Luke is rostered on a charter flight every few weeks. He enjoys them; sometimes the passengers are celebrities. He’s had his photo taken with Katy Perry, the English rugby team and Graham Norton. He only asks if he thinks the celebrity genuinely doesn’t mind. Luke doesn’t like to grovel.
There’s nobody famous on today’s flight, just a group of car manufacturing engineers going to Sweden to test their latest models against brutal winter conditions. Luke shivers: he is not a fan of extreme weather, be it cold or hot.
‘We like coming here,’ one of the engineers says chattily. ‘You can achieve way more than you can with simulators or wind tunnels. You know, traction control was refined in Arjeplog.’
Luke doesn’t know. He has only a vague idea of what traction control is. He doesn’t drive, never learned how. His father was too angry to teach him when everyone else was learning. If you’ll stop being such a faggot, I might teach you. Once Luke left home and moved overseas, it never felt necessary to learn. Who needs a car in central London?
The engineers are staying in Sweden for five days and the aircraft and cabin crew are staying too. Apparently, it’s cheaper than flying home and back again with an empty aircraft. Luke doesn’t mind. It’s the chance to catch up on some sleep, and he’ll be getting paid in full while doing so. Nerida, who’s also on the flight, has done some research on the area. Temperatures that can drop below 40 degrees Fahrenheit. Frozen lakes that can be configured as motor tracks. Limited restaurants. Practically non-existent nightlife. On the plus side there are reindeer forests, the opportunity to go ice-skating or skiing and some stunning scenery. Nerida is hoping they’ll get a glimpse of the Northern Lights.
‘I know absolutely nothing about cars,’ Luke says to the friendly engineer.
‘Anything you need to know ...’ The engineer smiles. He has a cute smile. He’s a few years younger than Luke. ‘I might see you in the bar later on.’
Luke wakes the next morning with a dreadful headache and the relief that he’s in his own room. Fragments of yesterday flash behind his eyes. Flirting with the engineer on the flight. Meeting at the hotel bar later on. Throwing back beers, then wine, then shots of bourbon. The only saving grace is that when the engineer – Sebastian – asked him back to his room he said no. Yet more shots as he told Sebastian about how much he loved Aaron, and Sebastian drunkenly recounted his latest break-up. Poor Sebastian, having to get up at the crack of dawn this morning. Trying to apply his hungover brain to complex problems involving speed, physics and traction. Possibly behind the wheel of one of the skidding cars.
Speaking of skidding, that’s exactly what the room is doing when Luke sits up in the bed. Christ, he needs a glass of water. He goes to the bathroom, finds a glass. The water is so cold it gives him a different kind of headache; the kind you get from eating an ice cream too fast. He uses the toilet and then forces himself into the shower, in the hope that it will make him feel better. It doesn’t. A strong wave of nausea hits and he throws up against the walls of the cubicle. The vomit, yellow and watery, runs down the tiles: bile and water. Now he feels insanely hot. He bursts out of the cubicle, gulps in some air. Jesus Christ. This happens every now and then. He drinks too much, and the next morning it feels like he has poisoned himself. Truth is, it happens more often than he’d like. Aaron is always begging him to show more restraint.
The walk back to bed is shaky. He’s like an old man, stopping every few steps to rest and lean against the wall. His phone beeps just as he sits down. It’s from Nerida.
Going to breakfast now. C U there?
The thought of breakfast has him rushing for the bathroom again. This time the vomit has more substance. It gets clogged in the plughole of the basin, sticks to the back of his throat. Disgusting. Disgusting. Disgusting.
Another shaky walk back to bed. He lies down, reaches for his phone again. He feels marginally better but doesn’t trust that it’s going to last. He’ll give it another ten minutes before answering Nerida. In the meantime, he checks his emails. A message from work regarding a change to his roster next week. A few SPAM messages, offering him Viagra and fake prizes. One of Katy’s reunion messages nestled in the middle of the SPAM.
From: admin11@yearbook.com.au
Subject: New Yearbook
Name: Luke Willis
Highest achievement at school: Being the first openly gay student.
