Lucy in the Sky

the lion’s share of the rent while I pulled warm pints in a pub most evenings and did work experience at Mandy Nim PR, a public relations firm which promotes everything from vodka to lipgloss. After eleven weeks–one week short of the time I’d given myself to find a ‘proper job’–I was lucky enough to be in the right place at the right time and landed a junior position there. Now I work as a senior PR and my friends tell me I’ve got the best job: taking home all the freebies I could ever dream of.
    Thinking about it now, even in those early days James would often arrive home later than I did after my shifts down the pub. Were all those late nights at the office really necessary? Surely he wasn’t cheating on me back then…
    No. No. It’s not possible. I just don’t get it. He would never cheat! Would he?
    Oh, Christ, I don’t understand. Maybe there’s been some mistake with that text. Maybe his friends sent it! That could be it. Maybe he was down the pub and they grabbed his phone when he went to the Gents. That’s possible, isn’t it?
    But in my heart of hearts I know that’s simply not true.
    Fatso is guffawing at some joke on the TV screen. His wife whimpers in her sleep. I wonder if she’s getting a better night’s kip sitting upright in a chair than she would at home in bed where the gravity of his body weight must pull her in. She looks fairly peaceful.
    I stretch my legs out under the seat in front of me and flex my feet. I’d like to go for a walk up and down the aisle but I can’t be bothered going through the rigmarole of getting out past Fatso again.
    Oh, bugger him! I ease myself up and over his sleeping wife. ‘Don’t get up!’ I whisper loudly as he looks at me in surprise. I tread carefully, toes nudging aside his flabby flesh that was spilling over onto the armrests. Finally I’m free.
    I pace the aisles for a couple of minutes before starting to feel self-conscious. Eventually I go and lock myself in one of the toilets. I look tired, drawn. My eyes are red and puffy.
    Oh, James…I love you. I don’t want to lose you. This flight is taking forever. I’ve never gone so long without being able to use my phone. I sit down on the toilet seat and start to weep with frustration.
    What am I going to do? The thought of moving all my stuff out of our flat…
    Our lovely, lovely flat. We bought it last summer. It’s in Marylebone, just off the High Street. It’s only a small one-bedroom, but I adore it.
    For a short, sharp moment, anger surges through me. No. He should move. Bastard! If he’s been shagging around…
    But my rage soon dissolves back into despair. Where would I go? Would he move in with her? I couldn’t even afford themortgage on my own. If I moved out, would she move in? What would I do with all my stuff? How would we divide our CDs? DVDs? Who would get the sofa? The TV? The bed? Oh, no, the bed. Please don’t let me think about it.
    There was a night back in January, when I woke up at two o’clock in the morning to see James at the foot of the bed taking off his suit trousers, seemingly trying not to fall over. He’d told me he was working late, but the stench of cigarette smoke and alcohol filled the air. I pretended to be asleep because I didn’t want to talk to him when he was drunk. The next morning he denied he had a hangover, even though his face was practically grey. He insisted he’d had only two drinks after getting his work done. I don’t know why he lied. It was obvious that he went out and got hammered. But sometimes it simply isn’t worth arguing with him.
    Just the other evening I was searching through the kitchen cupboards for my box of chocolate cherry liqueurs. I knew James hadn’t eaten them because he doesn’t like them, but I asked if he knew where they were, anyway.
    ‘No,’ he’d replied.
    ‘I can’t find them anywhere.’
    ‘Oh, shit, that’s right, I gave them away.’
    ‘You what? Who to? There were hardly any left!’
    ‘A tramp.’
    ‘A tramp?’ I asked in disbelief.
    ‘Yeah.’
    ‘Oh, please.’ I shook my head.
    ‘It’s true! He was rummaging around the black bin bags on the pavement downstairs and making a right mess. I ran back up and grabbed the first thing I could find to get him to bugger off.’
    ‘James, cut it out. Where have you put them? Stop winding me up.’
    ‘Lucy, I’m not joking. Why would I lie?’
    ‘I don’t bloody know. Anyway why would you give liqueurs to a tramp? He might’ve