to sleep, but if Adam tried to hold her, she’d stiffen, screaming till she went blue. As she got older, she became more possessive of my time, shutting Adam out. “Be patient,” I’d tell him. “One day, she’ll come to you, and you need to be ready.”
“Cheer up, love. It might never happen.” I’m jolted out of my thoughts by the man behind the Talbots, whose long legs are stretched out beneath his tray, on which rests a water bottle and a book.
When I was at university, I worked in a pub full of bankers and wankers and undergraduates. The second I stepped behind the bar, my educational peers would become intellectually superior, subjecting me to come on, loves, and alright, darlings, as if we were EastEnders extras. This job gets like that sometimes. I know all sorts of cabin crew, with all sorts of qualifications. I know former paramedics, and university lecturers, and a retired police officer with late-onset wanderlust. Most passengers don’t see that, though. They see the uniform, and they see a waitress. Never mind the emergency training, the water safety, the ability to put out a fire or cut a passenger free from their seat.
I paste a smile over gritted teeth. “Can I get you anything else, sir? Some wine?”
“Thank you, but I don’t drink.”
“Well, I’m here if you need anything.”
I’m grateful for this oasis of sobriety as the rest of the cabin gets progressively merry. I have a sudden yearning to be at home, cuddled with Sophia on the sofa, watching Peppa Pig. When I’m traveling, I remember all the good bits. Isn’t that always the way? I even remember the good bits about me and Adam—the laughter, the closeness, the feeling of his arms around me.
A hum of noise comes from the bar, and I go to see if they need help. It’s heaving, conversation rising in volume as more business-class passengers join the throng. Several customers are in their pajamas, the novelty still amusing them, hours into the flight. A couple stands at the bar, their body language flirtatious.
“Have you seen the corkscrew?” The barman—Hassan—looks harassed.
“No idea. It was there earlier. I’ll get you one from the galley.”
“This is why I only ever drink champagne. All you need is a glass. Or a straw!” The petite woman from 5J is at the bar. She has a deep, throaty laugh at odds with her appearance. She has long, blond hair and careful makeup, bloodred staining her lips. The man she’s with can’t take his eyes off her. He’s stocky, not much taller than the blond woman, but with biceps bigger than her waist. His dark hair looks as if it would curl if it weren’t clipped so short, and a thick beard covers half his face. The woman’s left thumb is hooked into the back pocket of the man’s trousers in that casual, automatic way two people learn to slot together. I feel a lump in my throat, remembering the years with Adam when our relationship was still new enough to be flirtatious yet familiar enough to be comfortable.
As I turn to go, there’s movement in the corner of my eye: a swish of the curtains between business class and economy. I look back to see a dark-haired woman approaching the bar. She looks around as she waits, taking in the wide-screen TV on the wall and the baskets of sweet treats laid out for passengers to help themselves.
“Champagne, please.”
Hassan glances at me. “I’m afraid the bar is for business-class passengers.” He sounds nervous, his hands hovering near the champagne as though he might still serve her.
“I only want one.”
It’s tempting to let her have a drink then pack her back to economy, but there’s something entitled in her manner that gets my hackles up. I step forward.
“I’m sorry. You’ll need to return to the economy cabin.”
“For fuck’s sake. All I want is a drink.”
I smile. “And all I want is not to be sworn at for doing my job, but I guess neither of us is getting what we want today.”
“How are your pajamas?” She wheels around, spitting the words at an identically clad couple taking selfies.
“Um, they’re very—”
“Do you know what we got in our ‘souvenir gift bag’?” She waggles her fingers in violent air quotes, then raises her voice into a shout. “Fucking shortbread!”
“Okay, that’s enough.” I take the woman by her elbow, and she shakes me off.
“Get your hands off me! That’s assault, that is.” She looks around. “Is anyone