My bags had been packed and waiting at the door for twenty minutes, but still I had a final zoom around to check everything was in order. Passport packed, plug sockets switched off, Sky+ set to record the Strictly final, Kevin McCallister not still upstairs asleep . . . No no, that’s just in Home Alone.
I threw a final pining look at my sofa and then turned to leave. Five days, then you’re all mine. I’d been spending so much time at the office lately, I was a little homesick before I’d even left for the airport.
Gloves on, I stepped outside and locked my door, my breath puffing out in front of me. The air was cold – really bloody cold – but my big sensible parka made me feel like Smug of the Century as I passed a group of teens in trendy, thin leather jackets. I dragged my suitcase carefully over the pavements, which felt hostile and icy under my boots, pulling it around a discarded bottle of Prosecco covered in frost.
I’d be in New York soon. Would I drink Prosecco? Would I make a good impression, and be as charming and confident and strong as everyone needed me to be? So much could come out of being the one in charge on this trip. It could be the cold, or it could be the adrenalin, the excitement, that made my hands shake.
Stopping outside the tube station to rifle through my paperwork for the fortieth time – yes, all booking confirmations for all team members were present, as expected – I was interrupted by my phone jangling with a text message. It was my sister, Anne.
Hey! Mum says you’re flying to the US today.
Let me know when you get here – you should
come to Florida! Much warmer than NYC. Are
you getting the parents Christmas presents?
That was pretty typical Anne. I’d sent her several emails, texts and Facebook messages about flying over today, but things go in one ear and out the other with her. Anne has lived in Miami for seven years and is as independent as they come. And even though she infuriates me sometimes with lack of organisation, I couldn’t wait to see her when she visited in January; it had been too long.
When was the last time our family was all together? Maybe last January? No, Mum was away at a painting retreat last time Anne was home, and Dad didn’t come on our trip to Miami the summer before. So it had been a couple of years since we’d all been together, I realised with a shock.
No time to think about that, or reply to Anne’s message now, though; I had an airport full of fuckwits waiting for me. Sorry, I mean colleagues.
In the days that had passed since the Fearless Freeze, everyone’s bruises had faded and their aches and pains were all but forgotten. The only sufferings now were hangovers from the Christmas party, which just wouldn’t shift, and Jasmine’s chronic face-like-a-slapped-arse. I’d done my manager duties for the time being, getting them all through check-in and security successfully, explaining to them one more time about the rules surrounding expenses, and now we were at the gate killing time.
I looked around the huge terminal at Heathrow. Holidaymakers were getting into the Christmas spirit thanks to the free-taster spirits in the Duty Free, an oddly relaxing panpipe carols medley played on repeat across the speaker system, sleepy children clutching reindeer slippers and carefully wrapped gifts stared out of the windows at the aeroplanes, and couples, full of festive cheer, loitered, giggling, outside the window of the Tiffany’s store.
I had my nose stuck inside a paper cup, breathing in the aroma of my spiced hot chocolate. I looked up at the large HSBC black and white panorama of the New York skyline. See ya soon, sis, I thought. Although in reality, I’d barely be any closer to Anne once I was across the Atlantic than I am now. But being on the same continent felt nice. I wondered what she’d be doing right now, and over Christmas Day this year.
‘Jingle bells, Batman smells . . . ’ a familiar, deep voice sang softly behind me.
I pulled my gaze from the skyline and turned to face one of my favourite people in the world, a huge smile on my face. Hello, my friend, I thought.
Jon stood there, tall and lean and familiar in every way, dressed in faded jeans, a teal jumper and a large coat that looked toasty warm. His brown hair was a bit longer than when I last saw him, and just thick enough that it all shifted direction if he ran a hand through it, or tucked his fingers in like a comb like he did when he was thinking. His face was open and warm, like a cartoon bear, with big brown eyes, moo-cow eyelashes, and two different smiles depending on what he was smiling about. Smile one was large, wide and showed all his teeth. It crinkled his eyes and he looked delighted, like he was on the brink of laughter. Smile two he used when he was listening, or thinking, and his lips would curl in, giving him soft, round cheeks.
He greeted me with his delighted smile, and pulled me towards him into a bear hug. I breathed in the smell of his woodsmoke-scented wool coat. ‘Please tell me you’re on my flight,’ he begged.
‘BA0173, the one fifty-five.’ I pulled back, pointing at my gate, and he groaned.
‘Damn you, BA! I’m on the one that leaves at five past one. Can’t you just switch with Carl? Come on – airlines aren’t very strict about things like people getting on the right plane.’ Carl worked with Jon, and was a notoriously awful travelling companion. If he wasn’t snoring or throwing up, he was talking about bus timetables.
‘Actually, you know what I could do?’ I leaned in conspiratorially. Jon listened intently, eyes sparkling. ‘I could run at the woman on the boarding gate and knock all her boarding passes in the air, then just point to someone up ahead and tell her it’s my dad—’
‘—and she’ll let you right on the flight! Yes, that works, I saw it on a documentary sometime about some kid who got lost in New York?’
‘Exactly. Now if I could just find my Talkboy . . . ’
Jon laughed and pulled me into another big bear hug. He was very touchy-feely today and it felt so cosy that I squirrelled in closer to him. He looked around the rows of seats, scanning the faces of the families, the business people, the weary travellers. ‘Wait . . . no Kim?’
