Page 13 of Big Sexy Love
Ofcourse!
It all makessensenow.
‘Have you neverbeento an airport?’ The driver laughs,judgingme.
‘Ha ha!’ I laugh back. ‘Duh. Of course! What kind of human woman aged twenty-seven has never even been to an airport? That would make me a loser, right? Nope. I come to the airport all the time! I practically live here! I’m like Tom Hanks in that film where he lives in theairport.’
The taxi driver gives me a pityingsmile.
Shaking my head with mirth, like I’m in on the joke, I lug my cases over to the trolleys and heave them up, making a strained ‘eeeeehuuh’ sort of noise as I plonk them on. There we go! That wasn’t too hard in the end! I allow myself a little smile while I catch my breath. I’m doing this. I’m actuallydoingit!
As I enter the main part of the airport, my positive feelings increase. Oooh. It’s very quiet and organised. Runs of check-in desks line the huge expanse of back wall. Before each desk stands an orderly queue, filled with people patiently waiting to check in their luggage. I love a queue, me! I once made the joke that ‘everyone knows where they stand with a queue’. I thought it was quite a witty joke, sadly no one else laughed. But the point is that with a queue you know what to expect. Everyone in a queue has made an unspoken pact to follow the rules, to respect the right order of things, something about that speaks to me on a deeplevel.
I scan across the check-in desks until I spot one with a British Airways logo and, with a yank, set my trolley in motion, trundling towards myqueue.
At the back of the line, a couple of people ahead of me turn around and give me a friendly smile. Queue buddies! I have queue buddies! One of them gives a nod of approval at the bumbag slung around my waist. I smile back and pat my bumbag proudly. What a find that was! While rummaging around the house for a pair of light gloves for if the weather turns cold but not cold enough for the heavy-duty mittens I had already packed, I found this old bumbag stuffed in the bottom of a plastic storage box full of things Alex has been asking me to throw away for years. I loved this bumbag when I was twelve. For a start, it’s luminous pink and on the front there’s a shiny hologram picture of the sun. Plus it’s super waterproof,plusit has a secret pocket inside. I used to carry it around with me everywhere, put in cool-ass daisies I’d picked on the field behind our house, store my Hubba Bubba supply so that Alex wouldn’t nick them. I’d keep my Walkman in the front and my chapstick in the secret pocket along with a fifty-pence piece I found on the street and wanted to keep safe in case the person who lost it tracked me down and asked for it back. It was fantastic to have a little pouch tied around my belly like a kangaroo. And since it’s so much more secure than a handbag that could be lost, or snatched away by a thug at any moment, I decided, at around one this morning, to extend the belt to its largest possible width and bring it with me for my trip. It’s perfect! Even if Donna did point and laugh when she saw me in it. What does Donna know? Nothing,that’swhat.
In the secret pocket, tucked very safely away, is the thick white envelope containing Birdie’s precious letter to Chuck Allen. In the main bag part is my phone, my passport, flight tickets, antacids, paracetamol, chewing gum and some wire headphones. I know it might not be the most stylish apparel, but everything I may need at any moment is literally clasped around my waist and in that there’s a certain security that transcends the need to look cool to people I don’t even know. And even so, a part of me suspects that it actually does look pretty fucking cool in a hipstery, ironic, retro sortofway.
I’m almost at the front of the queue when a loud American voice makesmejump.
‘Excuse me! Excuse me! Sorry,folks!’
I whip my head around and notice a slim man approaching our line. He has messy, slightly too long light brown hair and dark, thick-framed glasses perched onhisface.
‘Excuse me!’ he repeats, striding past everyone with a sense of greatimportance.
I frown as he marches ahead of me, shuffles in front of the woman before me in the line and leans his forearms casually on the check-in desk. He plonks his passport down, running a hand throughhishair.
Is… is hepushingin?
‘Excuse me, miss. Sorry!’ he says, this time to the check-in assistant, a young dark-haired woman with tired eyes. ‘Myname’sSeth.’
‘Hello sir.’ The woman gives a slight forehead wrinkle. ‘Um… iseverythingokay?’
‘I’m incredibly sorry about this,’ the guy says, ‘but I’m a TV writer and I have to file a last-minute change to a script that’s needed immediately. But the thing is, my laptop and my phone are out of juice and I need to get through to the departure lounge charging station so I can charge them up and send the script changes byemail.’
He’s cutting the queue because he needs to charge his electrical equipment? I let out a little snort. That’s not a reason to jump a queue! Maybe he should have been more organised.Maybehe should have done what I did and charged all of his electrical stuff before leaving the house, while also packing spare batteries and one of those wind-up chargers you can use inemergencies.
I turn back to the rest of the queue with an eye roll that says ‘get a load ofthisguy’.
A few of my queue buddies nod in agreement. One sighs, one curls her lip discreetly, but mostly they look attheirfeet.
I turn around, peeved, tutting loudly tomyself.
The man turns around at my tut, a look of surprise onhisface.
‘I’m sorry, ma’am,’ he says with a wide smile. ‘I wouldn’t do this if it wasn’t kind of a workemergency.’
Ma’am? Isn’t that American slang for women of a certain age? I’m only twenty-seven. I found a grey hair last month, and I may be make-up-free because it is stupid o clock, but I don’t think I could be mistaken for a ma’am. This guy looks older than me! Behind the glasses he has little crow’s feet aroundhiseyes.
‘In England we queue,’ I tell him, immediately realising that I sound like a real dick, or Donna. I don’t mean to but his self-entitled line cutting is really gettingmygoat.
‘Which TV show?’ the check-in assistant asks him, her tired eyes perking up alittle.
Seriously?
The guy lowers his voice but I’m close enough to hear him say, ‘SundayNightLive’.
