How does Callum always manage to bring me crashing back down to earth like this? It’s a peculiar power.
‘Iwas,’ I shoot back.
NINE
Fresh flowers in the aeroplane bathroom is a whole new level! Also, I have smothered myself in so much posh hand lotion that I’m struggling to open the lock and let myself out. My mind wanders to what the hotel room in Australia might be like, to whether there’ll be tiny shampoos there for me to go nuts with, before I’m pulled up short. It’s unlikely I’ll ever get to see the hotel, right? The sinking realization makes my heart squeeze. Kat’s PA had booked me into a waterfront hotel which I extensively googled while I was busy getting excited about this trip. There was going to be a pool with views out over the Swan River. A large gym, so I optimistically packed three workout options while simultaneously accepting that I wasn’t going to use any of them. A breakfast buffet. And, even better than all that, a bed! Surely the ultimate luxury.
Because the weird thing is, I have no memory of being asleep in my bed. From the time I get tragically and sombrely killed by a luggage buggy to the moment I open my eyes back in my flat, there’s a distinct sense of nothingness.
Waking up isn’t normal. I don’t rise on this eternal Monday feeling rested, or remembering bits of dreams, or picking sleep out of my eyes like I would on a typical day. There’s a gap, forsure, between airport death and Hot Chip’s ‘Over and Over’ alarm clock, but it’s an empty black hole. It doesn’t feel like sleep at all.
It’stroubling.
I bite my lip as I head back from the bathroom, wafting vetiver hand lotion scent as I weave my way past fellow passengers. Some have already turned their lights out and are tucked up in their pods, which reminds me that I do have the chance to get some proper rest this time around, within the luxury of business class.
It helps, actually. The promise of some sleep feels like a little glimmer of hope in what is otherwise, quite frankly, the maddest situation I have ever found myself in. And I was once in the audience while they filmedLoose Women, which is another story entirely, but definitely also quite mad.
The beginnings of a migraine threaten to take over and I rub my head.
‘You okay?’ Callum is looking at me, brows knitted, headphones around his neck.
‘Bit of a headache,’ I admit as I settle back into my seat. ‘I’ll be fine.’
‘Here,’ he says, throwing a packet of paracetamol in my direction.
I fumble the catch.
‘Reactions like lightning,’ he quips with the beginnings of a smile.
I narrow my eyes at him as I scoop the box off the floor.
‘How can I be sure you aren’t trying to kill me?’ I ask, scouring the packet for signs of skullduggery.
Callum huffs out a laugh. ‘So suspicious.’
‘Just checking,’ I mutter, satisfied that this is a very standard selection of supermarket painkillers. ‘It’s very organized of you to have paracetamol in your hand luggage.’
‘I keep a first aid kit with me at all times,’ he says.
Now it’s my turn to laugh.
‘Seriously? Do you really?’
‘Safety first,’ he says.
‘I mean, I packed mine but I didn’t think to bring anything on the flight with me,’ I’m saying, baffled. Callum is even more organized than me? That’s … odd.
‘Generally it’s advised to actually take a paracetamol if you’re struggling with a headache, rather than just give the packet one of your hard stares,’ he points out.
‘One of my hard stares?’ I huff. ‘Generally it’s advised to stop being such a condescending prick, but we can’t get it right all the time.’
‘I don’t seem to get it right any of the time where you’re concerned.’
‘What can I say?’ I ask, opening one end of the packet. Inevitably I’m greeted by the folded instruction leaflet inside. Why is it impossible to open up paracetamol without the instructions getting in your way? It’s like, whichever end of the packet you go for, science dictates that it will always,alwaysbe the end where the leaflet is obstructing the drugs.
‘Would you like a hand?’ Callum offers, jaw set as he watches me attack the packet.
‘No, thank you. I’m perfectly capable.’