‘No,’ I sighed over-dramatically, unintentionally flashing a glum look at my colleagues. ‘She’s on stupid holiday in stupid Antigua with her stupid fiancé.’
‘Is he really stupid?’
‘No, he’s lovely, I’m just bitter because I’m stuck with this lot, without her here to keep me sane.’
‘Hey, you’re stuck with me too, remember.’
‘That’s true. And I’m not being fair, these people are fine. Pretty much.’
Jon followed my gaze. ‘So who’s with you this year, boss?’
Boss. It still sounded very odd to my ears. ‘How did you know?’
‘I heard it on the grapevine. Congratulations. So you’re in charge this trip? I like it.’
‘It’s only temporary . . . ’
‘Hey, if one of your girls got woman of the match, or won a writing competition, would you tell her to play it down because her glory might only be temporary?’
‘You’re right, I wouldn’t. OK fine. I’m the boss, bitches.’ Hmm, it still sounded a bit alien coming from my mouth. I tried a ‘boss’ stance like Beyoncé does when she stands on stage, hand on hip, but this parka was just not letting me feel it. ‘Anyway, this year I have, as part of my entourage, Ian and Dee—’
‘Have they . . . ?’
‘Of course not!’ I laughed. ‘And that girl there on the phone is Abigail, she’s new. And she is all the emotions – I honestly can’t tell if there are more tears of excitement about seeing New York for the first time or tears of sadness at leaving her boyfriend behind. And finally . . . Jasmine.’ I sneered instinctively upon saying her name.
Jon’s eyes opened wide. ‘You let her come? That’s very Good Samaritan of you. Or bonkers.’
‘Sometimes, just sometimes, I put the personal development of my team members before my own personal feelings. Plus she was already booked on when I took over from Scheana, so I didn’t have much choice.’
Jon sniggered. ‘You’ll be pushing her off Trump Tower within three days, development shnevelopment. So which one is she?’
‘The sour-faced one, texting.’
‘Oh her! She’s pretty.’ Jon looked down at me, amused.
I gasped at his betrayal. ‘Oh she’s pretty, huh?’
‘Yeah, maybe I’ll get to know her.’
‘You know what, you should. She’s a peach. I think she could make you really happy, assuming you didn’t want to keep your balls. In fact, I’ll set you up.’
‘Thanks, buddy, that would be great.’
‘You’d be perfect together.’
‘I know.’
‘Why don’t you get married and have her babies?’ Despite myself, I was starting to get annoyed.
‘I should have her babies; imagine how adorable they’d be.’
‘I’ll see you at the wedding.’
‘Ohhh, actually, you’re not invited . . . ’
‘No?’
‘No . . . she doesn’t like you.’
‘Judas!’
Jon laughed and turned his back on Jasmine, gazing on me once again. ‘Which one of them are you sat with for the flight?’
‘None of them. I booked the seats myself and just happened to not be able to squeeze us all in together.’
‘Clever! So just you, hey? Billy-no-mates?’
‘I have my favourite kind of friends with me, present company excluded, of course.’
‘Ahh, the books. What have you brought this time around?’
I opened my handbag to reveal three paperbacks, a mix of genres, all based in New York. I’m a bit of a bookworm, and reading was one of the things I was looking forward to catching up on during my weeks off when we got back from the Big Apple. My only condition for travel reading was that the books have to be set in the place I’m visiting.
Jon peered inside, his breath tickling my hair. ‘The Interpretation of Murder, Sex and the City, Catcher in the Rye – good choices. Which are you going to start with?’
‘I’m thinking the Murder one. It might give me some good ideas in case my team prove too much to handle on this trip.’
Suddenly, I became aware of conversation around us dulling. People were staring at the TV screens set up around the departure lounge, showing BBC News 24. We looked up to see a weather woman standing in front of a map of the UK that was covered in dark cloud and snowflake icons.
‘ . . . Strong winds and freezing temperatures could well bring a white Christmas a little earlier than Santa would have planned. We now join Bethany Weatherstorm at Heathrow airport.’
Everyone seemed to move at once as hundreds of commuters abandoned their bags, just like all the posters around the airport tell them to (not!), and pressed themselves against the windows. Of course, the glass looked out over the runways, and the newscaster was standing among taxis outside the entrance to the T5 departures entrance, but that didn’t stop anyone.
I raised my eyebrows at Jon and we tittered about how ridiculous people were being, before rushing over to join them. Outside, the sky had darkened so that it appeared to be almost the evening rather than the middle of the day. To my left I spotted Abigail staring at the bruised clouds with worry, twiddling with her necklace.
‘Back in a mo,’ I said to Jon and edged my way through the crowd, over a coat and a teddy bear and a fallen carry-on suitcase. ‘Hey,’ I said when I reached Abigail. ‘How are you doing?’
She turned to me, a forced smile on her face. ‘I’m fine, just, you know, hoping we’re not going to die.’
‘We’re not going to die. Get down from there.’
‘From where?’
‘That ledge you’re on. There’s no point in climbing up there and waiting for the worst when everyone’s saying to stay inside.’
She pointed at the sky. ‘But we do have to go outside. Into that.’
‘Good point. But let’s just listen to the TV for a moment and find out what’s going on.’
