paid. Journalists, a smattering of celebs and “influencers” who will spend sixteen hours of the flight Instagramming and the other four drinking. “But I urge you to treat them no differently from our paying customers.”
Yeah, right. The journalists might be here for a jolly, sure—free business-class trip to Australia? Take my passport!—but they’re after a story too. Think Daily Mail meets TripAdvisor. LONG-HAUL NO HYPOALLERGENIC PILLOWS SHOCKER.
Once Dindar and the suits have finished congratulating themselves, we hold the crew briefing. Mike and Cesca will handle takeoff and the first four hours of the flight, then they’ll take their break in the bunks above the flight deck. Louis and Ben fly for the next six hours before the crews switch again. As for the cabin crews, there are sixteen of us, split into two shifts. When we’re not working, we’ll be up in the bunks at the back of the plane, pretending it’s normal to be sleeping in a windowless room full of strangers.
Someone from Occupational Health comes in to talk about the dangers of fatigue. She reminds us to stay hydrated, then demonstrates a breathing exercise that’s supposed to help us maximize sleep during our breaks. Several members of the cabin crew start laughing; one pretends to fall asleep.
“Sorry,” he says, jerking upright with a grin. “I guess it works!”
As we walk through the airport, in pairs behind the pilots, there’s an atmosphere of fevered anticipation, and I feel the buzz of pride I always do before a flight. Our uniforms are navy, with emerald trim on the cuffs and hems and around the lapels. An enameled pin on the left breast pocket says WORLD AIRLINES; on the right side, there’s a badge with our first names. Our emerald scarves when spread out are a map of the world, each country made up of a tiny repeat of the airline’s name. For today, we wear a new pin. FLIGHT 79. MAKING THE WORLD A SMALLER PLACE.
An in-house photographer snaps us from all angles, and a whisper of London–Sydney follows us to the gate.
“Like being on a red carpet!” one of the crew says.
Like walking to the gallows, I’d been thinking. I can’t shake this feeling—a single bad apple in a barrel of good ones—that something terrible is about to happen.
Some people get this feeling every time they fly, I suppose: a pool of dread at the pits of their stomachs. I’ve always thought how sad it must be, to spend those miraculous hours of flight clutching the armrests, eyes screwed shut over imagined disasters that never happen.
Not me. For me, flying is everything. A triumph of engineering, working not against nature but with it. Adam laughs when I geek out over planes, but is there anything more beautiful than an A320 taking off? As a kid, I moaned when Dad took me to the airport, where he’d stand by the perimeter fence, taking photos of the planes. For Dad, it was the photography that mattered—he spent equally long days by the river, getting the perfect picture of a heron in flight—but slowly, I found myself drawn in.
“Got a great shot of that triple seven.” Dad would show me the digital screen.
“That wasn’t a triple seven,” I’d say. “It was an SP.”
I loved to draw, and I’d sketch nose shapes in my notebook, no longer complaining when Dad suggested we spend Saturday at the airport. When we flew to see family, I never cared what films they were showing or what nestled within the foil-wrapped food trays. I pressed my nose against the window and watched the flaps moving up and down, felt the gentle movement of the plane in response. I loved it all.
So it’s unsettling, this flutter in my stomach, the creeping sense of dread as we board the plane. The door to the flight deck is open, all four pilots crammed inside as they prepare the flight, and I feel a shiver down my neck.
Erik notices. “Are you cold? It is the air-conditioning; they always have it too cold.”
“No, I’m okay. Someone walking over my grave.” I shiver again and wish I’d chosen a different expression. I check the cabin equipment, something I’ve done so many times before, but today, it feels different. Pressure. Seals. Oxygen tubes. Fire extinguisher. Smoke mask, survival kits… Each one essential. Each one the difference between life and death.
“Get a grip, Holbrook,” I mutter. I carry a box of tonic water through the business-class cabin to the lounge and help to stock the