What you do now: Flight Attendant.
Highlights of last twenty years: Travelling the world. Meeting your boyfriend, who is far too good for you.
Lowlights: Drinking too much. You’re pathetic, Luke. Then and now.
Deepest fears: That Katy will ask you to father a child. Hold tight, it’s coming. Pity she hasn’t better taste.
What the fuck?
Luke reads the message again. Is Katy on drugs or something? What’s she doing sending out shit like this? His outrage causes his hangover to momentarily recede. He FaceTimes her immediately. Doesn’t care to check the time in Sydney. Serves her right if he disturbs her at work.
‘Luke?’ Her face, looking concerned, appears on the screen of his phone. ‘What’s up? Is everything all right?’
She’s at home, eating a meal. Yes, now that he thinks about it, it’s dinnertime in Sydney.
‘Everything is not all right,’ he tells her crossly. ‘I just got your crazy message. Have you gone mad? Jesus Christ, there’s no chance, no fucking way on earth.’
Now she looks confused. ‘What are you talking about? What message?’
‘Stop playing games, Katy. I have the worst headache imaginable.’
‘I didn’t send a message. I swear I didn’t. I haven’t emailed you for a few weeks at least.’ She tucks her hair behind one ear. ‘And you haven’t answered my last message, I might add.’
‘Well, someone sent me a message. A fucked-up message about this fucked-up yearbook of yours.’
‘Forward it on to me. I want to read it.’
He does what she asks. He’s deteriorating again. His stomach is clenching and his head is going to split open. He’s too old for this: getting into drinking competitions with strangers, vomiting in hotel bathrooms, waking up with that horrible mix of guilt, shame and self-disgust.
Thanks to the instantaneous wonders of technology, even here in the most remote place on the planet, it is only a matter of moments before Katy has received and read the offending email.
She is definitive. ‘I didn’t send this, Luke. The email address is similar to the special one I set up for the reunion, but it’s not exactly the same. Annabel and Grace got messages too. More nasty than funny, just like yours. Remember, I sent an email asking whoever it was to stop?’
Luke doesn’t remember; he’s been barely skimming the reunion stuff. Why bother with the details when he has no intention of going?
‘Is it true that you want me to be a fucking sperm donor?’
Silence. Jesus Christ, it’s true, then.
‘The thought had crossed my mind,’ she eventually admits.
‘Fuck it, Katy, it’s a terrible idea.’
Now she’s indignant. ‘I’m thirty-seven, Luke, and I don’t have a partner. What’s wrong with asking an old friend?’
‘A gay friend?’
‘Being gay and being a father aren’t mutually exclusive, you know.’
He groans. This is not the kind of conversation to be having right now. He can’t seem to hold on to any thoughts. Nothing is sticking, only the fact that it’s a bad, bad idea. ‘I can’t answer that. My head is too sore.’
She gives him a knowing look. ‘Big night out?’
‘Yep.’
For a moment, he thinks she’s going to lecture him. But she returns to the matter at hand. ‘Who is sending these messages? Who would even know I was thinking of asking you that question? I haven’t discussed it with anyone.’
‘Fucked if I know ... Look, I have to go. I feel horrible.’
‘Okay. Take care.’ Then a friendly warning more than a lecture: ‘Don’t drink so much, hey?’
Luke hangs up, feels another intense wave of nausea and has to run for the bathroom again. He promised Nerida they’d go to the reindeer forests today. There’s clearly no chance of that. He knows his body. Three vomits means that he needs to go back to bed, sleep it off.
He sends Nerida his apologies. Feel ill. Sorry, love. Reindeers tomorrow, promise. Turning my phone off now so I can sleep. xxx
Then he sends Aaron a message. Miss you. Wish you were here.
The response is instantaneous: Me, too. What’s Sweden like?
Can’t really tell. We’re in the middle of fucking nowhere.
Ha, ha. Hope you’re being good.
Luke thinks hard about his response, then types: Let’s get married.
He stares at the words for what feels like a long time. Then presses delete until each letter and then word disappears and screen is blank. He turns off his phone, burrows down under covers and is asleep within minutes.