We turned to the screen, where newscaster Bethany’s hair was blowing about in the wind. ‘ . . . and officials are saying that while there are no disruptions to service yet, overnight conditions could worsen, and travellers are advised to arrive at the airport in plenty of time.’
‘There you go, see!’ I said to Abigail, jovially. ‘We’ll be in the big NYC by the time any of this is a problem.’
Abigail nodded and stared and nodded and stared. ‘I have to go and call my boyfriend.’ And off she zoomed.
I walked back to Jon.
‘Everything OK?’ he asked.
‘Just making sure that if they weren’t nervous enough already, my team are now terrified of the weather reports.’
‘The weather’s nothing to worry about – I just asked some of the ground staff and they said flying conditions were fine at the moment.’
‘I don’t think it helped that I basically said, “Hey, don’t worry, it’s not like we have to go outside! Oh, wait . . . ”’
Jon laughed and we looked back at the TV, where the news had moved on to a different story involving politicians and underwear. I zoned out. What if there was a problem in the air? What if the plane had to be diverted to Quebec? What if everyone in my team died? Except me, and then I had to tell all their families? And what if they then all blamed me, because I was in charge, and I didn’t stop them getting on the flight? Oh, I was the worst manager ever!
A soft flick on the top of my head startled me out of my panic. ‘Hey!’ I laughed, turning to Jon.
‘I said your name at least three times, but you seemed to be spiralling into some inner monologue. Are you wishing the flight had been cancelled?’
‘No, no, no . . . well yes.’
‘You can do this, you’re a natural.’
‘I know I can really, I think I’m just a bit burnt out, it’s making my brain all floppy.’
He gave me a knowing smile, one that calmed me instantly. ‘I’ve got just the cure. Do you have snacks for the flight?’
At that moment, an announcement came over the tannoy. ‘Ladies and gentleman, we will shortly begin boarding British Airways flight 0177 to New York’s John F. Kennedy airport. Would passengers in rows forty to fifty-five please come forward with your passports and boarding cards ready.’
‘That’s me, I’ve got to go,’ Jon said regretfully, slinging his holdall over his shoulder. ‘I cannot get the window seat again and climb over Carl. Here, take half.’ He pulled a giant crunchy almond Toblerone from his duty-free bag.
Toblerone! ‘I couldn’t possibly, you’re a growing boy.’
‘You have to, take it.’ He heaved and puffed and shredded the wrapping. ‘Gah, Toblerone, why do you have to show me up for the weakling that I am?’ Eventually the bar snapped in half, and Jon thrust it into my hand and with a swift kiss on the cheek and a ‘see you on the other side’, he headed towards the gate.
I watched him fling the other half of the chocolate into his bag and rush towards Carl and a few other familiar faces from the HeForShe office. Carl grinned widely at Jon, his flight buddy, and I watched as Jon put aside his grumbles and returned Carl’s smile with a welcoming one of his own. He turned his head and grinned at me one last time, mouthing a goodbye, and I mouthed one back.
I held my half a Toblerone close (no sharing) and went back to my mishmash of colleagues, who had all, bar Abigail, returned to their seats and were looking so bored you’d think they’d been waiting for four years.
Jasmine looked up from her nails, briefly, with raised eyebrows. ‘Who was that weirdo?’
I bristled. ‘He’s not a weirdo, he’s Jon. He works on the HeForShe campaign, and we’ve been friends for years.’
‘He looked needy as hell to me.’
What’s that supposed to mean? I thought. ‘He’s not needy at all.’
Jasmine gave a yeah, right look that made my blood boil. Hold it together, Olivia. Let’s not chin her one in the middle of the terminal.
I rolled my neck around. More coffee. That was what I needed – a big, frothy, creamy latte. And I had just about enough time to grab one and catch fifteen minutes of peace and quiet before our flight was likely to begin boarding. Even the thought made me feel more zen.
I got up and fished my wallet out of my carry-on bag, asking Dee to keep an eye on the rest of my things, and was about to head to the Starbucks kiosk when I spotted Abigail back by the windows again.
I looked at the espresso machine, puffing out plumes of steam like an inviting little train willing me to come on board. And I looked at Abigail. Coffee, or colleague? Myself, or others? Being kind, or not giving a flying fudge? One more sniff of the air in the direction of Starbucks and I turned and made my way to Abigail, suppressing a sigh.
‘Still not feeling this weather?’ I asked, gently.
‘You’re going to think I’m so ungrateful,’ she said in a low voice. ‘I really am excited about seeing New York, and going to the conference, I just . . . ’
‘You know, once I was trying on a swimming costume in Next, and it didn’t fit at all – one of those ones with cut-out side bits that basically drew circles of shame around my muffin top – and I was at a critical point in the trying-on process. Tucking my granny pants up under the costume to see what my booty looked like. So I’m leaning forward, hand shoving excess fabric basically up my bum, flesh everywhere, and some kid yanks open the curtain. And he laughed. He shouted “Big fat bum!” like a warning alarm to the rest of the store, and before I could get my hand out of the back of the costume and close the curtains I felt like I had a hundred shoppers’ eyes on me.’
Abigail blinked.
‘My point,’ I continued quickly, ‘is that bad things can happen anywhere, anytime, when you least expect them. So there’s no point in worrying in advance.’
