AllFreeNovel
Share Us
‘Oh yes.’ She leans forward conspiratorially and lowers her voice, which I’m relieved about as I’m sure some of the people on the tables adjacent to ours have stopped talking and are listening to us.
‘So, the egg is a little egg-shaped vibrator that you pop up inside you. It’s got a remote control to start and stop it. You can put it in and get on with life as normal, then turn it on with the remote to give yourself a thrill. Steve bought it for me. He used to take me to the pub and set it off while we were having a drink. Someone actually asked me if I was OK on one occasion. I was biting my lip trying not to cry out, gripping the table and apparently I was bright red in the face. I think they were worried I was having a seizure.’ She smiles at the memory.
* * *
A few days later, I’m eating my lunch in the staffroom at work when I notice an unread text on my phone. Clicking the icon, I see it’s from Josh. I stare at it for a while without opening it. I can see the preview, which is ‘Hi Charley, hope UR OK. Have…’ Have what? Have you found out that Scarlett has given me chlamydia and you should get yourself checked? Have you seen the TV remote control? Have you realised that you’re the bloody love of my life and I’ve chucked her out? I don’t even know how I’d feel about that one any more. If he’d have sent it, I don’t know, a week or two after we split, I probably would have rushed back. But now? I’m not so sure.
I tap to get the rest of the message, and read:
Hi Charley. Hope UR OK. Have packed up a few things that you left behind. Do you want to collect them or shall I give them to Madison to pass on to you? Josh x
Bastard! Nearly six weeks of total silence, and he breaks it with this? The text he should have sent would have said:
Hi Charley. I’m sorry that I’m such a fucking cliché. I’m sorry that I ruined what we had. I’m a weak, worthless human being. You deserve so much better than me. I’ve found a few items that you might like from the flat and, because I’m totally unworthy to be associated with anything to do with you, I wondered if you might like them? I can arrange for them to be delivered anywhere you’d like, at a time to suit you. Just tell me and I’ll make it happen. You were the best thing that ever happened to me, and I can’t believe I was stupid enough to be tempted by that useless tart Scarlett. I will spend the rest of my days mooning over a picture of the two of us, and playing songs that remind me of you. Josh (no kiss as I wouldn’t dare)
I’m not upset. I’m livid. We were together for over ten years, which, when you think about it, is longer than many marriages last for. And this is all I get? ‘Hey babe, you’re done. Come and get your stuff.’ I don’t bloody think so.
I start several texts, varying in style from ‘I can’t believe you could send me something so callous after everything we shared’ (bit needy) to ‘Fuck you!’ (bit over-aggressive and doesn’t actually answer the question, even if it sums up how I’m feeling perfectly). I could ignore it, I suppose, but then Scarlett might feel justified in binning the ‘stuff’, whatever it is. This is enough to bring me back to earth, and I make a mental inventory of the things I left behind. From what I can remember there are a few CDs that I’ve probably already got on Spotify, some pictures of us that I definitely don’t want, a couple of kitchen gadgets that will be easy to replace, and a sleeping cat stuffed toy that I bought as a surrogate pet a few years ago. Definitely nothing that I can’t live without, and nothing worth crawling back to his flat as the dumped ex-girlfriend for. In the end my reply is short and to the point:
I have everything I need. Suggest you bin it.
I press ‘send’ and watch as it goes.
10
The taxi comes at 5.30 a.m. to get us to the airport on time for our early morning flight. I feel slightly disconnected from myself and muzzy as we leave, probably because it’s been such a short night. It’s dark, cold and raining as we leave home, and I feel slightly foolish as I shiver in just a T-shirt under my coat.
It seems that Mum and Dad have had another one of their upgrades since I last came on holiday with them. I had prepared for eight hours in economy class. I have my inflatable pillow round my neck and I’ve cast aside my skinny jeans in favour of some tracksuit bottoms that will be much more comfortable in the cramped space. However, when we get to the airport, Dad steers me away from the long check-in queue that I was joining without thinking, towards the business class check-in area, where there is nobody in front of us. We check in, whisk through fast-track security and head straight into the business class lounge.
I’ve never been in a business class lounge before and I feel distinctly underdressed. Everyone else here, apart from my parents, seems to be wearing either work suits or expensive designer outfits. The whole place has a sort of reverential hush about it, rather like you get in a library. Even the (very few) children are quiet. Conversations are conducted in murmurs, and the staff float around, silently collecting used cups and plates. A few people are helping themselves to the complimentary food and drink. I’m horrified to see a man mixing himself what looks like a pretty stiff gin and tonic. I want to go up to him and say, ‘For goodness’ sake, it’s seven in the morning, what’s wrong with you?’
Dad sees me staring and murmurs, ‘I know it looks odd, Charlotte, but for all you know it might be midnight where he’s come from. I’m going to grab some breakfast and a coffee. Coming?’
I follow him over to the area where the food and drink is situated. There is quite a selection to choose from – fruit, pastries, even hot food. ‘I’m only going to have something small to keep me going,’ Dad says. ‘They’ll feed us again on the plane.’ I select a croissant and a flat white from the coffee machine and wander back to where we’re sitting. It’s all very nice and luxurious in here, but something is missing, and it takes me a while to put my finger on what it is.
