Page 40 of The Custard Tart Cafe by the Sea
“How about you give me a break too.” I hiss, sighing and sinking into my aisle seat. He does make a good point; I am the only mug here. Thankfully there is a middle seat between us, with Tiago sitting by the window. The battle zone is divided.
“Oh, good. I see you have your passport this time. I’m more than happy to look after it for you if you’d prefer,” he can’t seem to resist the opportunity to quip.
I channel the fury of my fellow female passenger and throw him a killer look.
My only way through this absolute nightmare is the aforementioned drink– although not too much, I don’t want to let my guard down. That and burrowing into the gossip magazine, which is far easier said than done when you are intent on blocking off all eye contact with your fellow passenger, and when you don’t know who the reality TV stars are; the ones whose alleged relationship antics you’re reading about. In the end I am left with no choice but to hold the magazine aloft, giving myself serious arm ache, and frequent kicks from the charming female behind me who presumably feels I am ruining her view of today’s flight experience. And so that’s how it goes: bubble sip, read some gossip, kick… and repeat, until I have read the blimming thing twice over and my shoulders are in desperate need of a massage. Reluctantly, I stash the magazine in the seat pocket in front of me and pretend to doze off before Tiago misinterprets my move as his chance to resume communication.
I’ve not long rested my eyes when the captain’s voice fires up over the tannoy system. “Er, good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. This is Captain blah-de-blah speaking.” I’m not too sure if he says Steve, Keith or Dean; why is it that all captains have that same monotonous pitch over the airwaves? “We will shortly begin to make our descent to Bristol, however, just to prepare you all– and there’s absolutely no need for alarm,” my heart skips a beat as I sense abut… “Air traffic control have notified us of some unseasonably strong and unexpected headwinds in the area and we can expect to be hitting them soon. For this reason, we won’t be operating our tax free shopping service today. Apologies for that, but we’ll need to do our final cabin check in preparation for landing a little earlier than usual, to ensure the cabin crew are all seated with belts securely fastened in plenty of time.”
The delightful woman behind me mumbles several F words under her breath. She was obviously intent on splashing out on yet more jewellery from the duty free trolley. “Thank you for your understanding and thank you for flying with us today. We look forward to seeing you again soon and wish you a safe and pleasant onward journey.”
Maybe let’s get through this one first, shall we?
Naturally, as an anxious flier, the first thing I do when anybody– Captain very much included–tells me not to be alarmed… is to panic like mad, my brain calculating the worst possible outcomes and scenarios. But as the minutes pass by, I decide the best way through this is to shut my eyes until thedébâcleis over. My decision lulls me into sweet oblivion. Nothing has changed. We’re chugging along nicely. No oxygen masks have fallen from the ceiling. Everyone’s in good spirits. The cabin crew don’t even look remotely bothered. But then everything quickly shifts gear as I overhear the people opposite me say we are now banking over the city of Bath. This means we are lining up in the direction of the runway, nine miles outside the city centre.
Stormy is one way of describing our approach. No sooner has the plane changed course and the wheels have come down with the quintessential ‘clunk’, than the aircraft tilts dramatically from side to side. Immediately it feels more like we’re traveling on a toy at the whim of Mother Nature than a large Airbus. Shrieks and gasps abound, kids scream, babies cry. Fucks and shits galore are emitted and I can only hope that parents are somehow covering their little one’s ears. I don’t dare pan the vista to catch the expression of the cabin crew. Once I perceive the faintest hint of fear on their faces, I am toast.
Tiago, the utter fool, unstraps himself and moves into the middle seat, putting his arms around me and pulling me close. It is only then that I realise I am one of the cursing passengers. I am also shaking like a leaf. My head stops analysing my behaviour and I surrender to the much-needed comfort of the embrace of a gorgeous man. Even amidst the panic it’s incredible to feel the heat of his body, the reality of him in a situation that, to me, is filled with so much uncertainty, the sturdy frame of his chest, his heartbeat steady and in control.
“It’s okay, Willow. I’ve got you. Everything’s fine. It’s just a bit of wind. These pilots are trained to land in all weathers. We’re almost down. Then we’re going to get inside that airport and I’m going to take you for a strong coffee and lunch.”
“Please don’t talk about food right now,” I squeak.
“Okay, just the strong coffee then. Sounds good? Can you try to stay focused on that? We’ll be on the runway,” I swear he mutters ‘I hope’ under his breath, “before you know it. Close your eyes if it helps or if you want to keep them open then the best thing to do is fix them on something static like the back of the tray table.”
“Sounds good,” I agree. “Okay, I’ll do it.”
“And Willow?”
“Yes?”
“I meant every word I said. Today and the other morning. I really am sorry. I also really think I might be falling in love with you.” He kisses my temple and I don’t know whether to melt or scream or get in the brace position or pinch myself. This mix of high jinks and emotion is a little too much.
