“Please return to your seat.” Everyone in the bar is staring now, the passengers in business class craning their necks to see what’s going on behind them. “This is for business-class passengers only.”
“So how come he gets to stay?” She jabs a finger toward the stocky man, who is doing his best to ignore her.
“Because he’s in—” I start, then I see the awkward flush that appears on the man’s neck and the way he pushes his glass away from him across the bar, half-drunk.
“Sorry,” he says, although it’s not clear if it’s directed at me or at his blond companion.
“For heaven’s sake!” I direct this at Hassan, who chews his lip.
“They’re together. It was quiet when they asked, and I thought…”
“Will everyone without a business-class ticket please return to your own seats,” I say loudly, “where cabin crew will be delighted to take your drinks orders.”
“Sorry,” mutters the stocky man again. He gives a last, lingering look at the blond girl before shuffling through the curtain and back to his seat. I fold my arms and stare down the drunk woman. We lock eyes for a full minute before she gives up.
“Snobs!” She delivers her parting shot at full volume, and I feel sorry for the economy crew, who will need to spend the next fifteen hours refusing her alcohol.
I let out a breath, coloring at the smattering of applause that breaks out from the passengers in the bar.
“You’ve got kids, haven’t you?” the pajama-clad woman says with a grin. “That was such a mum voice.”
I grin. I head back to the galley, and for the first time since I got to work, I feel myself relax, the uneasy feeling finally shifting. My instincts had been right: something was going to happen on this flight, but it was nothing I couldn’t handle. I’ve been doing this job for twelve years—it would take a lot to throw me.
When I was a child, Mum would always stretch her arm toward the sky as a jumbo jet soared overhead.
“Quick! Send love to Manii and Baba sido!”
“That plane could be going anywhere,” I’d laugh. But I’d wave anyway, too superstitious not to. The habit became ingrained—like saluting single magpies—long after my grandparents had passed away and there was no longer a reason to visit Algeria or to send our love across the ocean. Even after I’d stopped going to the airport with Dad—far too cool, by my midteens, to be caught watching planes—I’d raise a self-conscious arm whenever I saw a plane. Hey, Manii and Baba. Love you guys.
Years later, we were traveling back from France, where my parents still kept a house. It had belonged to my dad’s parents, a ramshackle place full of memories. I was looking out the plane window, on to clouds that looked solid enough to stand on. We had spent every school holiday in France, continuing the tradition now I was at college. While my mother flitted about, catching up with her friends, I’d see my father relax, away from the rigors of London life.
“I’d love to be a pilot.” It was the first time I’d said it out loud, and it had felt audacious. Ridiculous.
“So be a pilot,” Dad said.
That was him all over. You want something? Make it happen.
Way down at the front of the plane, the door to the flight deck had opened, and I’d craned my neck to catch a glimpse of the instrument panel, of the vast curve of glass that looked out on that carpet of cloud. Excitement thrummed in my veins. “It’s really expensive.”
“How expensive?”
“Like…eighty grand? At least.”
He didn’t say anything for ages, then he shrugged and rustled his paper and said, “Get the details.”
Six weeks later, they sold the house in France.
“Go be a pilot,” Dad said.
“But you loved that house!” I scoured my parents’ faces and found nothing but excitement. “It was supposed to be your pension.”
“Who needs a pension when your daughter’s a commercial pilot?” Dad winked. “You can keep us in our old age.”
My mother squeezed my arm. “We’ll be fine. We’re excited for you.”
She took a photograph the day I left for training college, as if it were my first day of school. I stood by the front door in my black trousers and packet-fresh shirt, a single gold bar on my epaulettes.
I look down at the skirt I’m in now, at my manicured nails and my flesh-colored tights. I love my job, but this wasn’t how it was supposed