credit cards for a flower child. And here, look at this, the infamous driver’s license photo. I’ll show you mine if you show me yours. God you’re even cuter without a beard. When was this taken? When you were three? You’re even wearing a suit.” Then she read out his name aloud. “Clifton Arnold Vanderveldt––the third? What the hell! Really? So you’re slumming it. I knew there was something about you. You hauled your humpy Hampton ass down to Coney Island to see what’s up with the riff-raff. I don’t believe it!”
“It’s like you said. Some things fit, some don’t. This fits.”
“Funny, I want to go all Brit, and you want to go hip. Neither of us content with the persona we were born into.”
“It will come back to haunt us someday. I’m sure.”
Chapter Four - Flying High in the Cockpit
A s the 747 made its way through the night sky, Gillian dined on Organic Scotch salmon, and a salad of fresh spring greens. Gone were the days of indulging in heavily sauced and rich first class fare. Some people didn’t know when to stop gorging simply because it was included in the overly expensive price of the ticket. The first few times in first class, she had been guilty of eating non stop shrimp cocktails, second helpings of prime rib, trifle, and a variety of accompanying liquors. Now she ate minimally, but well––Iranian caviar definitely, and whatever premium champagne there was. Champagne had little affect on her, rather than to help maintain a day-dreamy state, so she managed to keep the flight attendant refilling her glass at regular intervals. It tasted that much better in a crystal flute, as did the food on the bone china. The days of disposables were long gone.
The fact that she dined alone wasn’t new. Edgar had disappeared somewhere to conference or work and it was just as well. She thought again about her one time with Spokes, and what it was that had driven her to it. What was it that kept her from making the leap, cutting ties, or just admitting that she was living a lie? This, she knew now on the twentieth year of their being together, that insanity was perpetually hoping for the outcome to be different no matter how many times you banged your head on a brick wall. But it wasn’t just that, it was the creeping thought that Edgar was having an affair. She had spent years simply believing that he was no longer capable of sex, that it was something that just didn’t interest him. She didn’t press the issue since her work left her no time for it. And the rare times they had had sex, she could swear she could hear his mind at work, filing affidavits, pleading his case to the jury. His touch was as intimate as someone screwing in a light bulb. But now she got a sense, call it her intuition, that he was perhaps having an affair.
Tonight she savoured a rich crême brulée and then an uncharacteristic espresso. She wanted to be at least a little alert for her trip to the cockpit, and she wanted to wear her heals, not swan around in stocking feet or slippers as some did.
After her last sip of espresso she dabbed the corners of her mouth and then got up and paid a visit to the washroom, where she gave her tousled red hair a quick fluff, dabbed a few drops of freesia scented Jo Malone in the nape of her neck and, just for good measure, behind her knee.
When she returned to her seat she noticed the fresh-faced Scot waiting for her, almost at attention. “Can I escort you to the cockpit?”
“Why, of course.” Gillian thought this would be hilarious since she had to pass through the first class lounge to get to the cockpit and would undoubtedly see Edgar. Would he care? Would he recognize her? Would he realize that his wife had been granted entrance to the most secure part of the plane?
At the top of the stairs, Gillian looked around. “I thought there was a lounge up here.”
“No ma’am, just seats.”
“We’ll then, where’s the lounge?” Gillian was actually relieved that
“It’s like you said. Some things fit, some don’t. This fits.”
“Funny, I want to go all Brit, and you want to go hip. Neither of us content with the persona we were born into.”
“It will come back to haunt us someday. I’m sure.”
Chapter Four - Flying High in the Cockpit
A s the 747 made its way through the night sky, Gillian dined on Organic Scotch salmon, and a salad of fresh spring greens. Gone were the days of indulging in heavily sauced and rich first class fare. Some people didn’t know when to stop gorging simply because it was included in the overly expensive price of the ticket. The first few times in first class, she had been guilty of eating non stop shrimp cocktails, second helpings of prime rib, trifle, and a variety of accompanying liquors. Now she ate minimally, but well––Iranian caviar definitely, and whatever premium champagne there was. Champagne had little affect on her, rather than to help maintain a day-dreamy state, so she managed to keep the flight attendant refilling her glass at regular intervals. It tasted that much better in a crystal flute, as did the food on the bone china. The days of disposables were long gone.
The fact that she dined alone wasn’t new. Edgar had disappeared somewhere to conference or work and it was just as well. She thought again about her one time with Spokes, and what it was that had driven her to it. What was it that kept her from making the leap, cutting ties, or just admitting that she was living a lie? This, she knew now on the twentieth year of their being together, that insanity was perpetually hoping for the outcome to be different no matter how many times you banged your head on a brick wall. But it wasn’t just that, it was the creeping thought that Edgar was having an affair. She had spent years simply believing that he was no longer capable of sex, that it was something that just didn’t interest him. She didn’t press the issue since her work left her no time for it. And the rare times they had had sex, she could swear she could hear his mind at work, filing affidavits, pleading his case to the jury. His touch was as intimate as someone screwing in a light bulb. But now she got a sense, call it her intuition, that he was perhaps having an affair.
Tonight she savoured a rich crême brulée and then an uncharacteristic espresso. She wanted to be at least a little alert for her trip to the cockpit, and she wanted to wear her heals, not swan around in stocking feet or slippers as some did.
After her last sip of espresso she dabbed the corners of her mouth and then got up and paid a visit to the washroom, where she gave her tousled red hair a quick fluff, dabbed a few drops of freesia scented Jo Malone in the nape of her neck and, just for good measure, behind her knee.
When she returned to her seat she noticed the fresh-faced Scot waiting for her, almost at attention. “Can I escort you to the cockpit?”
“Why, of course.” Gillian thought this would be hilarious since she had to pass through the first class lounge to get to the cockpit and would undoubtedly see Edgar. Would he care? Would he recognize her? Would he realize that his wife had been granted entrance to the most secure part of the plane?
At the top of the stairs, Gillian looked around. “I thought there was a lounge up here.”
“No ma’am, just seats.”
“We’ll then, where’s the lounge?” Gillian was actually relieved that
Similar Books
