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The editors will have a look at it as soon as possible. Delete template? Don't wait! Try Yumpu. Start using Yumpu now! Terms of service. Privacy policy. He said he was sure the stain would come out, and promised he wouldn't tell Paul what happened.
My first big meeting. My first big chance — and this is what happens. I feel like giving up on the whole thing. I feel like phoning the office and saying 'That's it, I'm never coming back again, and by the way, it was me who jammed the photocopier that time. This is my third career in four years. It has to work. For my own self-worth.
For my own self-esteem. And also because I owe my dad four thousand quid. I've arrived at the airport with an hour to go, and have headed straight for the bar.
No, actually, a vodka and tonic. An air hostess with a French plait comes and sits down, two bar stools away. She smiles at me, and I smile weakly in return. I don't know how other people manage their careers, I really don't. Like my oldest friend Lissy. She's always known she wanted to be a lawyer — and now, ta-daah!
She's a fraud barrister. But I left college with absolutely no clue. My first job was in estate agency, and I only went into it because I've always quite liked looking round houses, plus I met this woman with amazing red lacquered nails at a career fair who told me she made so much money, she'd be able to retire when she was forty.
But the minute I started, I hated it. I hated all the other trainee estate agents. I hated saying things like 'a lovely aspect'. God, you complete loser. It was such a fantastic moment, like in a film or something. My dad lent me the money for a photography course and camera, and I was going to launch this amazing new creative career, and it was going to be the start of my new life … Except it didn't quite happen like that.
I mean, for a start, do you have any idea how much a photographer's assistant gets paid? It's nothing. Which, you know, I wouldn't have minded if anyone had actually offered me a photographer's assistant's job. I heave a heavy sigh, and gaze at my doleful expression in the mirror behind the bar.
At least I wasn't the only one who didn't get anywhere. Out of the eight people on my course, one became instantly successful and now takes photos for Vogue and stuff, one became a wedding photographer, one had an affair with the tutor, one went travelling, one had a baby, one works at Snappy Snaps and one is now at Morgan Stanley.
Meanwhile I got more and more into debt, and started temping and applying for jobs which actually paid money. And eventually, eleven months ago, I started as a marketing assistant at the Panther Corporation. The barman places a vodka and tonic in front of me, and gives me a quizzical look.
That feels a bit better. I'm just taking a second sip when my mobile starts to ring. My stomach gives a nervous flip. If it's the office, I'll just pretend I didn't hear.
But it's not, it's our home number flashing on the little screen. So how did it go? She has tufty dark hair and an IQ of about and is the sweetest person I know. Didn't you get the deal? Now the whole world knows. Erm … no. I mean, your dad did phone, but … um … you know … it wasn't …' She tails off evasively. What did he want? That's all I need. My cousin Kerry triumphantly clutching some silver Best-travel-agent-in-the-world-no-make-that-universe trophy. My boyfriend.
My lovely, thoughtful boyfriend. Thanks, Lissy. It's just like Julie Andrews said. When the dog bites, when the bee stings … I simply remember I have a boyfriend — and suddenly things don't seem quite so completely shit.
Or however she put it. And not just any boyfriend. A tall, handsome, clever boyfriend, whom Marketing Week called 'one of the brightest sparks in marketing research today. The way his blond hair shines in the sunshine, and the way he's always smiling. And the way he upgraded all the software on my computer the other day without me even asking, and the way he … he … My mind's gone blank.
This is ridiculous. I mean, there's so much that is wonderful about Connor. From his … his long legs. And his broad shoulders. I mean, how many boyfriends do that? I'm so lucky, I really am. I put the phone away, run my fingers through my hair, and glance at the clock behind the bar.
Forty minutes to go before the flight. Not long now. Nerves are starting to creep over me like little insects, and I take a deep gulp of vodka, draining my glass.
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. 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.
It's just … did you know that …' She gestures awkwardly to my front. 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. You deserve a break. But … can you just upgrade people like that? We use our discretion. And this flight is so short. I've never been upgraded before in my life! I can't quite believe she's really letting me do this. 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.
There's no first class on this flight. Thanks very much. 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.
Some champagne? 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.
Just a brandy. 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 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. Safety exits. Brace position. If life jackets are required, please assist the elderly and children first. Oh God— Why am I even looking at this? How will it help me to gaze at pictures of little stick people jumping into the ocean while their plane explodes behind them?
I stuff the safety instructions quickly back in their pocket and take a gulp of champagne. We provide full conference call facilities, and meeting rooms, should you require them.
