Chasing the Sun: The laugh-out-loud summer romance you need on your holiday!. Katy Colins
started scooping up dried pasta from the floor.
‘They just chose to go with someone else.’ I didn’t want to say that I’d had a toddler clambering on my leg at the time of the important business call, or that my head wasn’t in the game in the pitch thanks to Shelley’s confusing and panicked text. I didn’t want him to blame Shelley or Marie for the distractions. I needed to take the blame; I should have had my phone on silent; I should have let their call go to voicemail; I should have said no to Marie. Who did I think I was, expecting to be a professional businesswoman whilst playing mum to two small children? I should have done all of this, but I didn’t. I got to my feet and dejectedly tipped the broken pasta into the bin.
‘Don’t worry, there’ll be something else. Something bigger that we can get on board with,’ I said, hoping I sounded confident, ignoring the fact that this meant a huge loss both personally and to the business. We’d stupidly been counting on that money.
Ben closed his eyes and pressed his fingers to his temples, letting out a deep sigh. ‘I hope you’re right, Georgia.’
Odious (adj.) – Extremely unpleasant; repulsive
I let the familiar thrum of the busy airport wash over me as I padded through the check-in hall, narrowly sidestepping floor polishers and rows of trolleys. I felt a funny pang in my chest as I walked past amorous couples kissing goodbye. Forget the arrivals hall scene from Love Actually, saying farewell to your loved ones was just as emosh. Ben was late for a breakfast meeting, so our own goodbye was more of a peck on the cheek as he rushed out the door than a heartfelt profession of love. I’d tried not to feel too disappointed he couldn’t see me off at the airport, I knew that I’d see him soon, but a small part of me felt like he was still sulking over us losing the investment, probably thinking that he could have done a better job if he’d been there. I shook away these negative emotions and made my way through security, deciding to treat myself to a new perfume in duty free to cheer myself up and get into holiday mode.
I wasn’t nervous about the long flight that loomed ahead of me; the fact that I was going to be travelling for the next twenty-four hours on my own actually filled me with excitement at having some well-deserved me-time. My out-of-office was on, I’d filled my e-reader up with beach reads, loaded up my iPod, and found this mini travel facial kit that the beauty pages of a magazine Kelli had been reading raved about.
I plodded patiently down the aisles of the plane, waiting for others to faff around with squeezing their bags in the overhead lockers ahead of me. A queue had blocked the path to my seat as the couple in front decided that this would be the perfect moment to have a detailed debate with their travel partners over who should take the window seat before taking off layers and bundling up jackets into the lockers.
I eventually got to my row, where a middle-aged woman wearing a hijab was ensconced in the window seat, rabbiting on a mobile phone in a language that I didn’t understand or recognise. The middle seat was empty and, in my seat – the aisle seat – sat an overweight man who looked about late thirties. The type who would linger around the buffet table at a party and who shopped at Big and Mighty; his fleshy rolls hung over the armrests like uncooked pastry on a pie tin.
‘Oh, excuse me. I think you’re in my seat,’ I said to him politely, noticing flakes of eczema around his scrunched-up, piggy eyes.
He creased up his round, bowling-ball-shaped face into a look of disgust that I’d deigned to pull his attention from the inflight entertainment channels.
‘What? This is 24C.’ He said this as a statement rather than a question. ‘My seat is 24C.’
He had one of those nasally voices that grated on you with every heavily articulated syllable. I hastily looked at my boarding card, even though I’d memorised it enough times in the wait to board. ‘Yep, that’s 24C but 24C is actually my seat.’ I flashed him my card to prove that I wasn’t lying.
‘Well, that’s just great. Great,’ he said through gritted teeth, glaring at me as if I’d been in charge of the flight seating plan and messed up on purpose just to piss him off and ruin his day.
I flashed him an apologetic shrug as I waited for him to swap seats. He huffed loudly but still didn’t make any effort to move and let me sit down, leaving me standing like a lemon. Passengers began tutting behind me now that I was the one blocking the aisle. I felt my cheeks heat up as I appeared to be in a stare-off with this flaky lump of lard.
‘Everything okay here?’ A pretty blonde-haired flight attendant with a crispy high quiff fluttered over, flashing us both megawatt smiles on her expertly contoured face.
‘Oh, erm, well, I think this gentleman is in my seat.’ I hurriedly passed her my ticket.
She flicked her camel-length eyelashes at my boarding card and looked at the seat blocker. ‘Sir, this lady is correct. Do you have your boarding card so I can check where your seat is?’ she asked, filling my nose with a heavy rose-scented perfume which made my stomach flip with nausea.
He huffed once more then pinged open his seat belt to get up, acting as if it took all the effort in the world. He half stood, half bent over to rummage in his sagging jeans pocket, flashing us all a glimpse of his hairy arse crack. I glanced at the passengers waiting behind me and threw them my best apologetic face. They all glared back.
‘Ah, sorry sir, you’re actually in 24B, so if I could ask you to move over one?’ The flight attendant took his crumpled-up boarding pass that proved me right. Hah. In yo face, Fatso!
‘I specifically remember requesting the aisle seat.’ He scowled at the pair of us as if we were in this together, conspiring against him and his inflight needs. ‘I can’t sit in the middle seat. I need to be able to move around frequently. Gout problems,’ he replied as an afterthought.
‘Madam, would you mind taking the middle seat?’ The flight attendant turned to me. Her previously perky voice now had a hint of irritation at how long this was taking.
Well, yes, I did bloody mind. I hated sitting in the middle seat anyway, but trapped between Mr Rude and Mrs Chatterbox, it would make an already long flight even longer.
‘Well …’ I paused, trying to work out how to politely but firmly stand my ground.
‘Great! Thank you,’ the flight attendant said cheerfully, before I’d finished, and bundled me into my place to let the queue move on. Fatty bum-bum simply manoeuvred his legs to the side so I could squeeze past, not even bothering to say thanks.
Soon after, the pilot gave his welcome speech (that no one appeared to pay attention to) and the now flustered flight attendant told the woman next to me for the third time that she needed to end her call and put her phone in flight mode. Suddenly, I was gassed with the most noxious, eggy-fart smell coming from my right. I flung my hand up to my mouth to cover it with the sleeve of my jumper and cast a serious, pissed-off look at the man next to me. He had his eyes fixed on the small TV set in the seat back in front of him, pretending that it wasn’t him with the bowels of a sewage plant. Then, as if to make matters worse, I felt something thump the top of my head.
‘Ow!’ I cried and glanced around, rubbing my crown. A grinning gap-toothed boy was standing on the seat behind me, holding a plastic toy train and looking pretty proud of himself. His mother in the seat next to him was too busy flicking through a magazine to apologise or even acknowledge the assault.
Great. Just great.
*
Giving up on the hope of getting my arm on the armrest under my fellow flying partner’s chub, and trying to ignore the tired screams from a baby two rows up, whose exhausted parents were desperately trying to calm down, I closed my eyes and tried to prepare myself for what lay ahead.
This would be the first wedding that I’d attended