Page 6 of Not in a Million Years

Behind me, the pilot was tinkering with ropes and pulleys. The roar of the burner, I realised, had been silent for a while now. Claude moved from me to the pilot, and I heard him asking various technical questions, which – together with the answers – I willed myself not to hear. In this situation, knowledge would be the opposite of power; there was literally nothing the guy could say about thermodynamics or parachute valves that would reassure me even a tiny bit.

I forced air through my dry lips and made myself watch as the ground edged closer and closer. I could make out sheep in the fields now (one of those would probably make a reasonably soft landing, I thought) and the individual branches and even leaves on the trees. The balloon drifted across a four-lane motorway, which gave me a fresh surge of dread – we’d land there, and just when I thought we were safe, we’d be crushed by a passing pantechnicon. But we reached the far side, gradually descending further and further.

Then the burner roared again behind me, and the balloon rose again.

Fuck! Nonono! Just when I thought it was over.

‘Just clearing that line of trees.’ I made out the pilot’s voice over the sound of burning gas. ‘Then we’ll complete our descent.’

Assuming we don’t crash into the trees first, I thought darkly.

But we didn’t. The basket just cleared the topmost branches before the craft dropped once more, steadily but still making my stomach feel as if it was trying to push my heart out of my chest. At last, we were low enough for me to know that even if the base of the basket dropped out, the ropes snapped or I decided I couldn’t bear another moment of this and jumped out, I’d survive.

And then the basket touched the ground with a gentle bump, bounced once and came to a stop.

‘Stay there while I secure it,’ ordered the pilot.

I couldn’t have moved if I wanted to.

Naomi: My God, you poor thing. You must’ve been terrified.

Abbie: Although technically it wasn’t actually a near-death experience. I mean, I get that it felt that way, but…

Rowan: What happened next?

Kate: I spewed my guts up all over the side of the basket.

I felt a bit sick just remembering it.

It had been totally unexpected – one minute, I’d been limp with relief, suddenly aware of the pain in my hands and wrists where I’d been gripping the rim of the basket, but mostly just elated that it was over. The next, I’d been overcome with violent nausea.

‘Oh my God, Kate, are you okay?’ Claude had asked, his hand resting gently on my back while I heaved and gasped.

‘It’s not motion sickness, is it?’ the pilot asked. ‘No one gets air sick in a balloon.’

It wasn’t motion sickness, obviously. It was almost like all the terror I’d felt had to leave my body somehow, and that was the only way it could come up with to do it.

Claude passed me his water bottle and I washed my mouth out and spat, all thoughts of dignity forgotten. My carefully applied lipstick was history now, my blow-dry blown to pieces, my Hollywood wax half an hour of wasted pain, because there was no way I’d be shagging anyone any time soon. I waited a few seconds, wondering if I was going to be sick again, then realising I wasn’t.

‘We normally lay on a full English breakfast, with mimosas,’ the pilot said. ‘But I’m guessing…’

A fresh wave of nausea hit me, but I managed to keep it down. ‘I don’t think that would be the best idea,’ I said. ‘You go ahead though, if you want?’

‘Certainement pas.’ Claude extended his arm and I placed a hand on the leather sleeve of his jacket, noticing the hard muscle beneath it, and stepped carefully out of the basket. ‘Main thing is to get you home safely.’

‘Thanks,’ I quavered. Then I lied, ‘I was out for dinner last night. Must have had a dodgy mussel. I’m so sorry – it’s been the most wonderful morning and now I’ve ruined it.’

‘Not at all.’ Claude pushed his sunglasses up onto his head and looked at me, smiling, his eyes full of concern. ‘You know what, you’re tough like nails. You didn’t look like you were feeling too good up there, but you managed it.’

‘It didn’t really hit me until we landed,’ I replied, truthfully this time.

Thinking about it, my unscheduled vom was a blessing in disguise. Not only would I be able to cut short the date, which I’d have struggled to even pretend to enjoy in my state of nervous exhaustion, but I’d actually managed to come out of it looking reasonably okay, if not actually good. So long as Claude didn’t mind women puking up inches from his limited-edition cream Comme des Garçons high-tops.

Rowan: So you’re going to see him again?

Kate: He said so. He drove me to the station and saw me right onto my train, and bought me water and mints. He didn’t kiss me, but I guess that wouldn’t have been on the cards.

Abbie: Well, it’ll be quite the story to tell at your wedding, right?

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