Odious (adj.) – Extremely unpleasant; repulsive
I let the familiar thrum of the busy airport wash over me as I padded through the check-in hall, narrowly sidestepping floor polishers and rows of trolleys. I felt a funny pang in my chest as I walked past amorous couples kissing goodbye. Forget the arrivals hall scene from Love Actually, saying farewell to your loved ones was just as emosh. Ben was late for a breakfast meeting, so our own goodbye was more of a peck on the cheek as he rushed out the door than a heartfelt profession of love. I’d tried not to feel too disappointed he couldn’t see me off at the airport, I knew that I’d see him soon, but a small part of me felt like he was still sulking over us losing the investment, probably thinking that he could have done a better job if he’d been there. I shook away these negative emotions and made my way through security, deciding to treat myself to a new perfume in duty free to cheer myself up and get into holiday mode.
I wasn’t nervous about the long flight that loomed ahead of me; the fact that I was going to be travelling for the next twenty-four hours on my own actually filled me with excitement at having some well-deserved me-time. My out-of-office was on, I’d filled my e-reader up with beach reads, loaded up my iPod, and found this mini travel facial kit that the beauty pages of a magazine Kelli had been reading raved about.
I plodded patiently down the aisles of the plane, waiting for others to faff around with squeezing their bags in the overhead lockers ahead of me. A queue had blocked the path to my seat as the couple in front decided that this would be the perfect moment to have a detailed debate with their travel partners over who should take the window seat before taking off layers and bundling up jackets into the lockers.
I eventually got to my row, where a middle-aged woman wearing a hijab was ensconced in the window seat, rabbiting on a mobile phone in a language that I didn’t understand or recognise. The middle seat was empty and, in my seat – the aisle seat – sat an overweight man who looked about late thirties. The type who would linger around the buffet table at a party and who shopped at Big and Mighty; his fleshy rolls hung over the armrests like uncooked pastry on a pie tin.
‘Oh, excuse me. I think you’re in my seat,’ I said to him politely, noticing flakes of eczema around his scrunched-up, piggy eyes.
He creased up his round, bowling-ball-shaped face into a look of disgust that I’d deigned to pull his attention from the inflight entertainment channels.
‘What? This is 24C.’ He said this as a statement rather than a question. ‘My seat is 24C.’
He had one of those nasally voices that grated on you with every heavily articulated syllable. I hastily looked at my boarding card, even though I’d memorised it enough times in the wait to board. ‘Yep, that’s 24C but 24C is actually my seat.’ I flashed him my card to prove that I wasn’t lying.
‘Well, that’s just great. Great,’ he said through gritted teeth, glaring at me as if I’d been in charge of the flight seating plan and messed up on purpose just to piss him off and ruin his day.
I flashed him an apologetic shrug as I waited for him to swap seats. He huffed loudly but still didn’t make any effort to move and let me sit down, leaving me standing like a lemon. Passengers began tutting behind me now that I was the one blocking the aisle. I felt my cheeks heat up as I appeared to be in a stare-off with this flaky lump of lard.
‘Everything okay here?’ A pretty blonde-haired flight attendant with a crispy high quiff fluttered over, flashing us both megawatt smiles on her expertly contoured face.
‘Oh, erm, well, I think this gentleman is in my seat.’ I hurriedly passed her my ticket.
She flicked her camel-length eyelashes at my boarding card and looked at the seat blocker. ‘Sir, this lady is correct. Do you have your boarding card so I can check where your seat is?’ she asked, filling my nose with a heavy rose-scented perfume which made my stomach flip with nausea.
He huffed once more then pinged open his seat belt to get up, acting as if it took all the effort in the world. He half stood, half bent over to rummage in his sagging jeans pocket, flashing us all a glimpse of his hairy arse crack. I glanced at the passengers waiting behind me and threw them my best apologetic face. They all glared back.
‘Ah, sorry sir, you’re actually in 24B, so if I could ask you to move over one?’ The flight attendant took his crumpled-up boarding pass that proved me right. Hah. In yo face, Fatso!
‘I specifically remember requesting the aisle seat.’ He scowled at the pair of us as if we were in this together, conspiring against him and his inflight needs. ‘I can’t sit in the middle seat. I need to be able to move around frequently. Gout problems,’ he replied as an afterthought.
‘Madam, would you mind taking the middle seat?’ The flight attendant turned to me. Her previously perky voice now had a hint of irritation at how long this was taking.
Well, yes, I did bloody mind. I hated sitting in the middle seat anyway, but trapped between Mr Rude and Mrs Chatterbox, it would make an already long flight even longer.
‘Well …’ I paused, trying to work out how to politely but firmly stand my ground.
‘Great! Thank you,’ the flight attendant said cheerfully, before I’d finished, and bundled me into my place to let the queue move on. Fatty bum-bum simply manoeuvred his legs to the side so I could squeeze past, not even bothering to say thanks.
