The leather sofa squeaked under Gillian as she tried, unsuccessfully, to reach for patience. Twenty minutes had gone by. She shuddered to think of the havoc it was playing with Becky’s meticulous schedule and the effect that would catch her in its ripples.
Her stomach growled; it had been a few hours since her meager breakfast on the flight. The fruit on the coffee table shone a beacon to her hunger. The apples gleamed with a waxy shine, and the bananas were a stunning bright yellow. She’d never seen fruit quite this bright and luscious-looking before. Well, the Baggage Handler did tell me to help myself.
As she reached for the fruit, the grapes gave away the truth. They, too, had a waxy shine, but down the side of one of them was a line, a seam.
Gillian picked up the grape and examined it, feeling the slickness of plastic under her fingers. She squeezed air out of it with a rush and picked up a second grape. Plastic. She dropped an apple on the coffee table, producing an empty, dull thud. With a soundless bounce it rolled onto the carpet and came to rest, a telltale hole in the bottom revealing its molded creation.
Gillian flicked the decanter with a fingernail and heard the dull clunk of plastic. She removed the stopper, and instead of heady red wine vapor, the familiar tang of grape juice enveloped her. She clinked one balloon glass against the other. Another dull clunk. Plastic. Everything on this table was fake.
She poured the grape juice into the plastic “glass.” She laughed to herself. This is a low-cost airline, all right.
Gillian settled back into the sofa, the leather creaking under her. Her upward glance caught her reflection in the mirror. She scooched down in a hurry, out of her own eyeline, and looked instead at the TV on the wall. She lifted a remote and punched up the volume on the soap opera.
“But, Ranch, I can’t love you when I’m in love with your twin brother.” The brunette with the heaving bosom walked past her costar toward the camera and stared off into the middle distance over Gillian’s shoulder.
Ranch moved in behind the brunette and placed his hands on her bare shoulders. An emotive piano tinkled away. “Kourtnay, my love, my soul mate. I’m not Ranch, nor am I his twin brother, French.” A string concerto joined the piano as the music swelled and drew Gillian into the soap opera’s manufactured pain. “I am their long-lost triplet, Caesar.” The music climbed to a crescendo; a final, moody piano chord hung out to dry as the screen faded to black.
Gillian jumped as her senses were assaulted by pulsing graphics and thumping dance music. “In this week’s edition of Perfect Woman magazine, has Taylor Swift finally had a bad hair day? We have the photos!” The voice-over grated on Gillian’s nerves as an unflattering portrait of pop royalty getting off a plane in a windstorm was smeared across the screen.
Gillian’s hand patted down her own hair out of reflex. That’s pretty unfair.
“Ten ways for you to look fantastic 24/7!” A woman rolled over in bed to reveal a perfect, lipsticked smile and a cheesy thumbs-up. “Our celebrity makeover judges give you the tips to look fabulous at any time of the day or night!”
Gillian shook her head. No one with kids looked like that. Did they?
“And we’ll fulfill every woman’s dream by revealing the makeup secrets that will catch the eye of every man in town!”
As she sipped her juice, Gillian racked her brain for one woman she knew for whom that was a dream. She came up empty.
“All in this week’s edition of Perfect Woman magazine! Out now!”
On the screen, popcorn spilled across a carefully groomed rug.
Now that’s more like the real world.
Three boys wearing crisp jeans, white T-shirts, and impossibly perfect tousled mops of blond hair bounced on the sofa in a family room. Their mother swept in, her hair perfect, her makeup immaculate. “Boys!” An ever-so-slightly disapproving look drifted across her face as she pulled a steaming muffin tray from behind her back. “Who’s the best mom on the street?”
“You are!” the boys shrieked as they raced over to her, grabbed a muffin the size of a small Volkswagen, gave her an energetic hug, and sped off to the kitchen table.
The mother sighed in triumph—another job well done—as a deep male voice floated across the scene of domestic bliss. “Sweet Dreams muffins. Do you want to be the best mom on the street?”
Mom turned to the camera and smiled widely.
The voice-over continued. “Well, do you, Gillian?”
Mom winked.
Gillian dropped the grape juice on the carpet. She stared at the television. What?
The brunette with the heaving bosom was back and spun on her heel. “Caesar? Ranch said the rest of his family died in the plane crash that gave him the inheritance to build that school for bikini models.”
A faint whistle came from behind the door, a tune familiar and yet somehow elusive. The door opened, and the Baggage Handler strolled through, pushing a baggage cart loaded with a suitcase. Gillian recognized her travel agent’s logo on the red baggage tags and sighed in relief. The Baggage Handler spun the baggage cart, took off the suitcase, and placed it in front of her.
“Thank you so much for sorting out my baggage.” Gillian moved to pick up the suitcase.
“My pleasure, ma’am.” The Baggage Handler tipped his cap.
Gillian grabbed the handle and smiled at the Baggage Handler as he stepped aside, but the suitcase wouldn’t move. It was stuck to the floor, impossible to lift.
She let go of the suitcase and stood back, confused. “Are you sure this is my baggage?”
“Of course. Check the tags.”
Gillian bent down and read her name and address, written in her hand on the travel agent’s tags.
“And the barcode on the side of the suitcase.”
Gillian checked this as well. Her name again. This was definitely her suitcase.
She stood back and studied it. She attempted again to lift it, but still it wouldn’t move. It weighed a ton; she could never pick it up, let alone carry it. She stood back and folded her arms. “What have you done to my suitcase? Someone has put something in it.”
The Baggage Handler fixed a gaze on Gillian with clouded blue eyes, a look approaching wistfulness.
“You’re right there. Why don’t you unlock it and have a look inside?”