‘Responsible for serving you drinks or impregnating you?’Why am I even asking?
‘Both.’ She laughs. ‘There was nothing I could do because he kept giving me free shots. Seemed rude to refuse. I just hope he still works at the same Hello Chicken and More.’
Oh, well. That’s that then. We’ll be putting social etiquette ahead of common sense and birth control. How very British of us.
There’s absolutely no way on this earth that I’m wasting my time on any men.I am choosing to focus on my career instead.Just as well because I have only a one in 285,000 chance in the UK of meeting someone my age, reasonably attractive, with a degree,andwho also finds me attractive.Yes, Dillon, I do have it in me to find love again – I have a 37 per cent chance of success second time around to be precise.But if that man was Dillon first time around, imagine how disappointing the next one might be.Luckily, these odds soar to one in over 4 million outside of England, so I feel relatively smug that no man will lead me astray in Turkey. And to think my tutor at Durham University had the gall to question my decision to extrapolate the theorem behindThe Maths of Lovefor myfinal dissertation!
I look at the baby sleeping peacefully in his/her mother’s arms and wonder how she’s going to manage all of the above partying while also trekking from one kebab shop to another to find her baby-daddy, with an actual baby in tow. Especially one that size. I glance again at the baby’s petite mother. My back hurts just thinking about lugging it around, never mind what a man-mountain the father must be. She could probably look out of the aeroplane window as we approach Turkey and, like the Great Wall of China, spot the child’s dad from here.
‘Kiddies Club,’ she says in answer to my unasked question. ‘I’ve booked in advance just in case Mehmet has moved on and I can’t find him. We’re staying at the Hotel Paradiso Exotico. Little Kylie-Jay will love it. Won’t you? Do you watchNeighbours? We do. We love it. It’s Kylie-Jay’s favourite programme on TV. That’s who she’s named after. Our favourite couple, Kylie and Jason.’ She snuggles the baby’s head lovingly with her nose and accidently spills her drink on its face. The baby’s eyes spring open. It takes one disappointed look at its drunk mother and lets out an unholy wail. The wailing carries on for the nexttwohours until we are ready to land. The only good to come of it was the baby drowning out the Richter-scale snoring from my torn-to-shreds-down-below neighbour. She has been in a dead sleep the whole time.
Suddenly, the drop in cabin pressure brings with it a golden silence, and for ten precious minutes my headache recedes. ‘Typical of Kylie-Jay to nod off again with only twenty minutes to go,’ her mother says, looking down at the baby. ‘Would you mind holding her while I nip for a quick ciggie?’
‘Sorry but I really need the loo before we land,’ I say, eyeing the growing queue. She gets up to let me squeeze past. The queue is almost at our seat.
‘I’ll just be two minutes, pet,’ she says, handing me her precious bundle. ‘I’ll be back long before it’s your turn.’
I try to shove the baby back at her, but she scurries away from me down the aisle. With a monumental huff I turn round and stand in line. It takes forever to go down and just as I get near the front, there is still no sign of the baby’s mother. My arms are about to fall off and my bladder is ready to explode when the pilot announces that the toilets are going to be closed soon for landing and no longer in use. I swivel around in panic but there’s no one behind me and no sign of the mother. I will literally have an accident if I don’t go now. There’s one person in front of me.
‘How did I end up with this baby?’ I mutter through gritted teeth, irritated at what a pushover I’ve been. At the sound of the baby whimpering, the man in front of me turns around, a concerned expression on his face.
It sounds corny but it’s like being struck by a bolt of lightning. The moment stretches on as though in slow motion and everything, the noise from the aircraft, all the passengers, the universe, melt away as time grinds to a halt.
Wow.
Just wow.
Tallish. Manly. Strong arms. I’m immediately reminded of my dissertation findings:You can fall in love in only four short minutes.He smiles, causing instant flutters in my stomach. He’s insanely good-looking but, crucially, he has kind, angel eyes that are verysympatheticlooking. He’d be perfect for me if only my recent experience hadn’t brought on such a burning desire to focus on my career and such a deep-rooted resistance to overly attractive men.
He gestures at the baby in my arms. ‘One of my sisters had a kind of unplanned pregnancy too.’
