Amy’s tears magically disappear. She looks completely shocked at my outburst. As if I’m a deserted wife who has turned to drink in despair.
‘You shouldn’t be so bitter,’ she says in a voice that implies she actually feels sorry for me.
I’m slightly embarrassed now. God, Amy thinks I’m some kind of man-hater with a massive chip wearing down my shoulder. And she couldn’t be more wrong. I don’t hate men at all. Not at all. I love them in fact. But there’s no point backtracking
now or else I’ll really confuse the poor girl. So I say nothing and silently squirm.
‘You must have been badly hurt in the past,’ Amy says after a long pause. ‘I’m sure people think Adam Kirrane is a bastard but they’re wrong.’
‘How do you know?’ I ask pretending to be casually interested even though my internal organs feel like they’ve suddenly tied themselves into one gigantic
knot. How does Amy know the first thing about Adam Kirrane? Granted, she seems to know a hell of a lot about every pilot working in the company but Adam? My Adam? How does Amy know anything about him?’
‘I think people in the public eye have a very difficult time,’ Amy insists and I notice the colour has returned to her face.
‘How’s that?’
‘Well, people, as in the public, people like you and me say . . . ’
She pauses and I wait for her to continue. I’m not sure I like where this is going.
‘Well, the public just judge the rich and famous by what they read about in the press.’
I wait for her to continue. I’m intrigued but also slightly scared. Is Amy Adam’s secret sister or something?
‘I mean you can’t blame people. I’m sure I’ve been guilty of it, you know? I’ve seen pictures of supermodels or whatever and have automatically thought they’ve been vain or bitchy or whatever . . . ’
Jesus, would she ever just get to the point?
‘But then I’ve met them, say, on a flight and they’ve been very nice.’
‘God Amy, just because someone’s polite and says ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ on a flight doesn’t mean they’re an extremely nice person. I once had the most charming man on a flight to Paris and when we arrived, the French police were waiting to handcuff him.’
‘For what?’
‘Murder,’ I say morbidly.
‘No way! Tell us more,’ Amy shrieks.
No way am I telling her more. She can forget it. Pick-up is only a few hours away and I still haven’t got Adam’s bloody secret out of her. But I’m nearly there. It’s just at the tip of her tongue and I’m not giving up now.
‘I’ll tell you on the way home,’ I promise.
She looks disappointed as if she knows I’m just fobbing her off.
‘So as you see,’ I badger on, not wanting to lose momentum. ‘As you can see, there’s no telling what someone is like just because you serve them a cup of tea and they thank you for it.’
‘Adam Kirrane is
not
somebody I’ve just served on a flight though,’ Amy lowers her voice as if someone might be outside eavesdropping.
I take a deep breath. This conversation is pure torture. In fact I’d like to press the rewind button and then erase.
‘Was he on one of your flights?’
‘Well no, but . . .’
But WHAT? I want to scream.
‘I dunno if I should say.’
My heart sinks. You know I had a horrible niggling feeling that this might happen.
I sit on the bed rigidly. If I give her enough rope and all that . . .
‘I promised not to . . .’ She says uncertainly.
‘You can trust me,’ I tell her; aware I’m probably blushing furiously. I’m sure I look as guilty as a cocaine smuggler going through Schipol airport.
‘Well, you know Sandy Elkinson?
Do I know her? Jesus, of course I do. I mean, who doesn’t? She’s the best-looking girl in the airline. All the pilots want to marry her and all the airhostesses want to be her. Not only is Sandy Ireland’s answer to Claudia Schiffer, she’s also a tennis pro who speaks five languages and has a degree in law, but the amazing thing is that Sandy
is also very funny and nice. It’s impossible not to like her. But what has Sandy got to do with anything?
‘She’s dating Adam.’
Ouch. I feel I’ve been slapped in the face. My heart has been sliced with an imaginary knife. I get up from the bed slowly and unsteadily. I feel faint.
‘I’d better go and get ready,’ I say weakly.