‘Oh.’
Perhaps I’d overshared. Hmm. Perhaps it was time to reel it back in and try another angle. ‘The first time I went to one of these conferences on my own, I was so convinced the plane was going to crash and I would die alone that I took a Tamagotchi with me for company. And it wasn’t even the nineties; it was like, five years ago.’
‘What’s a Tamagotchi?’
‘Oh, never mind. The point of that story was not to worry about going on your own, because you’re not on your own. You’re with us. And you’re sitting with Dee. And nothing bad is going to happen, mainly because we’re talking about it, and bad things can’t happen if you’ve already spoken about them because people aren’t psychic.’
‘But I bet all the people—’
‘Let’s not worry too much about the science behind that theory. Are you just nervous about the flight, or is it anything else?’
Abigail was silent.
‘Coffee for your thoughts?’
‘Huh?’
I pointed towards Starbucks. ‘I’ll buy you a coffee if you tell me what’s bothering you. Maybe I’ll be able to help, rather than just tell stories that I’m not sure are quite hitting the mark.’
Abigail followed me to the counter and selected a hot chocolate while I went for that latte, because a latte with a friend in need is still better than no latte (even if it’s not as good as a latte alone). I took a sip. Mmm, I love you a latte.
We strolled slowly back to the window with our drinks, me waiting for Abigail to open up. A few slurps of chocolate in and she did.
‘It’s not so much that I’m nervous about travelling on my own. I mean, I am. I’ve never been on a flight on my own before. But it’s more about . . . about . . . ’
‘About your boyfriend?’
‘Yes.’ She blushed. ‘Am I being really obvious? It’s just that he and I haven’t spent a night apart in a really long time, and I think I’m going to miss him a lot. I’m worried I’ll be all jealous and paranoid about what he’s getting up to.’
‘Does he give you a reason to feel like that? Has he done anything shifty before? Do you want me to kill him? Because I’m in my thirties which means I’m very wise and I think we’re allowed to kill twenty-something punks once we women are in our thirties.’
Abigail laughed, wetness balancing on the window ledge of her lower lid. ‘I’m not sure that’s true.’
‘No? How sure?’
‘Pretty sure. But no, he’s basically the perfect boyfriend, I don’t think he’d cheat on me in a million years, I’m just worried that I’ll turn into a crazy monster. Urgh, you must think I’m such a fifties housewife.’ She surreptitiously wiped her eyes, which I pretended not to notice.
‘Of course I don’t. Everyone’s entitled to their emotions and feelings. Being in love doesn’t stop you being a feminist. It’s a good thing actually – you obviously have the same respect for him as a man as he does for you as a woman. It’s all about equality.’
I was beginning to think I should have my own talk show. One where I help and motivate people. We could have a Girls of the World TV channel. I could be Oprah! Moreover, this coffee was nice.
‘Also,’ she continued; so I hadn’t quite solved the issue yet, ‘also, I feel a little bit bad, because we always said we’d go to New York for our honeymoon.’
‘You’re engaged?’ I spat. She was only twenty-three!
‘No, I’m only twenty-three! But, don’t tell anyone this . . . ’ She leant a bit closer, as if any of the other passengers would have given two hoots. ‘If he asked me I’d say yes, and I have this teeny-tiny feeling he might ask me this Christmas.’
‘When do you turn twenty-four?’ I asked. ‘I mean: yay! So you really are looking forward to getting back to him.’
‘Yep.’ She nodded.
‘Then just think of this as a research expedition. Scoping out all the places you want to go with him in the future. Would you like me to make sure you have a rubbish time on this trip?’
‘No.’ Abigail smiled. ‘Thanks though. Are you married, Liv?’
‘Nope.’
‘Do you have a boyfriend? Or girlfriend?’
‘Nope and nope.’
A blush stained Abi’s cheeks. ‘I’m sorry, that was really rude, and nosy. I didn’t mean to pry.’
I downed the rest of my coffee. ‘It wasn’t rude, unless you were implying there’s something wrong with not having a partner?’
‘Not at all!’
‘Then it’s not rude, it’s just a question. Like, “Do you watch Orange is the New Black?” or, “How many lamps do you have in your house?” I’m not keen on relationships.’
‘No? No. Me neither . . . ’ Abigail was still blushing, lost for words.
‘Liar.’ I smiled. ‘And by the way, I do watch Orange is the New Black, and I have five lamps in my flat, FYI, which is a bit ridiculous really because it’s only got three rooms and I try and save electricity by only using two of them.’
‘Two rooms or two lamps?’
‘Two lamps.’ Awkward silence. ‘How many lamps do you have?’
The tannoy crackled at that moment and up leapt seventy per cent of the waiting passengers, lobbing laptops in bags and coats over shoulders. Toddlers were grabbed by the ankles and boyfriends were laden frantically with a million travel pillows. The stampede towards the gate was Anglophiled by speed-walking as opposed to running, and silent determination instead of shouting.
Being the Most Well Behaved Girl in the Airport, I hung back, scolding (silently) these people – they all had reserved seats! There was no need for this madness!
