Not surprisingly I have a new Facebook message from Owen, which I cannot bring myself to open. I sit on the hard airport seat at my gate and sip a lukewarm latté, holding my passport and boarding card tightly between my knees.
This morning at four fifteen tears fell down my face as I kissed both my babies.
I’m an utter disgrace.
How could I have done that? Sent a picture like that? That’s not me. I don’t know who I am any more. How do I explain that one to Colin? To anyone in their right mind? It’s torture. The fear has me paralysed.
I stand up – the gate area is still empty as I checked in so early and I’m not boarding for another hour. I put my passport and boarding card safely in the zip pocket of my bag and I walk to the toilets. Urine, bleach and heady perfumes hit my nostrils as I look in the full-length mirror. A pretty air hostess in a green-and-black uniform moves away, drying her hands on some hand towels. I’m dressed in a black suede skirt to my knee, black tights and high black leather boots. I have a white shirt on and my long red winter coat. I take out my messy make-up bag and smear on my Clinique Dramatically Different moisturiser, then I edge to the side of the mirror so I’m not blocking the other women. I apply a light Mac Face & Body foundation and then lashings of mascara before I run a soft dark black kohl pencil several times on my lower lid. I’m not in a cat eye mood. When I’m happy I remove my phone. I walk outside and sit away from my gate. At an empty gate. Everything about me is empty. I slide across the bar and open his message.
Wow.
One word. That’s it. I look at the picture. Oh my good God. I am so embarrassed. Humiliated. Cringe. Beyond mortified. Who am I? I have to call him. I just have to, before I see him face-to-face, I know that. Suddenly the phone rings out in my hand and I jump on it. It’s Corina.
‘I’ve put on half a stone in two days, how is that even possible? Good morning, how are we this morning? Are you checked in? What’s the craic? Are you OK? I’m up for an early breakfast meeting. Holy crapola.’
I press my phone to my ear.
‘Yes, at my gate now and you always look amazing,’ I tell her.
‘Trevorweight, I’m going to call it.’ I hear her opening her wardrobe and rummaging between the clanking of hangers.
‘Fecking Trevorweight is going to see me have to buy new clothes. Eh, hello! What the heck happened last night? Spill!’ she orders me.
So I spill in hushed tones until I get to the end. To just before the selfie. I pause.
‘So the underwear was a waste of money then … Oh, Ali, you guys really do need to go and see a marriage counsellor as soon as you get back. I’m so sorry the little ones overheard that. I used to hear my parents at each other’s throats all the time and although kids are way more resilient than you think, it is still shit. Counselling saved their marriage. You know what I might do? I might try go see Jade in her gymnastics competition later if I can slip away. You said they are in rehearsals from eleven o’clock right? Maybe take her to Eddie Rockets for a strawberry milkshake on her lunch break? Would I be able to do that?’
‘Oh, don’t worry, Corina!’ I say, knowing Jade won’t want her there, as kind as she is to offer. ‘There is more.’
I swallow hard.
‘Well, what do you know, my grey culottes from Marks & Spencer’s still fit … Praise me, a button that reaches across and fastens … Trevorweight needs to go! Sorry, now what else?’ She puffs and pants down the line.
‘I took a picture of myself, a selfie if you will, in the sexy underwear, after Colin stormed out and I sent it to Owen.’
I cough, gently putting my hand over my mouth even though there is no one around me to contaminate. Across the way I can see my numbered gate, which is now filling up with early morning passengers. I hear the creaking of a bed. Corina tries to get her voice out. It breaks several times. She clears her throat again.
‘T-T-This … this is so not good, Ali. Why the—? What the—? What did he send back?’ I can almost picture the look of pure horror on her freckled face.
‘He just said wow,’ I say quietly, placing no emphasis on the word.
‘Dear Lord above …’ I can hear she has now totally flopped back on the bed, it creaks under her.
‘So there ya have it.’ I exhale.
The tannoy announces the boarding of rows one to twenty and the imminent departure of my Aer Lingus flight EI 778 to Amsterdam and Corina hears it also. Aer Lingus are on the ball this morning. Looks like this flight won’t miss its slot.
‘I’m … I’m sorry. I need to think about this, Ali, I don’t know what to say … Call me when you land – fly safely. Love you.’ She rings off and I move down to my gate and sit apart from the heaving queue of eager passengers. I remain on the edge of the plastic seat until the last person goes through the gate and then I board my flight.
I love flying. Once I get over the initial panic attack I always have about the reality of where I am, I can enjoy it. I cannot remember the last time I travelled anywhere just on my own.
I stow a guidebook on Amsterdam in the seat pocket in front of me, the net straining to keep it in, and order a coffee and a cheese-and-ham toastie when the air hostess passes with her trolley. I thank her, and place them on my grey-coloured extended table top as I stare outside. The world looks perfect through my small oval- shaped window. Big blue sky with scattered fluffy white clouds, it coruscates with flashes of bright and beautiful sunlight and I lean my head against the thick glass while my coffee cools. The world is serene and quiet and I feel almost out of my own body. As though I have somehow escaped something. I have no control right now. No control over anything. No way of knowing what is happening in my world right now. It’s strangely relaxing on this morning when I feel forty-five not thirty-five. I unclench my jaw. I loosen out my shoulders.
The fear still has a tight grasp on my heart over me sending such a terrible picture to Owen. I’m a mother of an eleven-year-old girl and a five-year-old boy; it’s inexcusable. I did it in temper, I know, and the timing had a part to play, but I did it nonetheless. I sent a dirty picture of myself to another man. The fear crushes down on my heart and it gallops at a million miles an hour. OK, Ali, I say in my head. You did it, it’s done, all you can do is apologise to Owen and tell him the truth as embarrassing as it is. The truth shall set you free. Forget all this Owen nonsense. You can do good work this weekend, programme a really great show for the centre and go home and fix your broken marriage. Everything happens for a reason, right? Maybe this is my rock bottom.
Carefully I peel the white plastic lid from my coffee, steam billowing out. It’s still scalding. I open my cheese-and-ham toastie; the plastic is also boiling and sticks to the bread.
As soon as it cools, I peel it off, then I eat and drink, and feel somewhat better that I have decided to tell Owen the truth.
I draw my guidebook from the confines of the thick grey net. There is so much to see and do and I plan to see and do it all. This will possibly be the last trip I take on my own for some time.
Maybe I do have to seriously consider giving up the job, as much as I love it, we can’t carry on like this. Perhaps I could do something from home. The thought of letting it all go, of rediscovering my normality, of simply giving in, actually mellows me out.
Putting my seat back just a fraction, I sip my coffee and wade through my guidebook until I come to our hotel, Hotel Falcon Plaza. It’s a three-star in a great location, situated on Valkenburgerstraat. I thumb the pages, reading about the surrounding area.
Like I told Owen, I’ve never been to Amsterdam before. I’m excited. A new city for my eyes to behold. The added buzz of seeing two new shows reminds me how much I adore being in the theatre. Colette is on the afternoon flight with Michael and she wants to meet in the hotel bar at six o’clock for a quick drink and a chat before we all disperse to go and see our various dance shows, theatre shows, art exhibitions. No idea what Owen booked to see, I think, as I nibble on the end of my toastie, head buried in my travel book. I mark off some sights I’d like to see as a tin tube flies me through the skies at a million miles an hour.