On and on the plane coasts and tips, dropping worryingly, then bobbing back up again as it hits the air pockets. This is certainly very different from any landing I have ever experienced in my life. It makes the Big One at Blackpool’s pleasure beach feel like a doddle. It also reminds me of that heart-in-the-mouth video I foolishly watched a couple of years ago of a British Airways plane coming in to land in gale force wind at Gibraltar airport. Yeah, why did I do that?
Still no warning lights flash, no oxygen masks drop, and no authoritative ‘brace, brace’ comes out over the tannoy, and after a while I can feel my heartbeat slow down. This is the pattern, then; tilt, coast, bump and repeat… until we are on the ground. I can deal with this. Iamdealing with this. I lay my head on Tiago’s chest and quit the struggle, my breathing normalising. Regardless of whether or not I ever see him again once we step off the runway we are hopefully going to connect smoothly with very shortly, the soothing fragrance of lavender, patchouli, musk and whatever else is in his aftershave will forever remain with me. It will always bring me back to this moment of feeling strangely more protected than ever before in my life.
I wonder how Kelly and Radhika are dealing with this? Knowing Kelly she is lost in some transcendental music on her earbuds, whilst Radhika will be sound asleep, oblivious to everything. I peep at the window as we roll to the side again like a boat caught up in the waves, noticing with a wash of relief that the clouds have finally parted, ground is visible, cars are getting larger and larger: there’s the reassuring ribbon of the A38, the car park. A final tip in the opposite direction, a realignment, and BUMP, we are down. On the runway and not the grass. Cheers and claps reverberate throughout the aircraft.
And just like that, the spell is broken. I pull away from Tiago, straighten up, fidget with my hair, and grab my bits and pieces– passport first– from the seat pocket, ready to run the moment the seat belt light goes out. Everybody on this plane looks as if they’ve been dragged through a hedge backwards, to coin the phrase both sets of my grandparents love to mutter whenever they can possibly throw it at a scenario.
“Hey, are you okay? We made it!” Tiago says, gently caressing my back, his fingers brushing deliciously against the back of my neck now, making tingles flood all over my scalp as they catch random strands of my hair. I’m left in no doubt that this man could give a mean massage.
“Fine. All good, thanks,” I say, barely looking at him and his infectious grin.
I’ve got to stay focused. We’ve landed safely and we are snapped back to reality now. Daydreams over. Mercifully, both sets of steps come out for the plane this time, with passengers being allowed to disembark at either end of the plane, which is extremely handy when you are after a Speedy Gonzalez getaway yourself.
“Looks like we don’t have far to go.” I nod my head toward the passengers who are already scrabbling for their carry-on luggage from the overhead lockers and queuing (in a fashion) to peel off to the left of us. I am sitting with my back to Tiago and my front to the aisle, eagerly awaiting the prime opportunity to jump. “I can’t wait to get off this thing!” I bleat overenthusiastically, cowering slightly at the daggers the red-faced woman now towering over me is dishing out.
I spot a gap, pretend to go left, then pace quickly right, throwing Tiago completely. I can already tell he has bumped into the angry female, going by the volley of expletives she has released behind me. Poor guy. I can’t help but feel guilty. I could have just explained to him that I needed to get my bag from the overhead locker by my original seat and that I’d ‘probably’ see him in the terminal, I now realise– but I don’t want to give him false hope. There will be no strong coffee. There will be no anything. I need that man out of my life for good and trying to disappear into a crowd is my safest bet.
I am petrified by what happened just now. I’m not even sure if it was a dream. One thing’s for certain: I can’t wait around to find out. It was the fear that had me acquiesce to his protective cuddles. That was all. I honestly would have hugged a complete stranger, I was that scared. I can’t let that fear take over my rational thoughts. Tiago is bad news. How can he not be?
By the skin of my teeth– and my now-broken flip flop– I make it from aircraft steps to terminal, not helped by the heavens opening and leaving me like a thoroughly drenched rat. I’m then through passport control and baggage reclaim without a trace of him to set me off balance. I fling my case at the nearest trolley and push it determinedly. Tears gather on my lower lashes as I finally burst through the doors into the brightly lit Arrivals hall. Kelly and Radhika are by now trotting behind, struggling to keep up. For a split second I scour the many faces waiting for their nearest and dearest, wondering if Tiago’s somehow cut through the red tape of security to re-enact a scene from Love Actually. But no. And why should he? I’ve made it perfectly clear I’m not interested.
Emerging outside into the cold, heavy, diagonally-slanting rain (the kind of wintery Weston-super-Mare weather that Reggie refers to as a thunder-plump), I abandon the trolley, heft my case onto its wheels and charge across the zebra crossing, racking my traumatised brain to remember where the taxi rank is, delaying for as long as possible the moment when my friends will grill me about what in the hell is going on.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
