Page 16 of Not in a Million Years

Too anxious to eat, I gulped two black coffees in rapid succession – knowing full well they’d make me even more jittery than I was becoming anyway – washed my mug, glanced around the flat for the last time, checked yet again that I hadn’t forgotten my passport and that my boarding pass was saved on my phone, and departed, wheeling my case behind me, making sure that I’d double-locked the door and then getting the lift back up to make doubly and triply sure.

In spite of all my dithering, I arrived at the airport three hours early. But that was okay – I’d learned over the years that even the slightest threat of being late would send me into a frenzy of anxiety. As calmly as I could, I dropped off my bag, navigated passport control and made my way to the branch of Pret where I’d arranged to meet Daniel. By the time he arrived half an hour later, I’d managed to eat a smoked salmon sandwich and drink yet another coffee, and was sipping water and flicking through the Financial Times, presenting what I hoped was a picture of poise.

‘Morning, Kate.’ He approached me, grinning, a shabby leather jacket slung over his shoulders, sunglasses holding his hair back from his face. ‘Made it on time?’

‘No, I’m just an avatar,’ I said. ‘The real Kate’s still in bed.’

I instantly regretted my sarcasm, but Daniel laughed.

‘Got your passport?’ he asked. ‘I must’ve checked about ten times for mine. Funny how paranoid you get, isn’t it?’

His words sparked a reflexive twinge of paranoia in me, but I said, ‘Of course I have,’ and waited until he’d gone to get a coffee before making sure it was actually in my handbag. Then, after glancing over my shoulder again and confirming that Daniel was still waiting in the queue, I quickly unzipped my make-up bag and checked that too.

My lip balm was there. My hand cream was there. The sachet of wet wipes I’d packed in case I needed to clean my eye make-up off and reapply it was there.

But not the most important thing: the precious tablets I’d managed to persuade my GP to prescribe a few years back, first explaining my extreme fear of flying, then bursting into tears, then practically promising her the blood of my first-born child and swearing that no, I would never, ever exceed the recommended dose and yes, I was aware of the highly addictive nature of the medication.

And I’d kept my promise. I’d only ever used the pills on flights, and even then, only when I was feeling particularly nervous. I’d husbanded them carefully, and I remembered seeing them in the bathroom cabinet that morning, two little tablets left, securely in their blister pack, a promise that if things got bad, I’d have something to take the edge off.

Except I didn’t.

I’d somehow managed to forget them.

‘You all right, Kate?’ Daniel sat down opposite me and took a gulp of coffee. ‘You look kind of stressed.’

Kind of? I’m so stressed I’m practically levitating.

‘I’m fine. Just thinking we should go and board in a few minutes.’

‘Sure. But there’s no rush – they always call business class first.’

‘Exactly, that’s why we— Hold on, did you not book a business-class seat?’

‘For a four-hour flight? Of course not. That’s madness. Massive waste of money, not to mention carbon emissions. Oh, I take it you did?’

I opened my mouth to tell him that of course I had; I hadn’t flown economy for years and I’d rather eat my own hair than do so now.

But instead, I heard myself replying, almost apologetically, ‘Yes, well, I had loads of frequent flyer miles and I thought I might as well use them.’

Daniel gave a rather humourless laugh. ‘Good for you. In that case, I guess you’ll turn left and I’ll turn right and we’ll see each other there.’

I felt a twinge of guilt. I could offer to upgrade him, I supposed – but then I’d be faced with spending the entire four-hour flight in proximity to him, and while not as close as in economy class, it was still too close for comfort.

Especially without my wonderful, panic-easing drugs.

‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘We’ll see each other there.’

I zipped up my bag, trying unsuccessfully to conceal the very obvious tremor in my hands, and left the café. I topped up my aluminium bottle at a water fountain. I went to the ladies’ and spritzed my skin with soothing lavender face mist. I focused on my breathing, trying to relax the knot of sick tension I could already feel under my ribs.

I wished I had time for an enormous gin, but the fear of somehow being delayed and missing the flight altogether was even worse than the fear of getting on it.

So, alone, I made my way to the boarding gate.

Twenty minutes later, I was in my seat, the seatbelt possibly too securely fastened around my waist, one hand gripping my complimentary glass of Moët (which I knew wasn’t even going to make a dent in my fear) and the other clamped around the armrest of my seat.

Breathe, Kate, breathe.

The safety announcement began, and I resolutely ignored it. I’d heard it often enough and I knew that if the worst happened, no amount of removing high-heeled shoes or inflating life jackets would save me.

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