Page 34 of Birds of a Feather

‘There’s even a spa here,’ Gran whispered excitedly when she returned from the bathroom. ‘And you should smell the hand soap.’

She held her hands to her face and breathed deeply.

I wished I’d known there were spa facilities in the lounge. As this trip had been so last-minute, there had been no time for my usual pre-holiday personal grooming regime. I always liked to ensure I was well kept before heading abroad, but things were pretty unruly ‘downstairs’.

Compared to the pandemonium of the rest of the airport, the lounge felt like a utopia. When our flight was called, I steeled myself to re-enter the ‘real world’ and endure the chaos of the security queue. But, instead, Gran and I were guided past the long line and straight to the gate.

On board, business class was everything I’d imagined and more. Large, luxurious seats that converted into flat beds, attentive flight attendants and spacious bathrooms made the trip incredibly comfortable. I was disappointed to see all the single-use plastics in the comfort packs waiting for us on our seats, but the bamboo pyjamas were very nice and the lemon myrtle and macadamia hand cream felt amazing.

Midway through the flight, I walked to the galley to stretch my legs and found a woman from a few seats over using every available inch to perform yoga stretches. Gran and I had boarded just after her and had shared whispered speculations about her age. It was hard to pick – her face was unnaturally plumped and smoothed – but, if I’d had to guess, I’d have put her in her early forties. Her travelling companion, whom we assumed was her partner, but could have been her father, was easier to age. We put him in his seventies.

‘Hi there,’ she said, twisting her torso away from her bent knee. ‘How’s your flight so far?’

‘It’s great, thanks,’ I replied. ‘I even slept. Being able to lie down is a game-changer.’

She laughed, flashing a luminous set of pearly whites that I suspected were as fake as her boobs.

‘I know, right. I can’t understand why anyone would ever travel in economy,’ she said with a flick of her diamond-ladened hand. ‘It’s so cramped and gross. And have you seen the state of the cabin by the end of the flight? Those people are animals.’

I assumed she was referring to the incidental rubbish created by hundreds of passengers who have been jammed in like chattel and serviced by only handful of flight attendants.

‘Where are you off to?’ she asked. Without pausing for the answer, she switched poses and continued. ‘Hubby and I are popping over to Rome for a little vay-cay for our anniversary. He just lurves to spoil me. We’re away for two weeks. Actually, three if you count the wellness retreat I’ve booked for when I get home to detox from all those Italian carbs.’

She patted her washboard-flat stomach.

‘And the best part: I don’t have to see his kids for two whole weeks. Hubby owns a mining company, which his kids work for, so we see them a lot. Unfortunately.’ She rolled her eyes but the rest of her face remained completely still. I wondered how much money had gone into crafting her perfectly smooth forehead and angled cheekbones.

‘That’s how we met,’ she continued, answering a question I hadn’t asked. ‘I used to work at the company. His kids don’t really like me because of the way their parents separated.’

I knew I shouldn’t make assumptions about her based on the stereotypical relationship between a moderately young attractive woman and her wealthy old male boss, but she wasn’t helping. She folded her body over so her chest was on her thighs as I changed my left ankle rotations from clockwise to anticlockwise.

‘I need this holiday so badly,’ she continued, her voice slightly muffled as she spoke into her knees. ‘I’ve had such a busy couple of months. We’re renovating at the moment and it’s been a total nightmare. We’ve been living in one of our other houses, so I’ve been back and forth each day to keep an eye on the tradies. You know what they’re like.’

I did not know what she meant, and I resented being made complicit by association in whatever judgement she was making. Was this what all rich people were like? Or just the second wives of mining magnates? I had the feeling Gerry – who had come from old money and aristocracy – would be different. I hoped she was.

‘I was nervous about leaving them alone for this trip,’ she continued. ‘Last time we went away they laid one of the marble tiles the wrong way round in one of the guest bathrooms. Hopeless. But you’ve got to take some time for yourself. Am I right? That’s why this is our fourth overseas trip this year …’

As she chattered about flying to Morocco to find tiles for the pool house, spending a week in Bali and travelling to Dallas to see Taylor Swift in concert, I mentally calculated how much they must have spent on airfares alone (not to mention the carbon cost to the environment). I wondered how rich you had to be for four double business class airfares to be inconsequential and how long it took to recalibrate your definition of ‘expensive’ when you came into wealth.

‘Anyway, I’d better get back to my seat,’ she said, untwisting her legs from around each other. ‘Hubby will be wondering where I’ve got to.’

She sashayed out of the galley.

I thought back to the photos on the walls of the Lotto Head Office and the smiling faces of the major winners. I wondered if they’d adjusted to a life of international travel and Moroccan tiles. Indeed, my win had changed my life, and I was certainly enjoying some of the upgrades I had made by opening up to the idea of letting a little bit more luxury into my life – but with the exception of this one-off flight in business class, I would be happy to retreat back to my life of middle-class privilege once we were home.

Chapter 20

Beth

Despite all the comforts we had enjoyed en route, and a stopover, we were both exhausted by the time we arrived at Heathrow, 7.30am London time. Luckily, being at the pointy end of the plane meant we disembarked first.

‘It’s too late to turn back now,’ I said to Gran as I took her carry-on luggage from her so she didn’t have to carry it. I chose not to react to the distinctive clink of glass on glass, which I assumed came from the haul of complimentary little wine bottles she’d stowed away.

‘What’s Gerry’s great-nephew’s name again?’ I asked as we collected our luggage off the carousel. Gerry had arranged for him to collect us from the airport. If I’d been travelling by myself, I would have insisted on taking the train or a taxi – the idea of swapping forced pleasantries with a stranger did not appeal to me, especially after a long-haul flight. But Gran looked shattered, so it was probably good that we didn’t have to navigate tube lines, or the hordes of jostling tourists in the cab rank.

‘Nicholas, I think,’ she replied. ‘Gerry said he’s very tall and should stand out from the crowd. Apparently, he’ll be holding a sign.’

As we approached the arrivals gate, the sounds of laughter and squealing from people reuniting with loved ones became louder. It occurred to me we were about to walk into the real-life opening scene of Love Actually – a movie that Jarrah and Mum insisted on watching every Christmas. I found it overly sentimental. Although I did appreciate Emma Thompson’s character, who prioritised her own dignity and self-worth.

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