‘Sure,’ Amy smiles, as if she hasn’t noticed my stricken face. ‘I feel much better now by the way.’
‘Good.’
‘And you won’t tell anyone?’
‘About what?’ I ask, dazed.
‘About Adam Kirrane and Sandy.’
‘I won’t,’ I promise.
I leave her room quietly, somehow dragging my heavy heart with me.
I hate writing. It’s really crap, anti-social and headache inducing. No wonder most writers are bonkers. I’ve spent the last two days writing my script and in the process I’ve forgotten to sleep or eat. I’m completely engrossed in my script. My parents think I have lost the plot but one day, when I collect my Oscar for best screenplay, they’ll realise they had a genius sitting in their midst.
By the way my sister and I are not talking. She picked up my script yesterday, skimmed through it and said it was shit. I silently fumed but said nothing.
What makes family members think they’ve got a God given right to insult each other anyway? If somebody on the street spoke to me the way my family sometimes do, I’d have them arrested. And certainly if any of my friends spoke to me that way, I would never entertain them again. Unfortunately family members are like beetroot stains – it’s almost impossible to remove them.
I will not stoop to Ruth’s level though. Instead I will simply feel sorry for her because she is marrying somebody the family secretly distrusts, and her husband-to-be is the most unreliable person we’ve ever met. Ruth ignores our advice though. Her belief is that one man, any man, is better than none.
‘Suppose it doesn’t work out?’ I asked her one day, knowing in my heart of hearts that her marriage probably doesn’t stand a chance. Her fiancé is a serious nut.
‘I’ll get divorced,’ she said defiantly.
‘But wouldn’t that be awful?’
‘It’s better than remaining single. At least if I’m divorced, people will know that I was loved once. That can’t be said for people who never get married.’
She’ll learn, I thought sadly. And she’ll learn the hard way. My sister honestly thinks none of us want her to be happy. Anyway she was over yesterday to discuss her wedding dress but I’m not going to bore you stupid with details. It’s bad enough that my family are so involved without you having to be part of it too. The only reason I mentioned her was because she was the first person to see my script. And the last. Nobody else will get to see it now. Nobody else will get the chance to ridicule my work.
Dad has just come into the kitchen and needs to check something on the Internet. He says he heard from Mr Foley next door that there are great last minute deals going to Lanzarote. Mr Foley has written down the travel web address for him and says not to leave it too late or all the bargains will be snapped up.
I save my hard work into ‘My documents’. I hope my dad
does
get a last minute trip to Lanzarote
and takes off with Mum. I wouldn’t mind the house to myself for a week so I can write in peace.
I head up to my room and check my phone. No text messages. No. No missed calls either. Not a peep from Adam since my overnight in Boston. But
sure who did I think I was kidding? As if he was going to call me when he’s dating my ‘supermodel’ colleague whom I used to think was a lovely girl. But don’t any more.
How can I like somebody who has helped break my heart?
I’m trying not to think about Adam and the fact that I have been discarded like an empty pack of
fags. Or at least ignored for the last few days. I don’t like thinking I’ve been dumped as he might still call. I am a strong woman. I have a lot going for me and just because one man hasn’t called yet, doesn’t mean it’s the end of the world. My script is really coming together now and should be finished by the end of the month. New Year’s Eve is my deadline. It’s a good night to have a deadline because it gives me something to do on the worst night of the year.
Being disciplined is the only way forward, I’ve decided. Successful people are ruthless when it comes to time wasting. And my script will only ever get finished if I place my bum firmly on my seat and keep scribbling. Sometimes I sit at the computer and wonder where the whole story is going. Other times I wonder is it just a load of old crap and if I’m completely wasting my time. Perhaps I’m just a talentless git who won’t accept it. Then again, suppose Richard Curtis had had that attitude? I’d never have had the pleasure of watching
Notting Hill
a hundred times. I once again turn my attentions to the computer screen. There’s nothing more terrifying than the blank screen but I suppose most writers go through this. If it was easy, then everybody would be doing it.
