It'll be fine, I tell myself for the zillionth time. It'll be absolutely fine.
I'm not frightened. I'm just … I'm just …
OK. I am frightened.
16. I'm scared of flying.
I've never told anyone I'm scared of flying. It just sounds so lame. And I mean, it's not like I'm phobic or anything. It's not like I can't get on a plane. It's just … all things being equal, I would prefer to be on the ground.
I never used to be scared. But over the last few years, I've gradually got more and more nervous. I know it's completely irrational. I know thousands of people fly every day and it's practically safer than lying in bed. You have less chance of being in a plane crash than … than finding a man in London, or something.
But still. I just don't like it.
Maybe I'll have another quick vodka.
By the time my flight is called, I've drunk two more vodkas and am feeling a lot more positive. I mean, Lissy's right. At least I made an impression, didn't I? At least they'll remember who I am. As I stride towards the gate, clutching my briefcase, I almost start to feel like a confident businesswoman again. A couple of people smile at me as they pass, and I smile broadly back, feeling a warm glow of friendliness. You see. The world's not so bad after all. It's all just a question of being positive. Anything can happen in life, can't it? You never know what's round the next corner.
I reach the entrance to the plane, and there at the door, taking boarding passes, is the air hostess with the French plait who was sitting at the bar earlier.
'Hi again,' I say smiling. 'This is a coincidence!'
The air hostess stares at me.
'Hi. Erm …'
'What?'
Why does she look embarrassed?
'Sorry. It's just … did you know that …' She gestures awkwardly to my front.
'What is it?' I say, pleasantly. I look down, and freeze, aghast.
Somehow my silky shirt has been unbuttoning itself while I've been walking along. Three buttons have come undone and it's gaping at the front.
My bra shows. My pink lacy bra. The one that went a bit blobby in the wash.
That's why those people were smiling at me. Not because the world is a nice place, but because I'm Pink-Blobby-Bra-Woman.
'Thanks,' I mutter, and do up the buttons with rumbling fingers, my face hot with humiliation.
'It hasn't been your day, has it?' says the air hostess sympathetically, holding out a hand for my boarding pass. 'Sorry, I couldn't help overhearing, earlier.'
'That's all right.' I raise a half-smile. 'No, it hasn't been the best day of my life.' There's a short silence as she studies my boarding pass.
'Tell you what,' she says in a low voice. 'Would you like an on-board upgrade?'
'A what?' I stare at her blankly.
'Come on. You deserve a break.'
'Really? But … can you just upgrade people like that?'
'If there are spare seats, we can. We use our discretion. And this flight is so short.' She gives me a conspiratorial smile. 'Just don't tell everyone, OK?'
She leads me into the front section of the plane and gestures to a big, wide, comfortable seat. I've never been upgraded before in my life! I can't quite believe she's really letting me do this.
'Is this first class?' I whisper, taking in the hushed, luxury atmosphere. A man in a smart suit is tapping at a laptop to my right, and two elderly women in the corner are plugging themselves into headsets.
'Business class. There's no first class on this flight.' She lifts her voice to a normal volume. 'Is everything OK for you?'
'It's perfect! Thanks very much.'
'No problem.' She smiles again and walks away, and I push my briefcase under the seat in front.
Wow. This really is lovely. Big wide seats, and footrests, and everything. This is going to be a completely pleasurable experience from start to finish, I tell myself firmly. I reach for my seatbelt and buckle it up nonchalantly, trying to ignore the flutters of apprehension in my stomach.
'Would you like some champagne?'
It's my friend the air hostess, beaming down at me.
'That would be great,' I say. 'Thanks!'
Champagne!
'And for you, sir? Some champagne?'
The man in the seat next to mine hasn't even looked up yet. He's wearing jeans and an old sweatshirt and is staring out of the window. As he turns to answer I catch a glimpse of dark eyes, stubble; a deep frown etched on his forehead.
'No thanks. Just a brandy. Thanks.'
His voice is dry and has an American accent. I'm about to ask him politely where he's from, but he immediately turns back and stares out of the window again.
Which is fine, because to be honest, I'm not much in the mood for talking either.
TWO
OK. The truth is, I don't like this.
I know it's business class, I know it's all lovely luxury. But my stomach is still a tight knot of fear.
While we were taking off I counted very slowly with my eyes closed, and that kind of worked. But I ran out of steam at about 350. So now I'm just sitting, sipping champagne, reading an article on '30 Things To Do Before You're 30' in Cosmo. I'm trying very hard to look like a relaxed business-class top marketing executive. But oh God. Every tiny sound makes me start; every judder makes me catch my breath.