‘Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for your patience. We’ll shortly begin boarding British Airways flight 0173 from London Heathrow to John F. Kennedy airport in New York City, and today we’ll be calling you to the gate by your row number. Please take a seat until your row number is called. If your row number has not been called and you approach the gate I’m afraid you will have to wait. Please only come to the gate when your row number is called. Row number.’
About three people left the hoard while the rest stood stoically, celebrating themselves for their selective hearing.
‘So are you feeling OK about the flight?’ I said to Abigail as we walked back to the others. ‘SIT,’ I ordered, a little gruffer than intended, to Jasmine who was leaving the group to join the crowd.
‘Yep, I’m OK. Thank you,’ Abigail replied.
‘Sorry about the swimming costume story. Not a nice mental image for you there.’
‘No problem. I’d all but forgotten . . . ’
We edged away from each other. I think enough had been said.
‘What time do we get to New York?’ Dee asked, as if it wasn’t written on the boarding pass in her hand.
‘Twenty-five past five, New York time,’ I said.
‘So what’s that UK time?’ asked Ian.
‘That would be nearly ten thirty.’
‘How long is the flight?’ Jasmine said, looking towards the plane as if it was as boring as a number ninety-three bus.
‘Seven and a half hours.’ Un-grit, you naughty teeth . . .
‘Do you think we get a meal on the plane?’ asked one of them, as they merged into one big FAQ page on the BA website.
‘Yep.’
‘What meals?’
‘Probably lunch.’
‘Will there be chicken?’
‘There usually is.’
‘I don’t like chicken.’
‘Then have the pasta.’
‘Hmm.’
‘We’ll now be boarding rows forty to fifty. If you’re sitting in rows forty to fifty, please approach the gate now. If not, please bugger the buggering hell out of the way.’*
*I paraphrase.
‘That’s us,’ said Abigail to Dee.
‘Me too,’ added Ian. And Jasmine turned to follow them. Her version of a big smile and a ‘me too!’
‘Are you not sitting with us, Olivia?’ Abigail turned back.
I put on my best pained look. ‘No, unfortunately I couldn’t get five seats near each other, so I’m right up in row twenty-one. Don’t have too much fun without me! See you on the plane! Byeeeee!’
I sat back down and inhaled. Ahhhhhhhh. Peace at last. I tapped my carry-on bag, feeling my thick books inside. Books are the best. They have nice covers and loads of words, and they don’t ask anything from you other than your enjoyment. Soon, my pretties.
Ten minutes later I was on board, shoehorning my bottom into my window seat on row twenty-one, far far away from my colleagues. Now I don’t know if you’re aware of the science behind aircraft, but I believe I’m correct in saying that when airborne you are ‘without time zone’, and it is officially legal to eat, drink and sleep at whatever time of day it happened to be. Ten a.m. flight? Have a wine, whydontcha. Just eaten din-dins at the airport and boarded an eleven p.m. aeroplane? Sure, why wouldn’t I have dinner number two and start a movie now? And just because you just left the UK at lunchtime doesn’t mean it isn’t the perfect time to get out your blanket and pillow and have a snooze.
Midday-shmidday. I ripped into my plastic-coated pillow and blanket, and plopped my ginormous Jed Rubenfeld book on my lap before the plane had even left the ground, because I am in fact ninety-two years old, in spirit.
I opened my tome and curled myself into the uncomfortable pillow-against-window set-up. But then I felt a tap on my shoulder. A shoulder tap this early on was unlikely to be a complimentary glass of merlot, but I lifted my head anyway, only to see Jasmine looking down at me, eyes of ice.
‘Nobody told me I’d be sitting in the middle seat.’
I bristled. Perhaps it’s a skill, something that would be useful if she ever took a career as a barrister or something, how everything Jasmine said sounded ever so accusatory – something to make the listener feel stupid, or like they’d missed doing something important. She was a toughie, because she was a frosty, stroppy cow who went against everything Girls of the World stood for.
‘If you’d checked in online yesterday you may have been able to pick your own seat. I did say that in the email.’
‘I didn’t see the email.’ She sighed. ‘It’s fine, it just would have been nice if someone had mentioned it, that’s all.’ She stared sulkily at my window seat. ‘I get quite vommy in the middle seat.’
‘Me too. Here, have my sick bag.’ Oh hell to the NO, lady, there was no way I was about to give up my seat for her.
‘I might need more than one,’ she fumed, so I punched her in the face.
OK, I didn’t, instead I said as pleasantly as I could manage, ‘That’s all I have, I’m afraid.’
Without another word she stropped off and I was just about to open my book’s cover again when Dee slid into the seat next to me.
‘Oh, Dee, I think someone’s sitting there, he’s just finding somewhere for his bag . . . ’ I pointed at a middle-aged man who seemed to be getting further and further away as he searched for some space in the overhead lockers.
‘I just wanted to check something with you about the schedule,’ she said in hushed tones. ‘Did you say we were going to be busy every evening?’
‘We don’t have any plans for tonight, but we arrive around five thirty New York time, which will feel like ten thirty p.m. to us. So by the time we’re out of the airport and at the hotel, I think most people will just want to hit the sack. Tomorrow there are day-one drinks and the cultural performance at the end of the conference and I thought we could all go out to dinner after. The second day we have the networking and the movie screening, and then the last day we have the gala dinner. Then we fly home the day after. So we do have plans every evening, but there’ll be a bit of free time here and there, and I don’t think the gala dinner on the last night will go on too late because some people will be heading home that evening.’
