2 MV to meet a new artist.
Two seconds, then another text:
When R U back?
Friday.
Keep Friday eve free. I have surprise 4 U.
I feel a beat of delight.
What is it?
If I told U that, it wouldn’t be a surprise, would it?
I smile to myself and say bye, feeling more comforted. Perhaps it’s actually a good thing I’m getting out of town for a few days, I reflect, looking at the positives. This way it will put some distance between me and Nate and I won’t have to worry about bumping into him. Or think about him. And I can concentrate on Adam.
Cheered by this thought, I turn and gaze out of the window.
\€antin Liûht"Hopefully by the time I get back on Friday, mine and Nate’s relationship will just seem like a bad dream.
I arrive at JFK Airport and go straight to the JetBlue check-in desk, where I discover it’s not a direct flight and I have to get a connection in Boston. But that’s OK – Boston’s only an hour away. I’ll read my magazine article on Artsy, I decide, settling into my seat on the plane. Ooh, this is really nice. Plush leather seat, comfy footrest, my own TV screen with lots of different channels . . . Ordering a glass of wine, I fasten my seatbelt and settle back happily with my article. You know, I’m beginning to have a really good feeling about this trip.
The flight is so comfy I almost don’t want it to end. I read my article, surf a few TV channels and then before I know it we’re landing in Boston and I’m wandering around the airport shops, killing time before my connecting flight. I love airports. There’s something about them that makes me feel like I’ve stepped into some parallel universe, where real life doesn’t exist. All these people coming and going, the buzz of excitement, the sense of transience. It’s like nothing matters.
Like, for example, money, I muse, picking up an expensive moisturiser. Normally, in the real world, I would baulk at the price, but somehow in Airport World ninety dollars is like Monopoly money. It doesn’t seem to count, I reflect, cheerfully handing over my credit card. Ooh, and look at those cute little fridge magnets that say, ‘Boston Red Sox,’ on them. Spying them by the register, I put a couple in my basket. I’m not exactly sure who the Boston Red Sox are, but Robyn might like those as souvenirs, as she’s always sticking horoscopes, vegetarian recipes and to-do lists all over the fridge. Speaking of souvenirs, what about that tea towel with the big red lobster on for Mum . . .?
I end up leaving the shop with two bulging carrier bags and am just wandering into another, which sells electronic gadgets (strangely I’ve never been even slightly interested in a vibrating neck massager or a sound machine to help you sleep, but here in Airport World they’re fascinating), when I hear my name.
‘Last call for Miss Hemmingway. Please make your way urgently to Gate 4B. Your flight is about to depart.’
And look at my watch.
Fuck. Seeing the time, my heart plummets. How did that happen? A whole hour and a half has suddenly vanished and now I’m late! I’m going to miss my flight!
Fuck, fuck, FUCK.
Cursing under my breath, I charge through departures, my carrier bags banging against my legs. Of course the gate has to be the furthest one away and by the time I get there I’m pouring with sweat and breathless.
‘Miss Hemmingway?’ A member of ground staff in a fluores |€ in a flûorecent-orange jacket is waiting for me. She has a walkie-talkie and a very cross-looking expression.
‘Yes . . . that’s me,’ I pant. My heart is thumping against my ribcage and I feel as if I’m going to collapse.
‘Hurry! The flight is about to depart,’ she reprimands, snatching my boarding card.
‘I know, sorry—’ I begin apologising, but she quickly ushers me through the turnstile.
‘The bus is waiting to take you to your plane.’
I glance out of the glass doors at the little minibus. ‘Thanks,’ I gasp, then pause. ‘Erm . . . where’s the plane exactly?’ I’m scanning the runway for a jet like the one I just flew in on, but there’s nothing, apart from a tiny little propeller thing.
‘Right there,’ she barks, as if I’m stupid, and points.
To the tiny little propeller thing.
Still, now is not the time to feel nervous, I tell myself firmly, as I hurry on to