Mile High Guy Page 2

  It’s funny the way the cabin crew always seem so delighted with all the time off. I disagree with that theory. I don’t think we’ve any more time off than anyone else. Because the first day after a transatlantic trip all you do is sleep. And when you do wake up, your body clock is all over the place and you don’t know whether it’s morning or night. That to me is torture, not time off.

  Anyway I’m not complaining – of course I’m not – after all what other job gives you a few days in LA when the most stressful decision will be whether you have a pedicure before or after lunch? And if it ever gets too much I’ll leave. Why stick at a job you don’t enjoy and spend your time moaning about it? Life’s not long enough for that.

  We’re at Shannon Airport now where some of our passengers are disembarking. I’m standing at the plane door, the icy Atlantic wind is biting my tan coloured tights, and I’m forcing myself to smile. My teeth are chattering and I’m trying to remember to say ‘Good-bye’ instead of ‘Hello’. A few passengers then embark; mainly businessmen going to work in the capital. They look so clean and fresh and I feel dirty and grubby in comparison. I can’t wait to go home and have a shower.

  Debbie comes to the door to relieve me. She says I can go up to first class and read the morning papers. It’s a tempting offer but I decline. I think if I sit down now I’ll never want to get up again. And besides I don’t read newspapers – they’re too depressing. Full of job losses, rising property prices, and gory stories about freaks living somewhere in Middle America. But Debbie says I should take a break anyway so I do.

  It’s a pleasure walking into the first class cabin. It always amazes me how calm it is up here while a few seats away, behind the curtain, chaos prevails. A couple of passengers are reading, others are simply snoozing in their luxury reclining leather seats. One well-dressed woman, dripping in heavy gold, is quietly flicking through Vogue and another elderly man in a charcoal suit is staring out the window. There’s nobody yelling for decaf tea, iced water, sick bags or landing cards. I relish the peace. It’s nearly always a joy working in first class as these passengers – whose tickets cost thousands of euro – rarely ask for anything.

  I make a strong black coffee. It’s real coffee up in first class, not the instant rubbish served down the back. I still refuse to sit down because to get up again would be hell. I look at my watch and will the hands to move. A tap on my shoulder makes me jump.

  I swing around. The tall man opposite apologises. He’s smiling though. And he’s cute. Very cute actually. So he’s instantly forgiven.

  ‘I didn’t mean to frighten you but I was just wondering, if it’s not too much trouble, I’d give anything for a cup of that coffee. It smells divine.’

  He has the most endearing smile I’ve ever seen. The type of man I bet other women love. Imagine being married to someone like that! Waking up to that face every morning. He’s like something from a Ralph Lauren commercial. I can’t believe he’s Irish.

  ‘Sure.’ I smile back but am so tired I’m wondering if I’m dreaming. This guy with his twinkling greenish-grey eyes has to be the best-looking thing I’ve seen all night. In fact he’s probably the best-looking man I’ve ever seen in my life. But then I remember that I don’t like good-looking men any more so I’m going to stop admiring him. Anyway I’m genuinely pleased to have something to do.

  When you’re this tired it’s best to stay busy and keep talking. I ask my first class passenger if he slept well. He answers that he must have been asleep since take-off.

  Lucky sod.

  As I’m waiting for the coffee to brew, I ask if he was in New York on business or pleasure.

  ‘Business,’ he answers with a smile, ‘Kind of.’

  I’d like to ask him what kind of business but I don’t. People who interrogate others with ‘What do you do for a living?’ leave me somewhat cold and anyway we are not at a cocktail party here. He is my customer. Sort of.

  The senior hostess arrives into the galley and peers at my handsome male passenger. He seems sorry that we’ve been interrupted. The coffee is made now anyway so it’s not like I have any excuses left to talk to him. I head back to the door where Debbie is now shivering.

  ‘Well?’ she smiles quizzically.

  ‘Well what?’ I answer. I’m so whacked I badly need two matchsticks to keep my eyes open. ‘You don’t suppose the captain will be able to get away early? I’m dying of exhaustion and my contact lenses are clinging to my eyes.’