Dee was nodding, her mind whirring. ‘OK, OK, I hear you,’ she chirped. ‘So we’ll make the most of things – you know, of New York, while we can. Gotcha, thanks, Olivia, forget I was even here.’ And with that, off she flew.
It was also Dee’s birthday the day after tomorrow. I hadn’t forgotten.
By now, my seat-mate was back and after a few polite exchanges about the weather and the in-flight movie choice, we settled back ready to ignore each other for the next seven and a half hours.
The take-off was surprisingly smooth and before long we’d ascended up and through the thick, watery clouds. Above us the sun shone in all its glory amid a bright blue sky, and the clouds became a blanket of fluffy snow beneath. My mind turned to imagining spending a ‘traditional’ Christmas, snowbound in a log cabin, stockings hung above a fireplace, Wham! wandering about throwing snowballs at each other and then shaking it out of their mullets . . .
I tapped my fingers on my book. I bet Jon’s Christmas would be just like that. He was a Christmas jumper-and-carols type of man. Staring out of the window I wondered how ahead of us his plane was. What was he doing right now? Was Carl bothering him? Was he watching a Christmas movie on his seat-back entertainment? Would he be my New York bestie without Kim here? Because as much as I wanted to be on my own, I did feel a tiny bit lonely.
Elf. I bet Jon was watching Elf, which was one of the on-demand options. Taking a deep breath I put down my book, signalled for a beer, and decided to give Christmas spirit a try . . .
Two hours into the flight I woke up with a snort, just as the end credits were rolling. Dammit. My mouth was dry and the man next to me raised his eyebrows just a fraction which suggested I was the worst person to sit next to in the world. I both wanted a drink, and wanted to pee, which was very conflicting.
Standing up and apologising profusely for my basic human functions, I edged out of my seat and wandered towards the loos between business and premium economy, past rows of travellers, headphones in, staring at the backs of the seats in front. One lady was watching Magic Mike XXL and fanning herself. I came to a stop behind the drinks trolley where I hovered nonchalantly for a while as if this was just where I wanted to hang out, thank you very much, before the air steward gave me an apologetic smile and edged the trolley closer towards me.
‘Oh, sorry,’ I flustered. ‘I thought you were going the other way.’ I tried to flatten myself against the nearby seats, very aware that my bottom was blocking half of Channing Tatum’s bottom on fanning lady’s screen.
‘Would you mind just . . . ’ the flight attendant said.
‘How about I just . . . ’
‘Perhaps I could go back a bit.’
‘No, no.’ I backed away, embarrassed. ‘I’ll use the loo at the other end.’ And with that I ran away to the toilets in the middle of the plane. Where the queue was incredibly long.
Edging through the aisle to the back of the queue, my bladder ached. Now I was upright all that coffee and beer was ready to come out of me, and I danced and jiggled about in the aisle, waiting. Who the hell was in there?
The people in the queue in front of me were tutting and stretching, and they kept filtering off to the cubicle on the other side at the first chance they got. Eventually I was at the front, thank God, because I was this close to having to whack on some Tena Lady.
Come onnnnnnnnnn, I willed the person in the cubicle. Had they taken a magazine in there with them or something? I was about to knock on the door when I heard the faintest of giggles inside. You had to be kidding me. So I leant in closer, obviously.
‘I’ll give you a merry little Christmas,’ a man’s voice purred quietly behind the door and I snapped my head back in shock. Oh God! Urgh, I actually really hoped he wasn’t in there on his own.
‘Mmm, show me your Christmas baubles,’ murmured a woman, and I nearly passed out, but my bladder, curiosity and human instinct for wanting to perv meant nothing was dragging me away, so as nonchalantly as I could manage I leant in closer and listened.
‘I am going to do this to you every day on this trip,’ he growled and I looked around to see if anyone else was aware. You guys, I wanted to scream, mile-high club going on right here, now! Like in the movies!!
Wait. Where was Dee? She wasn’t next to Abigail (who was downing a mini bottle of wine and clutching at her necklace). Where was Ian? He wasn’t in the seat behind.
No. They couldn’t be. They were always so discreet at work – it was the worst-kept secret in London that they were together but they’d never be this careless, surely? Dee in particular would be mortified if their workmates caught them so much as holding hands.
Beside me the toilet door thumped and shuddered and a quiet guttural moan that could have belonged to either of them could be heard, though apparently only by me. In the same way dogs are the only ones that can hear certain high-pitched noises, it would seem I was the only one who could hear two wiry office workers climaxing.
I didn’t know what to do. I wanted to leave and go back to my seat, but I didn’t want them to risk running into anyone else when they came out. What if Jasmine or Abigail saw them? What if this was illegal and the cabin crew called for an emergency landing in Greenland to get them off the plane? I really needed them at the conference . . . And should I say anything? Was this against office ethics, something I should discipline them about? But nobody needed a telling-off right after sex. What if it Pavlov’s-dogged them and conditioned them to never want to shake their tail feathers again for fear of being reprimanded? I hated myself, I was such a matron. Also, I really had to pee.
I was still thinking about this when I looked up and saw the she-devil climbing huffily out of her seat and over her neighbour.
