By Sarah Bilston
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It was a little bit disorienting. I’ve always loved flying. I love the adrenaline rush as the jet speeds down the runway. I love the little dinky dinners in square white boxes. I love sipping gin-and-tonics at eleven in the morning while watching movies of scenically catastrophic destruction. Not that flying is without its downsides, of course: I don’t like tucking my knees into my belly button (a necessary feat if someone belonging to the human race is to fit into an economy class seat), and I don’t enjoy being told off by gaunt ladies with ugly hats.
Knots of people were collected on each of the three dove-gray silk sofas, while others milled restlessly on the polished parquet floor. Three men were having an intense conversation around the fireplace while a fourth listened, tapping his fingers edgily on the marble surface. There were at least ten people in the kitchen area, spilling off bar stools or talking across the granite countertops while a man with hooded eyes stirred something steaming and blackberry-colored in a copper vat on the stove.
How do I know you’re not going to chase after Ellen the moment my plane leaves the ground? You’re going to see her every time you go to visit your mum. I can see it now, you’ll be spiritually drawn to the woman who is tending your ailing mother, you won’t be able to help yourself, and then she’ll bend over to change a bedpan and you’ll catch a glimpse of her pink suspenders, and-” “Jeanie, I won’t. I promise. She isn’t—I mean, this is cloud cuckoo-land! Really. Have I ever been unfaithful to you?