I’m going to LA tomorrow and intend doing a lot of thinking over there. I’m really looking forward to it. A bit of sunshine in my life. When I’m out in LA I’ll do nothing but sit by the pool drinking water and eating fruit. Then when I come back I’ll be like a new person: slimmer and slightly more tanned depending on the weather . . .
Oh God, I think I’ll just leave the script for now. I’m bored silly writing it. I suppose I’ll have to wait for inspiration to hit me and it’s certainly not doing that now.
I’ve agreed to meet Debbie for a couple of drinks later. I’m not really looking forward to it. Do you think I should tell her about Donald? I mean, seriously, what would you do if you were me? It’s a hard call and I wish to God I wasn’t in this situation. After all, I don’t want to be the bearer of bad news but if I’m supposed to be a good friend, I’ll just have to tell her straight, won’t I?
The other thing I have to do is tell Tim our relationship is not working out. I’m not looking forward to that either. I don’t want to hurt him but it’s just got to be done. I’m sure he’ll get over me fairly quickly though. I hope he has the strength to move on.
Debbie looks a million dollars. I meet her in the Cock Tavern in Swords, which is her local pub and a popular haunt with airline staff. It’s also Debbie’s local pub. At least it’s become her local ever since she started seeing Donald.
Nowadays, wherever the pilots hang out, Debbie tends to be not too far away. She’s meeting him here later. I hope I can try and be civil to him, knowing what I now know but it won’t be easy. My mother always told me that my facial expressions leave no doubt to what I’m thinking. I guess I’ll never be a poker champion so.
Debbie wants to know all about my trip to Boston. I tell her about the underwear I picked up in Banana Republic, my run-in with Snakely, The Littlest Bar and about meeting Derek and Mike. I don’t mention Amy. For obvious reasons.
‘Oh that Mike is very cute,’ Debbie’s face lights up with interest.
‘He’s not too bad,’ I agree.
‘What was he saying?’
‘Oh this and that, you know, airline stuff. You know what pilots are like.’
‘Tell me about it,’ Debbie rolls her eyes to the ceiling as if she finds it all very annoying. But I know she loves it really.
‘Who else was with you?’ she probes.
Oh God, I’d better tell her. If I don’t tell her she’ll wonder why.
‘Do you know that girl, Amy?’
‘Yeah, yeah, ’course I do. She lives in this place. Bit of an airhead really, herself and her pal, Sandy.’
‘Do you know Sandy?’ My eyes widen. Perhaps Debbie will have some gossip about her.
‘I’ve flown with her a couple of times. She’s pilot-mad. I used to think she had a bit of a thing for Donald.’
‘But not any more?’
‘No, I haven’t seen her around for a while. She rarely comes into the Cock Tavern any more even though she’s renting in Swords with a couple of the girls. She must be going out with someone.’
‘I wonder who,’ I say testily.
‘Who knows and who cares?’ Debbie shrugs. ‘I can’t keep up with all the airhostesses and their boyfriends.’ She raises her Bacardi and Coke. ‘Cheers,’ she smiles.
The bar fills up but there’s no sign of Donald yet. Just as well really. It means we can enjoy our drinks in peace. I wonder is this a good time to tell Debbie about Donald. I’ve a feeling it isn’t. Somehow I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to bring myself to tell her. She looks so happy. She has a glow about her. I wish I had the same glow.
‘So how’s Tim?’ she asks politely.
‘Dunno, I haven’t seen him in ages,’ I admit.
‘I’m seeing him tonight, but probably for the last time.’
‘Whaddya mean?’ Debbie looks puzzled.
‘It’s just not working out,’ I sigh. ‘I mean what’s the point in continuing to see someone when you know they’re not the One?’
‘Tim’s not that bad.’
‘I know he’s not that bad, but not that bad isn’t that good, is it? He’s not as nice as you think anyway Debs. I know him a lot better than you do and this is not a decision I made today or yesterday. I’ve seriously thought it over. And do you know what
I’ve decided? I’d rather be single and alone than attached to the wrong person.’