‘Hi!’ I yelled out when Jasmine began heading this way, still a good ten rows from me.
She looked up and furrowed her brow at me. ‘Hi?’
‘What are you up to?’
‘Just going to the Ladies. That OK?’
‘Sure, bit of a wait with this one though, you might want to try the back.’ I pointed, hoping she’d follow my gaze, but she didn’t, and behind me I heard the tap turn on in the cubicle. They’d be coming out any minute.
A woman stepped into the aisle in front of Jasmine, who audibly sighed with impatience. The woman noticed, smiled at her and took her time getting her book from her bag up in the locker. I could have snogged this woman for buying me some time, but there were enough inappropriate shenanigans going on already.
Buying Dee and Ian time, I should say. What were they doing in there? Get out, get out, get out. They’d better not be going a second round; this wasn’t Sex and the City.
The tap switched off and I heard Dee whisper, ‘Got everything?’
Book lady sat back down.
Jasmine stepped closer towards me.
The cubicle door unlocked.
And a very minor jerk of turbulence saved the day.
As the plane rocked I did the first thing that came to my head and hurled myself forward, tumbling into the aisle at Jasmine’s feet, wailing as I went down. She stared down at me, utterly perplexed, while the two people on the aisle seats next to me leapt up and without realising they were creating a human screen, blocked the view of the toilet cubicle behind them.
‘Ouch, owwwww, the turbulence . . . ’ I wailed.
‘It really wasn’t a big deal,’ said Jasmine, still doing nothing to help other than scowl. ‘They haven’t even switched on the seatbelt sign.’
Dee’s face appeared between the two other passengers and looked down at me, flushed pink. ‘Liv? Are you OK?’
I looked her in the eye. That’s right. I know. ‘Are you?’ I muttered, pulling myself up. Disaster averted. Their modesty would remain intact for now but I knew I’d never think about Christmas baubles in the same way again. ‘Thanks, everyone, I’m fine, I think I’ll be OK now, I’m just going to . . . ’ I edged back and into the toilet cubicle, snapping the lock shut behind me. Then my skin crawled because all I could think of was Ian’s naked bottom and what he and his shlongadong had been up to in here moments before.
I peed – praise the lord – without any part of me touching any part of the bathroom, and then exited the toilet cubicle without another word to Jasmine who was waiting impatiently outside. Before turning back to my seat I looked over and caught Dee’s eye again, and she blushed furiously and pressed her nose into the sky mall catalogue.
The remainder of the flight brought very little drama, unless you count Ian panicking that he hadn’t completed his ESTA visa waiver form, and then remembering half an hour later that, in fact, he had completed it after all.
Eventually we landed in a clear-skied New York, safe and sound, with all thoughts of snow and storms behind us. Passport control took so long we all stopped making polite conversation and stood in weary silence, and by the time we blurred our way into baggage claim getting to the hotel was the only thing on anyone’s mind. Even Abigail had run out of interesting things to text to her boyfriend.
One by one our bags came out, each of them enough of a distance from each other that it was one long nail-biting fest to see whose luggage had accidently been diverted to Kathmandu. I had five things to collect altogether: my bag, a giant poster tube, a big flat thing containing a cardboard cut-out of some cheery-looking youths, an extra case filled with paperwork, and a bubble-wrapped bag stuffed with giveaway knick-knacks that was supposed to be delivered straight to New York along with our other stuff, but turned up at our office just after everyone else had left for the Christmas party.
Miraculously, everything arrived, so I herded my team and all their baggage out of the airport and onto a bus, yawning.
The sky was inky black, but as the shuttle neared Manhattan – what seemed like hours after it left the airport – we all perked up. Christmas lights and room lights from a thousand skyscraper windows blanketed the city and I leant forward with excitement as the Empire State Building finally came into view. Despite all my stresses and strains, I did love this place – the women were powerful and respected, the architecture was jaw-dropping, and the youth were inspired to learn and help and be leaders. And with the low sounds of Nat King Cole playing on the bus’s radio, a small flame of Christmas spirit unwittingly ignited in my belly.
I peeped over at Abigail, who was pressed against the window, her phone screen being held up next to her. Abigail saw me looking and whispered, ‘I want my boyfriend to see this with me for the first time, so we’re FaceTiming.’
We drove through the Lincoln Tunnel and stop-started our way through the traffic in inner Manhattan. The bus was toasty warm but outside I watched locals wrapped to the nines, fingers curled around their hot coffees and feet bouncing up and down on the frosty pavements. Despite the cold there was merriment in the air, and as the bus trundled round the corner onto the magnificent Fifth Avenue I whipped my head back and forth like I was at a tennis match, trying to focus on the stunning, extravagant window displays we passed.
Dee and Ian sat in the seat in front of me, and you’d never know they had a thang going on, other than the way they glanced at each other warmly as we passed Tiffany’s.
‘We’re here,’ I said into the darkness, when the shuttle came to a stop. My team flopped sleepily out onto the pavement in front of the Hotel Vue. Dee and Ian, Abigail, and of course Jasmine, all hung back while I pointed out our bags and boxes and tubes to the driver and sorted the tip and the thank yous, but this time, I didn’t even care that I was in charge of everything. I was in New York, and it felt good. I felt . . . home.
‘We’re here,’ I breathed.