Would you be interested? I am a top businesswoman. I am a top highflying business executive. I have a large team, and obviously they need a lot of briefing. On business matters. I gave them all the day off. That sound. That kind of whining, coming from the wing? I just … was wondering. Just out of interest. Some information about our executive facilities at Gatwick. Why is the plane bumping?
A sudden rush of fear hits me with no warning. This is madness. Sitting in this big heavy box, with no way of escape, thousands and thousands of feet above the ground … I can't do this on my own. I have an overpowering need to talk to someone.
Someone reassuring. Someone safe. Instinctively I fish out my mobile phone, but immediately the air hostess swoops down on me. Er … sorry.
They've only said it about fifty-five zillion times. I am such a durr-brain. Anyway, never mind. It doesn't matter. I'm fine. I put the phone away in my bag, and try to concentrate on an old episode of Fawlty Towers which is showing on the screen. Maybe I'll start counting again. Three hundred and forty-nine.
Three hundred and fifty. Three hundred and— Fuck. My head jerks up. What was that bump? Did we just get hit? OK, don't panic. It was just a bump. I'm sure everything's fine. We probably just flew into a pigeon or something. Where was I? Three hundred and fifty-one. Three hundred and fifty-two. Three hundred and fifty— And that's it. That's the moment. Everything seems to fragment.
I hear the screams like a wave over my head, almost before I realize what's happening. We're falling. Oh God, we're falling. We're plummeting downwards. The plane's dropping through the air like a stone. A man over there has just shot up through the air and banged his head on the ceiling.
He's bleeding. I'm gasping, clutching onto my seat, trying not to do the same thing, but I can feel myself being wrenched upwards, it's like someone's tugging me, like gravity's suddenly switched the other way.
There's no time to think. My mind can't … Bags are flying around, drinks are spilling, one of the cabin crew has fallen over, she's clutching at a seat … Oh God.
OK, it's slowing down now. It's … it's better. I just … I just can't … I … I look at the American man, and he's grasping his seat as tightly as I am. I feel sick. I think I might be sick. It's … it's kind of … back to normal. I can't listen. I can't think. I have switched on the seatbelt signs and would ask that you all return to your seats as quickly as—' There's another huge lurch, and his voice is drowned by screams and cries all round the plane.
It's like a bad dream. A bad rollercoaster dream. The cabin crew are all strapping themselves into their seats. One of the hostesses is mopping blood on her face. A minute ago they were happily doling out honey-roast peanuts. This is what happens to other people in other planes. People on safety videos. Not me. I can't breathe, let alone keep calm. What are we going to do? Are we all supposed to just sit here while the plane bucks like an out-of-control horse? I can hear someone behind me reciting 'Hail Mary, full of grace …' and a fresh, choking panic sweeps through me.
People are praying. This is real. We're going to die. Did I just say that aloud? This could be the last person I ever see alive. I take in the lines etched around his dark eyes; his strong jaw, shaded with stubble. The plane suddenly drops down again, and I give an involuntary shriek. But he's gripping his seat-arms, too. I know we're not.
This is it. I'm twenty-five years old, for God's sake. I'm not ready. I haven't achieved anything. I'm not a top businesswoman at all. I'm just a crappy assistant and I just had my first ever big meeting and it was a complete disaster. Half the time I haven't got a clue what people are talking about, I don't know what logistical means, I'm never going to get promoted, and I owe my dad four thousand quid, and I've never really been in love …' I draw myself up short with a jolt.
I'm completely losing it. And anyway, what I just said wasn't true. Because I am in love with Connor. It must be the altitude or something, confusing my mind. Flustered, I push the hair off my face and try to get a hold of myself.
OK, let's try counting again. Three hundred and fifty … six. Three hundred and— Oh God. The plane's lurching again. We're plummeting. Maybe they used to be proud of me. But then my cousin Kerry came to live with us and all at once it was like my parents couldn't see me any more. All they could see was her. She was fourteen when she arrived, and I was ten, and I thought it was going to be great, you know. Like having an older sister. But it didn't work out like that …' I can't stop talking.
I just can't stop. I have no idea what this guy in the grey suit is going on about. Plus I've already forgotten his name. And I only met him ten minutes ago. What does that mean, again? Oh God. What if they ask me? Don't be stupid, Emma. They won't suddenly demand, 'What does logistical mean?
Obviously I know these things. And anyway, if they mention it again I'll change the subject. Or I'll say I'm post-logistical or something.
The important thing is to keep confident and businesslike. I can do this. This is my big chance and I'm not going to screw it up.
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