Page 20 of The Custard Tart Cafe by the Sea
Within seconds I feel a hand clamp down on the headrest behind me, tickling the stray wisps of baby hair at the nape of my neck. I force back a scream of horror movie proportions. So much for row seven bringing me good fortune. The woman who had been standing behind TOG is now at my side and that can only mean one thing: it’s TOG’s hand. He’s going to sit in the row behind me. Oh. My. God. If this isn’t scripted straight out of a romcom, I don’t know what is. Except there’s no romance to be had on this aircraft, of that you can be sure. My heart is pounding so loudly now. I’m paranoid that I won’t be able to hide this from my friends, and I need to. Kelly and Radhika are mega protective. We may all bicker and banter but it’s like a comedy show. We love each other really, beneath all that wordy soup. We pull the metaphorical drawbridge up for protection, or down for battle, as circumstance dictates.
I know there’s a sixty-something male hugging the window seat in the row behind me. Which means TOG– oh, all right, Tiago, I feel childish abbreviating him so much, even if he is the embodiment of a rather giant child himself– will either have a prime view of my royal blue left-hand profile, or the top of my head. Great.
“Psst,” says Radhika in a far too loud whisper across Kelly. “Have you seen that sexy specimen behind you?”
“Not my type,” I can’t get my words out fast enough.
“Don’t worry, I wasn’t going to set you up with him or anything,” Radhika snaps sarcastically. “Flipping heck, Willow, lighten up. I know you look like you’re about to take to Instagram Reels with that makeup job but I’m not sure what’s got into you,” she raises her voice quite unnecessarily. I really don’t need a public or private reminder that I look like a cross between a peacock and an owl. “You’ve been acting mega-weird since we checked in.” Fabulous. I can already sense Tiago’s head getting bigger behind me, his ego spilling over into the aisle.
In some respects, Tiago sitting behind me is better than him sitting in front of me: no irritating male-reclining-the-seat games. On the other hand, I’m one of those annoying passengers who needs to pop to the loo at least once while airborne, and it will be impossible not to see Tiago’s face when I return to my row.
And I think we’ve already established the fact that I’m a nervous flier. Which means he’ll see my hand gripping the aisle seat’s arm on take-off too, and that’s only marginally preferable to him peeking at me through the headrest gaps to watch me chewing ferociously on a piece of gum.
“The opportunity is wasted on you and we should have swapped seats.” Radhika adds this afterthought to her rant. She twists her head to roll her eyes in the direction of the old man who is already snoring behind her.
“Is there a minute of the day when you are not thinking about your next conquest?” I snap back.
“Just as well that I am sitting in the middle of you two today to split the energy. Enough already,” says Kelly. “Radhika: If you don’t meet a hot male of your own during this trip, I will personally organise a speed dating night in my ice cream parlour, like the kind Giovanna used to host. Bath is full of eligible bachelors, you just haven’t met them yet. And Willow: your tension is melding into my aura, chill out!”
The plane begins to taxi to the runway, then the engines power up ready for take-off. My stomach performs its habitual plummet to the floor. The aircraft accelerates past the point of no return and I do my usual bargaining-with-God thing in my head, ‘if we arrive safely in one piece, I promise I’ll be a better human being; give more to charity; be more environmentally conscious, totally planting trees to cover my carbon footprint to Portugal and back; I’ll stop eating so much fat and sugar; take up running; be more patient with Lauren… and avoid any arguments with the man behind me.’ The last resolution is a new one but if it makes for a safe flight, I’m in.
Meanwhile Radhika is out for the count, oblivious. Kelly, I now discover, is one of those people who chatters incessantly at precisely the time when I need to zone out, cocoon myself in silence, and focus on us reaching the safe point of twenty minutes into the flight. I’m not sure if this is a statistic I have read about or one that I’ve invented. Either way it’s always been my benchmark. It’s around the time the cabin crew are in full flow with their drinks service and that scald of a searing hot cuppa always tries its darndest to make me feel like I’m sitting at home on my sofa curled up with a book and a decent mug of tea instead of hurtling through the air with dishwater. On this trip twenty minutes can’t come fast enough.