‘Yippeeeee!’ cried Dee, but her cheer merged into a yawn. Abigail was just staring up at the nearest skyscraper in awe. Or she was asleep.
‘Come on then, let’s get inside.’
The hotel lobby was warm and welcoming. A Christmas tree stood in the corner and the smiling doorman helped us with our bags. An enormous wreath hung above the reception, and the smell of hazelnut coffee emanated from a help-yourself urn by the lift, with Hotel Vue mugs stacked at the side.
‘Coffee,’ I declared, pointing. ‘We should coffee up, we can’t go to sleep yet or we’ll be up at two a.m.’ It was seven thirty p.m. New York time, which meant it was twelve thirty a.m. in the UK. ‘Does anybody want dinner?’
I received a noncommittal noise from them all in reply as they stroked their bellies, full of rubbery plane pasta and Toblerones.
‘Excuse me, ma’am,’ said a beautiful concierge in his twenties with dark skin I just wanted to lick. ‘We’re serving complimentary wine and cheese in our lounge until eight thirty, if your party just wanted to snack. You’ll also find fruit, crackers, cookies . . . it’s pretty tasty.’
Suddenly everyone’s bellies weren’t so full and we agreed to dump our bags and meet back down in the lounge in ten minutes – any longer and I thought we’d lose people to their vast American beds. And eight minutes later, I was already there, sinking down into a cream leather sofa by a window that overlooked Madison Avenue, Christmas radio tinkling in the background. I took a long sip of Prosecco with a Mmmmmmm.
Maybe I should live in New York. In this hotel. They have wine and cheese and little crackers in the shape of fish. I could blow the small house deposit I’d been building back up; I could forget work and responsibilities, and just live here. My sisters did it (minus the hotel) so why couldn’t I?
Jasmine appeared and sat down opposite me with a sigh. Abigail perched beside me like I was some medieval king and she was my concubine.
‘Everything OK, Jasmine?’ I chirped. Just try to find something to complain about.
Jasmine looked up at me, then at her surroundings, thoughtfully. Before she could answer Ian appeared with a plate bursting with cheeses.
‘Best. Hotel. Ever,’ he declared, and Jasmine sank back in her chair and stared out the window. ‘So what’s the plan tomorrow, boss? Do we need to be up and hailing cabs by the crack of dawn?’
‘Not really. The conference opens at ten, so we should be there for nine. I might go a little earlier than that just to figure everything out. You have the address and all the contact details in the conference pack I gave you, so if we don’t travel together feel free to jump in a cab to take you there in the morning. We’ll probably subway-it the other days though, to save a bit of money.’
I took a yawn break and noticed Jasmine becoming visibly more slumped at the thought of having to use the subway.
‘Does anyone want to have a walk outside for a while? Try and stretch out the time before we go to sleep? We’re right by Fifth Avenue so I bet the Christmas shopping would be good . . . ?’
That was met with nothing more than a fat load of yawns, and I thought, well screw you guys – I don’t want to hang out with you either. So I polished off my cheese, grabbed a takeaway cup full of hazelnut coffee and left the alluring cosiness of the hotel for the night air of New York City, on my own.
One thing that never fails to amaze me about New York is how the whole place looks like a studio set. The brownstones really do have steps leading up to them that people sit on, people like Carrie Bradshaw. There really are basement-level bars on side streets like in How I Met Your Mother. Steam really does plume out of pipes poking from under ground in the middle of streets, like in all movies and all music videos ever. Being somewhere so familiar in so many ways made one feel very welcome, very at home.
Fifth Avenue was amazing. The buildings a hundred storeys high, with elaborate Christmas lights climbing up the outside. Enormous festive window displays lured in the happy Christmas crowds, still thick and jolly even at eight o’clock at night.
My legs were slowly turning to mush and I knew my sleepy self couldn’t walk far. Perhaps if I could speak to someone I’d last a little longer, because you don’t just fall asleep mid-conversation.
I tried Anne, but there was no reply, just a thousand rings. Instead, I went into the first store I came to: a gigantic Hollister crammed full of shoppers and beautiful sales people pretending to fold clothes. However, I’d forgotten my head-torch, and if you’ve ever been into a Hollister you’ll know it’s the worst possible place to be if you need to stay awake because it’s so dimly lit you could probably nap on a stack of skinny jeans and would only wake when a frantic buyer nudged you out the way to find their size. So I left Hollister, crossed the street, and went a couple of doors down, to where the skyscrapers briefly halted to bow down to the ornate St Patrick’s Cathedral.
I stood outside and gazed at it for a while. It was both a funny and humbling sight in the middle of an avenue full of towering glass and extreme wealth. The cathedral takes up a whole city block, its twin marble, Gothic spires rising over a hundred feet into the air. At this time of night it was lit up against the dark with gentle amber spotlights, and understated Christmas wreaths hung above the entrance and upon the two spires.
Inside I could hear the soft sounds of carols being sung and an organ spilling melodies that rose up and out of the stained glass windows into the night air. I breathed it in, my tired body and brain relaxing into this feeling.
My mind tried to wander to its familiar place of deep thoughts, worries and plans for tomorrow, but it didn’t have the strength. I’d been awake long enough. I looked up at the cathedral one last time, and then succumbed. It was time for bed. Goodnight, New York.