Soon after, the pilot gave his welcome speech (that no one appeared to pay attention to) and the now flustered flight attendant told the woman next to me for the third time that she needed to end her call and put her phone in flight mode. Suddenly, I was gassed with the most noxious, eggy-fart smell coming from my right. I flung my hand up to my mouth to cover it with the sleeve of my jumper and cast a serious, pissed-off look at the man next to me. He had his eyes fixed on the small TV set in the seat back in front of him, pretending that it wasn’t him with the bowels of a sewage plant. Then, as if to make matters worse, I felt something thump the top of my head.
‘Ow!’ I cried and glanced around, rubbing my crown. A grinning gap-toothed boy was standing on the seat behind me, holding a plastic toy train and looking pretty proud of himself. His mother in the seat next to him was too busy flicking through a magazine to apologise or even acknowledge the assault.
Great. Just great.
*
Giving up on the hope of getting my arm on the armrest under my fellow flying partner’s chub, and trying to ignore the tired screams from a baby two rows up, whose exhausted parents were desperately trying to calm down, I closed my eyes and tried to prepare myself for what lay ahead.
This would be the first wedding that I’d attended since being jilted myself. I was now living a life far better than I could ever have imagined, but that didn’t mean I was overjoyed at the prospect of spending the days before Ben arrived lost in the world of dress fittings, table decorations and wedding readings. I knew that I needed to help my friend out, so I’d plaster on a smile and get stuck in as best I could. Shelley wouldn’t have us constantly trapped in the wedding world when there was so much of Australia that I was desperate to see, surely? I exhaled loudly and tried not to over-think it.
‘Jesus, would someone shut that bloody kid up?’ the fat man muttered under his breath, breaking me from my thoughts. ‘These parents think it’s okay to make the most of being able to fly their children for free until they’re two or something. Selfish, if you ask me. All right for them, but what about the rest of us who had to fork out hundreds for the luxury of sharing this space with a screaming kid. Where’s our compensation?’ he rambled on, looking as if he expected me to jump in and agree with him.
I was half prepared to say that I should be the one to have some compensation, being trapped in this row next to him; that if I’d been in my original seat, at least I would have had a little more room and could nip in and out when I liked. A loud ding-dong sound played out, interrupting me from airing my frustrations.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, we’re about to enter an area of turbulence,’ the suave tones of the captain spoke across the Tannoy as the seat-belt sign illuminated above our heads. ‘If you can please return to your seats and fasten your seat belts.’
‘Oh, just fucking great,’ fat man muttered loudly as the in-flight entertainment crackled out to a blank holding screen.
I looked at him and noticed his hands were gripping the armrests, his pudgy knuckles had turned white.
‘For the love of God,’ he sighed even louder.
Suddenly it all made sense. It wasn’t just the crying baby that was getting on his nerves; his nerves were already shot from fear. He was being such an arrogant space-hogging prick because he wanted to sit in the aisle seat so he could make a hasty escape if necessary. I bet he didn’t even have gout. He was terrified of flying.
‘You all right?’ I asked gently, as the plane suddenly lurched downwards. The woman to my right had dozed off as soon as she’d ended her phone call, and had since been emitting nasally snores in my ear every few minutes.
He blinked open his eyes. ‘Fine. Fine,’ he barked and gulped loudly.
I’ve always been relaxed about flying, clinging on to the statistics that it’s safer than travelling by car and that no plane has ever crashed from turbulence. Little comfort for someone who has a genuine phobia of being above the clouds, I know. I tried to look around for something to talk about to distract him.
‘My name’s Georgia, what’s yours?’
‘Terry,’ he eventually managed to say through gritted teeth, loudly swallowing saliva that had probably rushed to his mouth in fear.
‘You been to Australia before, Terry?’
Terry turned his head to face me; gone was the reddened sheen and in its place was a sickly, green shade. ‘Once.’
‘Oh, great. Sooo, how was it? It’s my first time. I’m going to my best friend’s wedding. She’s having this big do in Sydney, but first we’re ticking off the Great Ocean Road, something I’ve always wanted to experience. Should be pretty epic!’
‘It’s all right, just so fucking far from anywhere.’ A bit of spittle stayed on his quivering bottom lip as he spoke. He gripped the armrest as we juddered again.
I flashed a friendly smile. ‘Yeah, but it’s got to be worth it, right?’ A look passed over his features that I couldn’t quite make out. ‘I can’t wait to see my first kangaroo, get some photos of the Opera House, chill out on Bondi Beach,’ I rabbited on, hoping he wasn’t noticing the air hostesses returning to their seats and strapping themselves in. Or the man in the row opposite doing the cross sign on his chest as we were again violently shaken by the bad weather. ‘You got much planned when you’re there?’
‘Business,’ he replied tartly, before absent-mindedly rubbing at his bare wedding-ring finger.
‘Ah great, what do you do?’
‘Develop apps, tech stuff, you probably wouldn’t understand. Heading to Melbourne and then up to Sydney to sign off on some deals. Do you think the bathrooms are still open?’ He craned his neck down the empty aisle.
I shook my head, ignoring his dig. ‘Doubt it, the seat-belt sign’s still on. So, Terry, do you travel much for work?’