That dreamy accent! He’s Australian. My favourite of all the antipodean accents.
I glance down at the sleeping baby’s massive, cute face.I’ve never been one for idle gossip or small talk. But I do hope the baby and its mother find the giant man responsible. ‘The father lives in Turkey. Some fast-food waiter at Hello Chicken and More.’
He nods understandingly. And when he offers for me to go ahead of him, I feel a warm glow at his dashing, courteous manner which causes my heart to beat faster. That and the fact that he called the toilet adunnie. So cute.
‘That’s so, so kind of you,’ I gush. ‘You’re a life saver. Here,’ I say, thrusting the baby into his arms. ‘I’ll only be a minute.’
I close the door on his shocked face as he looks down at the precious bundle I’ve given him. Hopefully, the baby’s mother will heed the seatbelt sign, stub out her ciggie and will be on her way to collect her adult-size baby from him at any moment. I do what is necessary and quickly check my reflection as I wash my hands. I smooth down my ponytail and apply a slick coat of gloss to my lips before checking my teeth. At the last moment, I decide to release my hair from its tight hairband and run my fingers through it as it tumbles down across my shoulders. My thick, highlighted, mousey-brown ‘Rachel’ hair immediately frames my face. Less severe, much more chilled out.
I take a deep breath in, releasing it slowly. This is the new me. The fresh start that I need. It’s time to reinvent myself. In fifteen minutes, I’ll be as far from home as I’ve ever been. I’ll be the first in generations to go abroad to work. The realisation is causing a nervous prickle up my spine. I briefly wonder what the super-hot hunk holding the baby will make of my transformation, before reminding myself that I am doing this for me. I’m a career girl now. A yuppie. Focused. Financially literate. Upwardly mobile and working at an international head office.
A forceful knocking on the door jolts me from my pondering. I hastily slide the bolt across but when I open it, my breezy smile slides instantly from my face. The kind-looking manly man I’d left the baby with isn’t looking quite so agreeable. Something dark ripples across his face as he pierces me with a murderous stare.
The baby has vomited a gallon of breastmilk over him. It is sliding from his hair, down the side of his face and over one shoulder. I wince at the acrid smell and instinctively cover my nose and mouth trying not to gag. The baby is wailing in his outstretched arms, its face beet red with fury, hair standing on end as though it’s been plugged into the National Grid. He thrusts it towards me and barges past, just as an arm flies out to block his path. It is the air steward.
‘Sorry, sir. The toilets are out of use. Please return to your seat.’
3
The landing of the aircraft is rapid and bumpy as though the pilot can’t quite make up his mind whether to keep the wheels on the ground or not. Retrieving my case from the conveyor belt takes a further half an hour, following some horrendously inefficient queuing in a ridiculously long, hot line at passport control because some people have forgotten they need to put money in the passport. A sort of landing tax for tourists. I saysort ofbecause I studied international border taxation as part of my degree (not as exciting as it sounds) and this practice is not exactly an official one and can change with the wind.
I have a thumping headache and my back hurts from trying to twist away from the screaming baby which was making my ears bleed. Also, the baby sick smell seems to be clinging to my clothes. While we were waiting for the aircraft doors to open, I’d had to slide down in my seat and hide behind my inflight magazine to avoid the furious glare of the poor man I’d handed the baby to. At least the flight attendant had taken pity on him and let him use the toilet, but his attempts at washing the sick off had left him looking like he’d just had a fight with a garden power hose and lost.
It’s a relief to see the LoveIt transfer bus as I drag my heavy suitcase outside onto the concourse. I squint, shielding my eyes against the fierce sun. It is so blinding I can’t see a thing as I make my way across a busy road to a line of waiting coaches. The heat is blasting me in the face like a hairdryer on its highest setting being held an inch from my face. I can barely catch my breath. It’s stifling.
‘Oxygen,’ I gasp as I make my way to the LoveIt coach. ‘Where’s the air gone? How do I breathe?’ It is literally burning my face and stinging my throat. A LoveIt rep in shorts, company polo shirt and flip-flops is leaning casually against the bus. He barks out a laugh and assures me I’ll get used to it.