  ‘Did you see anything nice in first class?’ Debbie raises an eyebrow.

  ‘Yeah,’ I nod. ‘I saw plenty of soft reclining seats with luxurious blankets and pillows that I’d give anything to rest my head on.’

  Debbie is shaking her head. ‘Do you mean to tell me you went up to first class and didn’t see Adam Kirrane?’

  ‘Adam who?’

  ‘Good God girl, have you no life? Adam Kirrane is a God, an absolute God. He is the star of DreamBoat, that new American soap. Don’t you watch it? I cannot believe you missed him.’

  ‘I don’t have satellite,’ I tell her.

  ‘He’s the hottest thing in the US at the moment,’ Debbie gushes.

  ‘He’s American?’

  ‘Irish, but he works in America and is always in magazines and the papers.’

  ‘What does he look like?’

  ‘God, where do I start . . . er, tall . . . ’

  ‘With dark hair wearing a white shirt? The guy with the tan?’

  ‘So you did see him.’

  ‘Yeah, I was talking to him,’ I laugh as Debbie’s eyes widen.

  ‘You have GOT to be joking!’

  ‘I’m serious,’ I shrug, ‘I just thought he was some guy.’

  ‘I’ve been working non-stop in first class and Adam Kirrane has been fast asleep for most of the night with a blanket pulled around his head. I let you go up for five minutes and you have a whole conversation with him?’

  I laugh. Debbie would get excited if Westlife were on board. She knows everything about everyone on television. I don’t get it. She’s the type of girl who, if the plane is delayed, pops into the toilet with her mobile phone to ring her mum. I used to think she was telling her mum not to bother collecting her. But no, she’s telling her to tape Coronation Street. Unbelievable!

  Debbie goes back to her station but at this stage the wind is behind the plane so we’re probably going to land early and I know there isn’t a chance in hell she’ll be able to talk to Adam now. Poor girl. I hope she doesn’t ask for his autograph or something. I run down the back throwing uneaten muffins into a large plastic bag and collecting money in white envelopes from all the generous passengers to put into another bag for UNICEF. Then I’m yanking headphones off people even though the film hasn’t ended yet. But what can I do? The landing gears are going down and there are people still standing up, wondering is there time to go to the toilet. I can’t believe it. They’ve had five or six hours to use the loo and they think NOW is a good time?

  Looking out the window I can see Ireland’s Eye in the ocean so we must be very close. Somebody grabs my skirt and wonders if the duty free bar is still open. I look at him like he’s completely mad, then run for my seat and strap myself in.

  Thump. We land. I am beaming at the passengers now and they are all saying what lovely girls we are. Americans love the Irish air hostesses. They say we’re the nicest girls in the world, still smiling after all this time. I don’t know about everybody else but the reason I am smiling is because it is nearly time to go home and I have managed to survive yet another transatlantic flight.

  I stand at the plane door wishing everybody a safe onward journey and I’m really glad I don’t have red hair or my name isn’t Eileen O’Hara. Americans love red hair and Irish names. But because my name is Katie and I have dyed-blonde hair, that makes me a lot less interesting in their eyes.

  Once the last passenger has got off, I do a quick security check to make sure nobody has left anything ‘suspicious’ on board.
But what I’m really doing is checking to see if anyone has left an interesting magazine like Marie Claire, People or Vanity Fair. My luck is down. Somebody has left a copy of The Enquirer but it is soaking wet. It looks like tea but I don’t like to take a chance so I leave it. I also leave all the torn copies of USA Today that are flung around the floor among the empty plastic teacups and filthy tissues. Now I’m ready to go home.

  I meet Debbie at the carousel and we wait for our luggage. The reason we all carry such large suitcases is because we need them for all the ‘essential’ shopping we do in the States. Debbie is staring at me a bit weirdly. I smile back at her as if she just looks like that all the time. She leans towards me and whispers something into my ear. I think she calls me a bitch so I don’t answer. I’m sure I’ve heard it wrong. I mean Debbie is a friend of mine so why would she be calling me names? But when she repeats herself, I turn to her in surprised shock. She grabs my hand and slaps something into it.

