On the day we buried my mother, I deduce, I have poisoned myself with
alcohol and drugs, and woken up in hospital. I console myself with the
knowledge that it's what she would have wanted.
We have levelled out at what I think is thirty thousand feet. The orange
lady reappears, pushing a trolley. She looks at me with narrowed eyes,
but she has to serve me because I am indirectly paying her salary.
As I reach across Baldie for my drink, I can see Mrs Orange taking in
the fact that I am trembling and concluding that I am scared of flying.
She smiles, now, with a modicum of faux-warmth, and hands me an extra
little bottle of vodka, which I stow in the back of the seat in front.
I have a look around inside, in case Baldie has left a copy of Playboy
or anything else I can embarrass him with.
There are no babies on this plane, which is something. I can hear my
neighbour's conversation with the woman next to him, and count myself
extremely lucky to be offensive enough to be spared.
When we land in Singapore, Baldie smiles a wary, I-forgive-you goodbye.
I forgive you because I lust after you. Or because I don't know if you
were joking about the Parkinson's. He is one of the deluded people who
leap to their feet the moment the wheels touch the runway and start getting
their bags down, so they can queue in the aisle for ten minutes. He chucks
down my coat.
|Copyright © 2000 Emily Barr|