A violent lurch pulled his attention back to me. ‘Yeah, too much probably. I don’t know why I bother.’
‘I’m sure we’ll be out of the turbulence soon,’ I soothed.
‘No. I didn’t mean that.’ He shook his head. ‘I’m on a work trip, one of many this year, and flying not only comes with the fear of death but the aggro I get back home for being away so much.’
He caught me looking at his wedding-ring-free finger. ‘My wife and I, we’re going through, err, some problems. Work taking up too much of my time and all that.’
‘Ah, I know about that,’ I sympathetically mused. ‘Finding the balance between business and relationships is never easy.’ I thought about Ben and the problems we’d had to overcome in our professional and personal life to get to where we were today.
‘Harder when your wife doesn’t understand that she gets to live in her five-bed house in the countryside because of your work,’ he huffed. ‘I’d like her, just once, to realise that I’m away so much to provide for the lifestyle she has come to expect.’ He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. I noticed his chest had stopped heaving as quickly as it had before.
I cringed slightly; nice one, Georgia, for trying to take his mind off turbulence and on to more emotionally turbulent matters for the poor sod.
‘I’m sure she does appreciate what you do; she probably just misses you when you’re away,’ I suggested.
He made a strange noise with his rubbery lips. ‘Pfft, doubt it. Misses nagging me maybe.’ He paused to collect his thoughts. ‘Sorry, too much information and all that.’
I shook my head. ‘It’s fine.’
‘So, how about you? Heading all this way by yourself?’
‘Like I said, I’m going to see my friend.’ I mentally kicked myself for going on about weddings to a stranger who was having such marital troubles. ‘My boyfriend is flying out to meet me soon. He travels a lot too, we both do.’
‘Well, you’re lucky then.’
‘What, with travelling?’ I smiled weakly as the plane dropped sharply and other passengers let out a whooping noise.
Terry clutched his clenched pink fists to his lips.
‘No.’ His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down as if gulping at the air. ‘I mean, with making it work between the pair of you, having someone who understands that you travel a lot.’
‘Yeah, I guess you’re right.’ I smiled. ‘He’s my business partner too and loves to travel as much as I do.’
It wasn’t your usual relationship that Ben and I had, but we made it work. I probably should be a lot more grateful for having a supportive boyfriend who ‘got’ my career. I couldn’t imagine running the business and dating someone who struggled with the amount of travelling I had, and wanted, to do.
‘Maybe take your wife with you on your next trip?’
He thought about it for a moment as the plane wobbled aggressively once more. ‘That’s if we ever get off here in one piece. I love my wife. I really do.’ He fumbled in his jeans pocket, almost taking my eye out as his elbow narrowly missed my face with the movement.
‘Here, look.’ He opened up his battered wallet and pulled out a faded Polaroid photo of him looking younger and slimmer, and a woman I presumed to be his wife, with highlighted blonde hair and a wide grin matching the size of the blow-up microphone she had in her hand. ‘That was at our friends’ wedding; they had one of these ridiculous photo booths.’ Terry shook his head, remembering fondly. ‘She dragged me in there as I’d moaned how cheesy the things are, but I’m glad she did. I don’t know about you, but I never print off any of the photos we have together any more; everything’s gone digital and all that.’
I realised that I didn’t have an adorable snap of Ben and me that I could whip out to show him, and my phone was out of reach at the bottom of my bag.
‘You look happy.’ I smiled, pleased that this distraction seemed to be working and that he hadn’t appeared to have noticed the ashen look on the air hostesses’ faces further up the aisle.
‘We are.’ He paused, staring at the photo. ‘God, we really are. When we get out of here I’m going to call her and tell her.’ He firmly bobbed his head, as if making a silent vow to the woman in his trembling hands. ‘This is me.’ He handed me his business card from one of the leather pockets. He seemed to relax a little and ran his thumb across the photo of his wife. ‘So, you and your chap been together long?’
‘Yeah, actually.’ I sighed happily. ‘Live together, work together, travel together when we can.’
‘Not married though?’
I shook my head.
‘You not been giving him the signals?’ Terry pressed.
I laughed. ‘I’m sure he knows, one day it might happen …’
It was Terry’s turn to let out a sharp bark of a laugh. ‘I know what you women are like, expecting men to pick up on these “subconscious” signals that you send out.’ He raised his fingers in air quotes. I noticed that he had a large sweat patch under each armpit, but at least his hands were trembling slightly less. ‘Trust me, no man ever reads into them. You have to literally spell it out to him, to us.’
The seat-belt sign pinged off, making us both jump. I hadn’t even realised that the plane had stopped jerking violently and, by the look of relief and surprise on Terry’s face, neither had he.
‘Thank God.’ He nodded and relaxed his hands. ‘That was a bit hairy, wasn’t it?’
I nodded distractedly, thinking about what he’d just said.
‘Thanks for, erm, taking my mind off it,’ he mumbled sheepishly.
‘No problem.’
Without the fear of death hanging over us, he seemed to clam up once more.
‘They still can’t shut up that screaming child though,’ he grumbled and put his headphones back on.