‘Ahem! To new beginnings!’ Wendy says quickly, raising her glass.
‘New beginnings!’ we chorus, happy to be together once more.
‘You’re missing all the fun, you know,’ says Wendy sarcastically. ‘The new first class service means the darlingscan now eatwhateverthey wantwhenthey want; one minute you’re serving Chicken Chasseur to 5B, then 1E is asking you for boiled eggs and toast, whilst the group at the bar are crying out for crème de menthe frappé and canapés. Gaah!’
I pretend to wince, but the way I feel right now, I’d gladly serve a Jumbo-load of raucous, drunk, demanding passengers single-handedly every day until I’msixty-five, if it meant having my old life back.
‘Now, who’s for some houmous and warm pitta bread?’ says Wendy, heading for the bar.
Turning to Céline, I ask dutifully, ‘How’s Mike?’
‘On a ten-day Sydney/Melbourne,’ she says, letting out a wistful sigh. ‘But he’s coming straight from the airport to stay at the flat for two days when he gets back,’ she adds quickly, face lighting up.
I shoot her a knowing glance over the rim of my glass.
‘Don’t look at me like that,’ she says in that to-die-for accent of hers.
‘Like what?’
‘That you-are-wasting-your-time look.’
I open my mouth to speak, but close it again and swirl my wine around my glass, eyes down.
‘He’s leaving after Christmas … next year,’ she says, voice falling away.
‘Why not this year, Céline?How many more Christmases must you wait?’
‘The twins have their final exams this year and it’s his wife’s parents’ Golden Wedding next June. So, I must be patient.’ She smiles weakly, fixing my gaze from under the eyebrow-brushing fringe of her sleek, ebony bob.
Mike is a classic case of how a uniform with four gold bands and a peaked cap can transform a balding, paunchy, unsexy, middle-agedman into afairlyattractive, dapper specimen – hardly Mr Darcy material, but a darn sight more pleasing on the eye than off-duty Mike, believe me, with his high-waisted trousers and Concorde novelty socks.
‘It’s just that I know how important a husband and children are to you, and I worry that by the time he leaves –ifhe leaves – it will be too late.’
‘C’est la vie.’ She shrugs. ‘Nothingin life is guaranteed …rien du tout. You were with a single man and …’ She bites her lip and turns away. She squeezes my hand, shakes her head, and says softly, ‘I am so sorry …’
‘Hey, it’s not your fault,’ I say, resting my head on her shoulder. ‘It’s probably for the best,’ I continue over-cheerily, fighting back the tears.
Faye comes over from the far end of the table, perches on theedge of the banquette, swivels round to face me, and says warmly, ‘Darling, it’ssogood to see you.’ She brushes aside my wet fringe and plants a warm kiss on my forehead.
‘How’s Tariq?’ I enquire, anxious for news of my beloved godson.
‘He’s started school and loves it,’ she says, beaming, as she always does at the mention of his name.
I can hardly believe it’s only six years agothat we sat here, in this very spot, by the fireplace, toasting Faye’s new, glamorous life in Dubai …
‘You’ve only known him a few months, Faye,’ we’d said with a mixture of excitement and consternation. ‘Are you sure you’re doing the right thing?’
‘I know it’s a gamble. But it feels right.’ She’d smiled, stroking her little bump, the huge rock on her finger catching the light from thefire. ‘And now Junior’s on the way, I just know it’s fate. I’ve waited a long time for my dashing prince to come along, and I’m lucky he found me in the nick of time, before I’m faded and forty-five, and my biological clock comes to a grinding halt.’
‘Ooh, it’s likeLawrence of ArabiaandLove Actuallyall rolled into one,’ I’d said, swooning back into the sofa.
The ‘fairy tale’ beganone New Year’s Eve in the Gulf …
Determined not to spend yet another Hogmanay in pj’s and a comfy cardie, getting slowly sozzled, whilst watching repeats ofOnly Fools and Horses –either that, or at some dire party, being groped at midnight by a total stranger with rubber legs and beery breath – we requested the same trip, packed our sparkly frocks, and headed off to the sun.
So therewe were, dressed to kill, huddled around the buffet table by the swimming pool, retching and spluttering into our napkins like a bunch of ladettes, having discovered the grey stuff we’d just devoured was in fact lambs’ brains, when out popped a tall, swarthy, linen-suited stranger from behind the swan ice sculpture.
‘Ladies, ladies, ladies! This is a great delicacy in my country,’ he’d saidwith mock indignation and a mischievous grin.
