Half the World Away - страница 33

This wins me a chorus of boos and jeers and foul language. No one else in earshot says a thing, though they’re all aware of the scene playing out: glances fly between groups, people move in their seats or bow to whisper to their neighbours.

I imagine the bride-to-be: what must she be like to accept a proposal from Fuckwit or Knobhead? I conjure up some girl teetering on high heels with a startling spray tan, false eyelashes and a dress the size of a handkerchief, all feminine incompetence. And then I despise myself for thinking that – isn’t the whole point that women should be able to be whoever they want to be, to dress however they like, without any censure?

With my own cheeks burning, I doggedly finish my tea, then find a seat in the concourse and wait until the gate is flagged up on the screens. I text Nick, Love you, about to board xxx and he replies, Safe journey Love you too xxx. I find my boarding card and walk along the corridor to the far end where a crowd has already gathered, most of them Chinese, and the sound of that unfamiliar language fills the air.

It’s only an hour until we land in Schiphol for our connecting flight. We come down in dense fog and cloud. The land is striped with drainage canals and dotted with lakes. The airport is huge. The endless corridors, modulated announcements, glistening walkways and glittering shops remind me of some science-fiction dystopia, where everything is clean, shiny and powered by consumerism, dissent stifled by drugs. Signs advise it’s a ten- or fifteen-minute walk between departure piers. There is a second security check. They take away our water and we go through the scanners again. A large group of Chinese people travelling together are laden with shopping bags and gifts.

I imagine Lori here, back in September, striking out on her own, full of excitement, a little on edge, maybe, as she tries to follow procedures.

On board there is a scramble for the overhead luggage space, people squashing in bags, others complaining to the cabin crew that there is no room.

Water is dripping from a panel in the ceiling. The cabin lights go out, come on, then fail again, as does the air-con. The television screens on the back of the seats go blank and we are left with only emergency lighting. The captain announces they are attempting a repair and have sent for another onboard power unit in case it is needed. My elbows ache, jammed hard against the armrests. I affect resignation but my impatience and worry grow. What if the flight is cancelled, if we can’t travel today? All the arrangements will have to change. The start of our search will be delayed.

At last the problem is fixed and we take off. Tom is restless – no smoking on board. He gets a gin and tonic from the complimentary trolley service and, after a moment’s hesitation, I do the same and am given an unidentifiable snack, two small biscuits that taste of fish paste. When the main meal comes, the combination of nausea and hunger makes it hard to know what to eat. I pick at the food. I have wine with it, thinking it might help me sleep, but I just get thirsty.

I’ve a flashback to a holiday together, Lori and I. Lori was seven and I’d saved enough for a week in the Algarve, a studio apartment on a complex with a pool. We were like little kids together that day, on her first flight, holding hands for take-off, sucking boiled sweets in case our ears popped, taking delight in the smallest things, the plastic cutlery and the tiny packets of salt and sugar.

We’ve never done this, Tom and I, flown together. The holidays we had as students were a couple of camping trips in the Lakes and, once, down to Cornwall. Then Lori came along and we’d no money. Then Tom left. There had been months of arguments, clashes. The nearest I ever came to understanding it was that he was trapped, confined, reduced by our circumstances. And he would thrash like a wild animal. And me? Wasn’t I just the same – not angered but my life suddenly limited by the demands of a child? Were we too young? Or was he too young and me forced to become mature beyond my years? Was Tom simply too shallow, too incomplete with his messy, mean upbringing to rise to the occasion? While I, with my good-enough childhood, a good-enough relationship with my parents, had sturdier foundations to weather the change in lifestyle. I saw my own impending parenthood as a gift, a wonderful experience. Albeit a shock.