieking at – despite the cabin crew’s repeated requests for him to fasten his seatbelt – but his older sister, who is refusing to hand over her iPad.

‘
NOOOOOOOOWWWWWW!’
she adds, just to be absolutely clear.

‘Um . . . can I help?’ I offer, but she doesn’t even hear me and the dispute between mother and daughter escalates until it is less a familial tussle and more something you’d expect to see on WWE’s
SmackDown
: hair is pulled, eyes are scratched but, eventually, the iPad is ripped from the little girl’s hands and she’s thrust into her seat, a lollipop produced from somewhere and shoved in her mouth. I have no idea what’s in it – Valium, judging by its effects – but it’s like watching a wild animal being sedated.

‘Madam, I’m so sorry, but you really need to take your seat,’ the air hostess pleads.

‘I’m
attempting to
!’ growls the woman, flicking hair back from her now perspiring forehead, grabbing her little boy’s legs and – as I dive out of the way – flipping him over with the skill of a Chinese gymnastics instructor. The lollipop trick is employed on him too and, finally, the woman flings herself down and clicks on her seat belt. Seconds later, we take off.

I her offer a sympathetic smile. ‘Flights can be a bit of a challenge with kids, can’t they?’

She responds with a flaccid look and picks up the in-flight magazine.

Over the next two hours and twenty minutes, it’s evident that the flight would have been more peaceful seated next to a hyperactive goat learning to do the merengue. The only saving grace is that I’m not seated in front of the Demon Child – that seat is kicked, stamped and head-butted to such an extent that I’m surprised the passenger sitting there isn’t in need of emergency spinal surgery.

Their mother, or perhaps she’s their probation officer, has the right idea: she flips on her headphones, orders two large gins and tonic, and reclines her seat, clearly hoping to shut out the last five years. It’s only when she throws a pill down her neck and pops on her eye mask that I consider getting a bit cross – particularly as it coincides with her son trampolining on his seat, launching into a rousing rendition of ‘Food, Glorious Food!’ and spilling my champagne all over my copy of
The Book Thief
.

‘Are you okay?’ Meredith asks, an hour from landing. She’s been asleep and the whole episode, nosebleed apart, has passed her by.

‘It’s fantastic, Meredith.’ I dredge up a genuine smile. ‘Honestly, it’s incredibly kind of you to have shared your prize with us.’

At which point, a bumper bag of M&Ms spills exuberantly all over my lap and the little boy attempts to retrieve them by shoving his podgy hands under my bum.

The children’s lunch menu has a choice of dishes, including spaghetti Bolognese: a genius addition – not – given that no under-five ever manages to get more than about 25 per cent of it in their mouth. Sure enough, my neighbour’s sauce ends up in the seat pocket in front of him, the seat pocket in front of
me
, in his hair, in
my
hair – everywhere, in fact, except his stomach. He concludes this dining experience by picking his nose with a bright red-sauce-coated finger, wiping it on the arm rest between us, and burping voluminously. At which point, Hot Guy two seats in front turns around, clearly believing it to have been me.

I sink even more deeply into my seat as the two children put their complimentary flight socks on both hands and proceed to have a ‘puppet show’– which may be better described as a GBH spree.

The air hostesses are aware of all this, of course, and make up for my misery by pushing as much champagne as possible on me, presumably to dull the pain. Other than that, there’s little they can do given that there are no spare seats to move me to. The children’s mother remains in a near coma until the very end of the flight, when she wakes up with a start, rushes to the toilet, and begins throwing up loudly, a process that continues right until we’re on
terra firma
, when she emerges, wiping her mouth, her eyeliner only slightly smudged.

By that stage, I am filthy drunk, and have read only ten words of
The Book Thief.
It’s fair to conclude the experience wasn’t entirely as I’d envisaged.

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