Up for Love in London Read Free

starts to jiggle, so he heads straight
for the flight deck. “Let’s talk later,” he says, so I’ve missed my
opportunity for an update on Brad. But what could Jim tell me
anyway? That Brad misses me? That he realizes he made a mistake? Or
that he was prowling all over Paris with Jennifer on his arm. I’m
sensing that my hurt is turning into anger. While I’m not sure if
that’s a good thing, it’s better than the pain I felt before.
    Thankfully the
minor bumps don’t erupt into full-blown turbulence. The seat belt
sign stays off for now and the service is in full swing. Hot towels
follow one round of cocktails and I send David out to collect them
while Richard starts with table linen. I remove Charles’ steak from
the oven, set the temperature for 325 degrees and then turn the
timer on for 20 minutes. I’ll pop his casserole in later. Hopefully
the meat will stay rare.
    It’s like a
ballet in the first class cabin. Richard and David are working in
tandem, handing out trays, offering bread, pouring wine. In the
economy section, passengers are probably finishing their main
course but up here, the hot casseroles won’t be ready for another
five minutes. I’ve just finished setting up the dessert trolley
when the plane starts to sway.
    I’m sorry for
people who are frightened by turbulence. Even with all the safety
drills we perform, I never worry about crashing. A pilot once told
me the most dangerous part of the journey was the drive to the
airport. Planes are my comfort zone. I feel safer here than on the
ground.
    China cups and
plates rattle and coffee pots clatter as a loud “ping” heralds the
seat belt sign. Jim’s announcement is short and reassuring. “Ladies
and gentleman, we’re passing through a pocket of rough air. It
shouldn’t last long but I’ve turned the seat belt sign on as a
precaution. I hope you’re enjoying the excellent service offered by
our flight attendants tonight.”
    The bumps
subside as quickly as they began, so we opt to continue. I pull the
hot casseroles from the oven and sort them by seat and row number –
1A, 1B etc. to make it easier for Richard to serve.
    I touch
Charles’ foil-covered steak. It feels hot on top but may not be
heated all the way through. Well, he did want it rare. The food is
all pre-cooked, so he’s not likely to die from anything, at least
not on this flight. I decide to take it to him myself.
    “Your steak,
Mr. Sterling,” I announce as I place it on his table.
    He appears to
be surprised and grateful. “Thank you, Lauren.”
    That was a
shock. Even though I wear a name tag on my uniform, hardly anyone
ever uses it.
    “You’re very
welcome. I hope it’s as you like it.”
    “I’m sure it
will be.”
    ~
    Richard hands
the coffee and dessert service to David and me so he can open the
In-Flight duty free shop. I’ve heard stories from senior flight
attendants, ones who flew during the golden age of aviation, about
first class passengers buying gifts for them, like Hermes scarves
or Chanel perfume. I never saw those days, so I can’t really miss
them and I hear that first class these days is about as good as it
gets.
    We arrive at
Charles’ seat with the coffee trolley. He touches my arm and
smiles. “The steak was perfect.”
    “I’m glad you
enjoyed it.” My standard reply, but this time I mean it. The
conversation might have progressed but David pushes the trolley
forward and I back through the curtains and into the galley.
    The interphone
bell chimes and I’m hopeful it’s Jim, inviting me to the flight
deck. It’s a call from the aft cabin. “Lauren, it’s Olivia.
Remember we flew to Paris in September?”
    It takes a
moment for me to picture her. “Olivia, hi! How did you get on
board? Are you travelling as a passenger?”
    “No, I’m
working. I was supposed to fly to Frankfurt tonight but I was
drafted because someone from your flight called in sick. I was late
boarding, that’s why you didn’t see me.”
    “Why