  It’s a blue boarding pass, which means it’s a first class boarding pass. I wonder if this is her idea of a little joke. I know it’s been a long night but she hasn’t been drinking so there’s no excuse really. I take a closer look at the crumpled blue boarding pass. And I notice there’s a mobile number scribbled on it. I then take a look at the printed name on the card. It reads Mr A Kirrane. And I freeze. Because suddenly I’m enlightened. And Debbie whispers in my ear again. ‘He told me to give it to you,’ she hisses. ‘Bitch.’

  CHAPTER TWO

  I’d like to tell you that TV stars give me their number all the time. And that it’s no big deal. But you’d know I was lying. Because I’m really just an ordinary girl with a pretty ordinary life. Although I’m always kind of hoping this might change and that one day I will in fact have a great life.

  But a TV star giving me his boarding pass with his phone number on it is definitely a first. I’ve been approached by a few nutcases on flights all right, but that’s not exactly what you’d call flattering. Because you know those guys are just chancers who ask everybody out. However nobody remotely famous has ever approached me before, so this is really pretty exciting.

  Although I’m slightly ashamed to admit it, as soon as I get home I quickly google Adam’s name on the Internet. Just to be sure the guy is authentic. Then when I see all the hits he has on his fan site, well I’m more than a little impressed. Wow! I mean this guy isn’t just big in the States, he’s massive. There are a zillion sites dedicated to him. And he has given his phone number to me. Imagine! Little old me. Katie, the air hostess.

  I’m not going to ring him however. No. No way. Never. Well . . . not straight away anyway. Not for at least a day or two. Oh I know you probably think I’m mad, but I do have my pride and don’t want him thinking he’s some big star and I’m just another air head. He probably hands out his number ten times a day. Yes, indeed. It’s probably a little game he plays to massage his massive ego. Well I’m not playing so I throw his number in the bin. Actually I don’t. But I do put it in the drawer of my desk where I can’t see it. Just so I won’t be at all tempted.

  I decide then to take off my uniform before going to bed. This might not sound like too much hard work but believe me after a transatlantic flight, anything that requires even the slightest bit of energy, such as removing a jacket, blouse, skirt, tights and a scarf, is sheer torture.

  I shouldn’t really tell you this in case you think I’m a slob, but I’d sometimes sleep in my uniform in school in order to have more time to sleep on in the morning. And now, sometimes, when I come in from work I just fall on the bed fully-clothed and conk out.

  I’m just about to let my hair loose from the awful bun they make me wear at work, when my mum bursts through the door.

  ‘Oh hello love, you look completely wrecked,’ she smiles while squinting at me. ‘And your roots need to be done. They’re dreadful.’

  ‘Get the hell out of my room,’ I say. ‘And stop insulting me for once in your life.’

  Well actually, I don’t quite say that. No of course not. You see, although my gut instinct is to shout at her, I’m aware that I still live at home rent-free. Therefore although my mother has a habit of insulting me on a regular basis, I’m not really allowed to insult her back. Maybe you don’t understand. Perhaps your mum is one of those mums you see on American TV and on gravy ads, standing at an oven wearing an apron and a huge smile. If she is, you’re lucky. I often wish I’d a mum like that. One who’d told me I was a great kid. But unfortunately when God was giving out cheerful mums, I must have been at the very end of the queue. In fact I can’t have been anywhere near the queue. I probably couldn’t find it.

  I don’t pay rent but I do pay for my keep here by doing nearly all the ironing and constantly buying booze for my folks in the duty-free. My mother sometimes comes on trips away with me and stays in my hotel. She especially loves New York and stays in the other bed in my room. She has a happy knack of waking me at three in the morning by putting on the kettle. I hear it whistling in the corner of the room and every time I wake up with fright.

  She always looks astonished to see me sitting up in bed and says, ‘I didn’t wake you, did, I? It’s just that it’s now eight in the morning back in Ireland.’

  That’s another thing about my mum. She has a very annoying habit of pointing out the time difference wherever we are. Even if we’re only in France. Dad’s convinced my mum is going to be flying somewhere one day, only to meet herself coming back.

