‘She likes your all-black outfit.’ He gestures towards my trackpants and sweater. ‘I’m just pointing out that it could be funereal.’
I glower at him, my brain scrambling to make sense of what he just said while also dealing with mega-fun bubbles of booze shooting through my bloodstream.
That was definitely my line.
I remember being quite pleased with it, actually, back on Monday One when Callum made a comment about our matching outfits and I pointed out that I was dressed for his funeral. It was about the first witty thing I’d managed to come out with all day. And now, three Mondays in and Callum Bang is stealing my lines?
Typical.
‘If you could stop talking about my clothing, I’d appreciate it. It’s actually very inappropriate.’
Callum holds both hands up in surrender, and I nod stiffly.
‘Better,’ I say. ‘Now, I intend to make the most of this upgrade and will be living my superior life for the foreseeable so—’
‘You want me to stop talking, I get it,’ sighs Callum, as if this kind of shutdown happens all the time.
‘Well, yes actually,’ I falter.
‘Fine, Moss. Enjoy your ride.’
I’ve taken seventy-two photos on my phone and we’ve barely even flown over France. I can’t help it, everything in business is so luxurious! I’ve got pictures of my pod, pictures of me making the peace sign in my pod, a picture of all the buttons I can press, a picture of the coat hook where I’ve hung up my sweater, six pictures of the tiny toiletries (clean toothbrush included, thank goodness!), another selfie now that I’m wearing the massive headphones linked up to my giant entertainment system. The list goes on.
I stretch my legs out and rest my feet on the little padded shelf in front of me while perusing the menu.
Herb-crusted lamb? Don’t mind if I do!
And there’s a drinks menu, too, with actual vintage wines on it, which reminds me of the time Hamish and I popped into Waitrose for bougie snacks and found someone else’s shopping list in our basket. On it were scrawled the words
Dom Perignon – 2008 vintage
Hamish and I laughed so hard about that. Imagine putting together your supermarket shopping list and the only thing youabsolutely need is a specific vintage of champagne? No milk or eggs for this person! We googled it and learned that a bottle of 2008 Dom Perignon would set you back about £300.
Shit!
Hamish!
In all the excitement of today’s upgrade I hadalmostclean forgotten about the one that got away, who is currently sitting downstairs while I luxuriate in business like a hippo in mud. Taking a cursory look in Callum’s direction, I see that he is studiously ignoring me in his own little cabin, which settles it.
I can busy myself making a Hamish-shaped plan.
Our first remeet left a lot to be desired. It was almost as if Hamish hadn’t changed in all these years, and the things I used to find mega-attractive, like his sense of adventure and nonchalant attitude, are now slightly irritating.
Which can’t be right. It’s on me to open up some different channels of communication. Because when Hamish and I get it right, we really get it right.
It didn’t help that he spent most of our reunion asleep. Next time around (if there is one) I’ll simply have to make sure the man is heavily caffeinated early on, so he doesn’t drop off during our romantic reunion. Couple that with having some beautiful memories of our time together ready to reminisce about, and he’s bound to be putty in my hands. I scroll back through the photo library on my phone, joy rippling through me as our pictures come into view. I’ve looked at them so often now that I could tell you exactly what kind of blue Hamish’s eyes are in each and every picture.
They seemed to change daily, hourly even, depending on the lighting and his mood. Quite magical. I could tell you what we were both wearing that time we ran out of the cinema halfway through a very terrible film and spent the rest of the night laughing in a crappy bar. Or how Hamish’s smile was at its very best when I snuck a photo of him coming in from the surf one day.
That familiar warm glow wraps around me like a blanket as I look back on the happy memories. As I scroll, I favourite some and add them to a new album which I call Take Me Back. This way, when Hamish and I get to reconnect again, I’ll have the photos ready as an aide-memoire for him. He’ll be powerless to resist my charms next time around!
A flight attendant comes over and sets me up for my first meal of the day, which involves throwing a crisp white tablecloth over the giant tray table that pulls out in front of me. I go for a juice, some smoked salmon to start and the herb-crusted lamb, which I eat with silverware because I am very posh now. I should probably start wearing pashminas and elongating my As to really keep the vibe going.
‘Grass. Arse,’ I say, practicing the long A sound.
A stifled snort emerges from Callum’s seat.
‘Having fun?’ he asks, taking a smug sip from his glass of red.
