Page 36 of A Lot to Unpack
Checking in and passing through security takes minutes – I’m through in a flash, which is something I could get used to – and now I’m in the first-class lounge, and it really is first class.
You know when something as simple as the lighting makes a place seem expensive? Or the kooky décor? I’ve never seen life-sized horses with lampshades on their heads but here they are, standing proud. They work though; they seem at home (although I suppose they do technically live here). I just feel like I’m in another world, a world where the drinks are free and diffusers are pumping delicious fragrances into the air. The last time I flew, a crappy porn star martini cost £27 and the room smelled like the puke of the stag do at the next table.
There’s something, I don’t know, strange – but not in a bad way. I don’t know, it feels a little bit like stepping back in time. I can see men in suits reading newspapers – the big broadsheets, not a cheekyDaily Star, and women (who, frankly, look like supermodels) serving them drinks.
‘Is it your first time flying?’ the employee at the gate asks me when it is time to board.
‘Erm, no,’ I reply, but I’m definitely giving off nervous energy. I should probably say something, lest he thinks I’m up to something. I could’ve lied, just said yes, but my passport would contradict that – is this a test, to see who is potentially dodgy, or am I overthinking it? It is definitely the latter.
‘It’s my first time in first class,’ I explain.
‘Lucky you! You’re going to love it,’ he insists. ‘We only have eight first-class seats and you’ve got one of them.’
Wow, only eight? The last time I flew, there were eight people within touching distance.
I’m greeted by a flight attendant who says she will lead me to my seat. I follow her through what I assume is business class and, honestly, it looks great, I would have been more than happy with this. Then again, I would’ve been happy in the cargo hold, if it meant a free trip to New York.
‘Here we are,’ she announces and… oh my God.
‘Wow,’ I blurt.
She smiles.
‘This is your suite. Get settled in, have a glass of champagne, and I’ll be back to see if you need anything,’ she tells me.
What else could I need? I’ve got my own little pod. My own private little space with not one, but two windows. There’s a generously sized TV and some kind of console that controls it. There are so many buttons – some for adjusting the seat too – I’m terrified to press any, because who knows what they do? It could be anything from ejecting me with a diamond-encrusted parachute or summoning Tom Hardy to read me a bedtime story (in case you ever wondered what my idea of luxury was).
On my table there is a little bowl of nuts and a glass of champagne. I suppose I should raise a toast to Ben, really, because when you think about it his tragic little dick pics are the reason I’m sitting here today.
‘What’s so funny?’ a voice asks me – I must have been laughing to myself, like an evil genius – as though this was my plan all along, rather than me being incredibly lucky to land on my feet.
I look up and see Jordan – Paige’s ex-husband – standing next to me.
‘Oh, nothing,’ I reply. ‘Hello.’
He narrows his eyes at me.
‘Hello,’ he replies. ‘We’ve met before…’
‘In the lift,’ I remind him. ‘At Matcher HQ. It got stuck.’
‘It always gets stuck,’ he replies as he settles into the pod next to mine. ‘Oh, yeah, I remember you. You were freaking out.’
He says this like it’s surprising.
‘Yeah – the lift was stuck,’ I remind him.
‘Yeah – it happens all the time,’ he says in a similar tone. ‘So, you’re Paige’s minion, huh? Has she sent you to check up on me?’
‘What? No,’ I insist.
Now it’s his turn to laugh.
‘Relax, I’m only kidding,’ he tells me. ‘I told her I didn’t need an assistant. She thinks I’m useless. Still, at least you get a trip out of it, eh? A nice break from the office.’
I probably shouldn’t mention that I haven’t worked in the office yet – or that I’ve been stalking him around the globe.
He pulls off his jumper to reveal a soft-looking grey t-shirt that matches his grey comfy tracksuit bottoms – the kind that can make a girl feel powerless.