  Poor Dad. He’s just such a quiet man. I often wonder how himself and Mum got together. I mean, she really does talk non-stop, only pausing every now and then to say, ‘Isn’t that right George?’

  And Dad just nods. He nods more than Noddy ever did. But I think he does it just to keep the peace. He’s all for an easy life. That’s my opinion anyway. After all, he can’t really agree with her on everything, can he? I mean doesn’t he have opinions of his own? I often wonder what Mum sees in Dad and vice versa. I wonder how they ever got together. Isn’t love odd?

  Okay, I know you’re probably thinking I’ve no right to complain. After all, my parents raised me and they’re still kind of stuck with me, God love them. But my living arrangements are not entirely my choice. I would definitely move out immediately if there was any possible way I could get a mortgage. But the last time I went to a building society the smug man in the suit, sitting behind the desk, had a right old laugh at me when I showed him my payslip. I remember leaving his little office, positively fuming. I remember thinking that one day, when I’m worth a million euro (after the screen play I’m writing is picked up by Hollywood) I’ll never invest my money with that particular building society.

  But in the meantime I haven’t even written my script yet, never mind tried to sell it, and I know I’m never going to be very wealthy working as an air hostess. So what else can I do? Well, I could try and marry a rich man. But he’d need to be good-looking too.

  Of course every other Irish woman is also looking for this particular guy, so my chances of winning the top prize are pretty slim, aren’t they? And even if I did marry such a creature I doubt he’d let me just travel the world on his credit card. He’d probably want me to start having babies right away, and I’d just like to wait a few more years before even contemplating that.

  And as I said, the other thing I want to do is write a screenplay. Seriously. Wouldn’t it just be so fab to be a scriptwriter and live somewhere like LA where the sun shone all the time and people always told you to ‘have a nice day’ even if you just bought a cup of coffee from them?

  Well, that’s the big plan. I’m hoping to write some kind of Irish tragedy with lots of violence and alcohol abuse thrown in. I reckon the Americans will love that and I can get a hunk like Brad Pitt to star in it with any luck, and then I’ll be kind of famous and very rich. That’ll suit me because I don’t want to be like mega-famous with people hassling me on the streets. And stalkers sending me threatening letters. But it would be nice to have a lot of mon
ey and not have to set my alarm at three in the morning any more.

  I must get cracking on the script soon. Oh you didn’t really think I’d started it already, did you? Oh God no, I’m not that organised. I’m terrible for talking about things but never really getting around to it. I’m like Mum who is always talking about losing a half stone but never quite managing it.

  I love talking about my script though. Just as much as Mum likes buying slimming magazines and clothes that she thinks she’s going to fit into one day. Dad thinks we’re as bad as each other. He says I’ll never write a script and Mum will never lose weight. But I will, I will, I will. I just need to sort some things out. Like tidying my room properly instead of just shoving everything into the wardrobe. I really need to sort everything out. And put stuff in files and clear a proper space for writing. Maybe I’ll ask Dad to build me a writing shed where I can have some peace. Then again, maybe not.

  My head hits the pillow. I’m so exhausted now I’m afraid if I go to sleep I’ll never wake up. Within minutes I’m dreaming of film deals, shopping in Beverly Hills and whizzing down Rodeo Drive in a convertible with a certain Mr Adam Kirrane.

  CHAPTER THREE

  ‘It’s Tim on the phone.’ Mum’s voice frightens the life out of me. ‘Will I tell him to call back?’

  ‘Yes,’ I mumble grumpily. I can’t believe my mother woke me just to tell me about something as unimportant as the fact that Tim phoned. I feel like I’m hungover now even though I haven’t been drinking and my mouth feels like the bottom of a wheelie bin. Why did Tim phone my mum anyway? He must have tried my mobile, which is switched off of course. Surely to God he realises that when my mobile is off, I’m fast asleep and obviously do not wish to be disturbed.

  But the main reason why I’m particularly annoyed is, because in my dream, Adam was about to kiss me and now I’ll never know whether I let him or not. Dammit. I close my eyes again and try to get back into my dream but can’t so I decide to get up.