Outside, in the main part of the airport, there’s a buzz and a collective sense of anticipation. Everyone is going somewhere and, for the most part, they’re excited and looking forward to it. I smiled as I saw what was obviously a wedding party; they were all wearing bright yellow T-shirts emblazoned with their role. I didn’t see the bride herself, but I clocked the groom, the mother of the bride and the best man. They were loud in the way that happy, excited people are.
There’s none of that in here. Everyone wears an air of studied indifference, as if they’re saying, ‘Yeah, this is nothing special. I do this all the time. I belong here.’ I take a bite of my croissant and continue looking around. I definitely don’t belong here.
‘So, when did you guys start flying business class?’ I ask my parents, after I’ve finished the croissant and washed it down with the coffee.
‘It was a couple of years ago now,’ Mum replies. ‘Your dad was finding the economy class seats a little “restrictive”, shall we say. I hoped it might get him thinking about losing weight, but of course his solution was to move to a bigger seat. We did premium economy one year, but then your dad decided we should go the whole hog and so now we fly business. It turns the flight into part of the holiday, rather than something you endure to get where you’re going. It’s also nice on the overnight flight back, because you can lie down and get some sleep. It’s a lot of money, of course, but now that Simon, Emma and the girls don’t come with us the overall cost of the holiday isn’t much more.’
If I was unsure about the lounge, the flight part is more than enough to convince me that business class is where I want to be from now on. When the plane is ready to board, we walk down to the gate and we’re let on first. There’s no fighting over space in the overhead lockers as there are more than enough to go around, and then there’s the seat itself. It’s not so much a seat as a little pod in which you’re cocooned. There’s a blanket, pillow, amenity kit and a set of noise-cancelling headphones on the seat when I arrive. I’m not quite sure what to do with these so I stuff them into the overhead locker for now. When I sit down, I find that I can put my legs straight out in front of me and still not touch the seat in front. I’ve got a little storage drawer that I pop my shoes into. The TV screen is tucked into the wall of my pod but pops out at the press of a button. It’s awesome.
A stewardess appears with a tray. ‘Would you like champagne, orange juice or water, madam?’ My earlier scruples disappear, and I happily accept a glass of champagne. Anyway, it’s OK to drink champagne at breakfast, isn’t it? There’s a partition between me and the seat next to me, where my dad is sitting. I lower it and chink glasses with him.
‘This is amazing, I could get used to this!’ I enthuse.
‘I know. I can’t believe I spent all those years cramped up in the back of the plane. This is a much better way to travel.’
After take-off, the cabin crew come round with more drinks. I accept another glass of champagne – I’m on holiday after all – and have a look at the lunch menu. There are four choices of starter, three mains, and then a choice of a couple of puddings or cheese to finish. There’s even a wine list. I decide I’ll have pea and mint soup with chive crème fraiche to start, followed by seared fillet of cod with butter beans and chorizo for my main, and a warm caramel lava sponge with crème anglaise for pudding. I have no idea what the last one is, but I spotted the word caramel and decided I didn’t need to know any more than that. The stewardess takes my order and then returns with a tablecloth that she carefully lays over my fold-out table. She proceeds to lay it out with cutlery and a napkin, and I feel like I’m in an upmarket restaurant rather than on a plane. The food is amazing. Each dish is served separately on bone china and looks like it’s been prepared by a Michelin-starred chef. The lava cake turns out to be a sponge with a liquid caramel filling, and it’s heavenly.
After lunch I retrieve the headphones, blanket and pillow from the overhead locker and settle back to watch a couple of films, and then afternoon tea is served shortly before we start our descent into Antigua. Normally by this point of a long flight I’m itching for it to be over so I can uncurl my body and start to feel human again, but here I’m savouring every moment of the experience. I can see what Mum means about it turning the flight into part of the holiday.
As I walk down the steps from the plane to the tarmac after we land, the warm Caribbean breeze caresses my body and I fight the urge to turn my face up to drink in the sun; falling arse over tit is not the way I want to start my holiday. The business class passengers are let off the plane first, so we pass pretty much straight through immigration to the baggage collection hall. Our bags are among the first off, and I smile when I notice that my suitcases each have a pink ‘Priority’ label on them. I could definitely get used to this.
The journey to our hotel takes about an hour, and I spend the whole time with my nose practically pressed against the window. The sea is that amazing shade of blue that I’ve only seen in travel brochures, and the white sandy beaches are pristine. On one of them a group of young men, stripped to the waist, are playing football. They’re lean, dark-skinned and seem to radiate with life. Periodically, we pass shacks by the side of the road, selling either fruit, cold drinks, or hot food. People are milling around them, passing the time of day. The houses are painted bright colours, but a lot of them appear rather ramshackle to my British eyes and I can’t help thinking they’d be very cold in winter, before I remember that this is the Caribbean and it’s warm all year round. The vegetation is a rich, dark green, completely different to the golden brown that I remember from summer holidays in the South of France. Dad sees me looking at it and chuckles. ‘There’s a reason why it’s so green. It’s not called rainforest for nothing. You’ll see.’