The plane tilts and banks and Kelly jabbers on: “I was thinking we could go on a guided cork trail hike. The countryside looks beautiful and it won’t be too hot yet… blah-de-blah-de-blah.” I indulge in a spot of nod-craft to appease her. The plane makes a weird noise. I know it’s probably just the engine doing what it’s supposed to do once we reach our cruising height, but the iron grip I’ve had on my scarf for the past fifteen minutes doesn’t feel solid enough and I lunge at the meatier armrest, hardly caring that Tiago is behind me. I can face my embarrassment once we’re safely on land. Some things are more urgent, like getting through this flight without screaming.
“You never told me you were a nervous flyer,” Kelly says, her face a picture of concern as I quickly turn to reassure her I won’t be having a full-blown panic attack.
“Oh, I’m not really… I’ve just got a dodgy tum today so I’m feeling the bumps a bit,” I palm her off with a little white lie and she goes back to her guidebook.
But the truth is that my nerves have been getting progressively worse, I acknowledge as we hit a flurry of air pockets. Callum always had his earbuds in on the few trips we made together, his eyes closed, lost in the music. He never sensed the frightened female beside him so I wasn’t as bad. And things were somehow different when we went on those family holidays in the noughties: Dad may not have been the pilot, but the plane just felt safer when he was in it… because he was my dad and dads are in charge (or like to think they are).
I close my eyes and focus on my breathing, trying not to imagine what Tiago is getting up to behind me.
“Would you care for any refreshments, Madam?”
The sound of the steward’s question stirs me. She’s directing her enquiry at Kelly– what with Radhika still being glued to her travel pillow– and before Kelly can turn her away, I quickly blurt out: “One tea with lots of milk sachets if you can spare them, and one of those blueberry muffins, please.”
“Coming right up.”
“What are you wasting your money on that for?” Kelly frowns. “You surprise me sometimes, Willow. You’re a gourmet custard tart chef. How could you? Do you realise how many preservatives those things have sticking them together? It’s the last thing you need right now. You should have gone for a nice restorative peppermint tea. It’s the ultimate relaxant.”
“Says she who went to Starbucks.”
Talk about double standards. Kelly’s nose, now out of joint, is soon buried back in her book. The tall, attractive blonde woman serving me shunts the trolley back a little. Talking of noses and cliches, I imagine Tiago won’t be the sort to pay through the nose for food on a plane. I recall Reggie quoting from a newspaper article once. It claimed that items like the blueberry muffin which I have just removed from its wrapper, and which looks to contain a grand total of three blueberries, are marked up by some six hundred percent by the ‘budget’ airlines!
“A glass of champagne, a tub of Pringles, a cheese and ham toastie, and a Cadbury’s Twirl,” I hear a slightly Portuguese accented male voice behind me put in his order. Okay then, I am quite mistaken.
Why haven’t they invented an airline teapot that doesn’t boil drinks to volcanic temperatures? Never mind sipping my tea, I need mittens to touch it once I have added the paltry contents of the two milk sachets to it. But I bring it to my lips anyway, taking cautious mouthfuls and grimacing, as it is too strong as well as too hot. I take my mind off it with a nibble of the muffin. It’s as salty as it is sweet but it’s food and I’ll stop all these mental complaints now. I’m going on holiday! Which is totally overlooking the fact that at some point on this flight, I’ll have to face the man sitting behind me at least once, but just for the duration of this cuppa and this cake (of sorts), I will try to relax and reframe things and quit imagining all the imminent calamities awaiting me.
At least that’s my intention, but as we head out over the Bay of Biscay and today’s generous covering of rain-filled grey clouds, I bring my drink to my lips again and the plane bumps and shudders unexpectedly. As I spill a vast amount of tea on my lap and let out a massive ‘arggghhh’, I know that was just wishful thinking.
The flight attendant, making her way back down the aisle, quickly spots my anguish, inundating me with napkins.
“It’s quite normal to encounter a little turbulence on this route,” she says sympathetically. I feel like such a twit. I can just imagine the smirk on Tiago’s face, the champagne bubbles helping it along nicely. Not to mention the one-liners he’s thinking up after I got the last word in the duty free shop.
Why hasn’t teleportation been invented yet? I want to be on holidaynow. I squeeze my eyes tightly shut, to conjure up images of endless blue sky and pristine golden beaches.
“Goodness, you gave yourself a proper soaking there,” Kelly says. “I hope you’re not burnt though.”
