bar. The plane has a bespoke layout, supposedly designed to improve passenger comfort on such a long flight. There’s a galley at the front, between the flight deck and the cabin, with two bathrooms and the stairs to the relief bunks hidden behind a door. Business class comes first, followed by their private lounge and bar—curtained off from the rest of the plane—and another pair of bathrooms. The economy cabin is laid out in two halves, with a dedicated “stretching zone” between the two, and more economy loos at the back. Three hundred and fifty-three passengers in total: all breathing the same air from the second the doors close in London till they open again in Sydney.
Business-class passengers board first, eyes already looking toward the bar and scoping out the beds as we check tickets and take coats to hang in the cupboard by the galley. There are too many crew members on board, with all sixteen in the cabin to greet passengers as they board. Half will disappear to the bunks after takeoff, leaving Erik, Carmel, and me in business class, Hassan in the bar, and four in economy. For now, with everyone downstairs, there is a sense of mania that seeps along the cabin. Twenty hours. Where else would complete strangers spend so many hours locked up together? Prison, I suppose, and the thought makes me uneasy.
Those in business class are offered champagne. I see one man knock his back as though it’s a shot before winking at Carmel for a second glass.
Twenty hours.
You can tell the troublemakers from the outset. It’s something in their look as much as their behavior, something that says, I’m better than you. I’m going to make your life difficult. It isn’t always the drinkers, though (although free champagne doesn’t help), and this guy isn’t giving me bad vibes. We’ll see.
“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome on board Flight 79 from London to Sydney.” As the senior crew member, I have the dubious privilege of addressing our passengers. There’s nothing in my script that marks out today as special, but a cheer goes up regardless. “Please ensure all mobile phones and portable electronic devices are stowed for departure.”
I walk into the cabin, noticing a large bag at the foot of a woman with long salt-and-pepper hair, wearing a green jumper.
“Can I put that in the overhead locker for you?”
“I need it with me.”
“If it can’t fit in the storage compartments, it’ll need to go in the locker, I’m afraid.”
The woman picks it up and hugs it to her chest, as though I’ve threatened to snatch it forcibly from her. “I have all my things in it.”
I try not to sigh. “I’m sorry. It can’t stay here.”
For a second, we lock eyes, each determined to win, then she lets out a tsk of frustration and starts pulling out the contents of her bag, slotting jumpers, books, cosmetic bags into the numerous storage cupboards surrounding her seat. I make a mental note to double-check her seat when we land in case she leaves any of it behind. Once settled again, she loses her grumpy expression, looking out the window as she sips her champagne.
At the captain’s announcement—Cabin crew, prepare doors for departure and cross-check—the collective excitement in the cabin grows. Most of the business-class passengers have already delved into their welcome gift bag, and one woman has already managed to change into her souvenir Flight 79 pajamas, much to the amusement of her fellow passengers. There’s a special video message from Dindar ahead of the safety briefing, which everyone duly ignores because no one they know has ever needed it. Carmel and I collect the empty glasses.
“Hold your horses, darling. There’s a bit still in that.” A woman with twinkly eyes grins at me as she scoops her glass back from my tray and downs the remaining half inch of champagne. I remember her name from the boarding list—one of a handful that have already stuck in my mind. By the end of the flight, I’ll know the names of all fifty-six passengers in business class.
“Do you have everything you need, Lady Barrow?”
“Patricia, please. Well, Pat, really. Just plain old Pat.” She has a naughty smile—the grandmother who slips the children extra chocolate when Mum’s not looking. “The title is my children’s idea of a joke.”
“You’re not really a lady?”
“Oh, I am. I preside over a whole square foot of Scottish soil,” she says grandly, then bursts into infectious laughter.