Lucy in the Sky

fury bubbling away in my very core, I comply. Power trip over, they smugly sashay off down the aisle. I’m tempted to hurl my phone at the back of Franny’s frickin’ head.
    That lying, cheating son of a bitch. I’m going to kill him.
    The plane takes off and I’m so full of rage that I barely notice. The forty-something man and his wife/girlfriend/mistress (most likely) next to me shift uncomfortably in their seats. And while I’d like to think I have a certain amount of self-control, at the moment I’m not entirely sure I do. It’s just as well I’ve been given a window seat–I’d probably be rampaging down the aisle, screaming like a banshee, if I could get out. I can’t handle another eight hours of this.
    The sun is setting as we start our journey through another night. It calms my mood somewhat and it occurs to me that I haven’t actually eaten anything since leaving London yesterday evening. Four cocktails on an empty stomach–oh, dear. I suddenly have an urgent need to go to the toilet. The people next tome are only too eager to oblige, standing up and eyeing me warily as I squeeze past them.
    The nasty fluorescent light in the bathroom flickers on. I clock my diamond earrings in my reflection and seriously consider tearing them from my ears and flushing them down the toilet. Ha! Knowing how the bastard lied through his teeth to me, they’re probably not even real. Lucy in the sky with cubic fucking zirconia. That’d be about right.
    The air hostesses have started to serve drinks at the top of the aisle. I figure they can back up into Business Class and let me take my seat so I walk up towards them. The older one, Franny, nods at the younger one, who swivels round and spots me before turning back to Franny with an almost imperceptible shake of her immaculately groomed head. Then the bitches make me wait back by the toilets while they carry on serving the entire cabin with their frosty, false little smiles until finally they reach me and I’m able to pass. I am livid, but I won’t let them see they’ve got to me. I get back to my seat and realise I haven’t even been given a drink.
    Franny and her evil counterpart are serving food now. The chicken stir-fry is slimy and unappetising, but I’m famished so I eat it all. Even the fake-cream sponge goes down nicely. The alcohol is starting to wear off and I find I’m exhausted, although I’m still so mad at James I can barely breathe.
    So he lied about cheating. I can’t believe I actually apologised for suspecting him! How dare he? The image of him in bed with another girl comes to me once more, but I channel my anger back fast and strong. I can’t deal with those sick nerves again–anger is much easier to handle.
    I need to go to the loo again. The air hostesses have alreadycleared our dinner trays, but they’re still working on the seats behind us. The curtain that divides Economy and Business Class is tied back and the Business Class toilets are tantalisingly close. What the hell, I think, and walk up the aisle.
    It’s much nicer in here. They’ve even got hand cream and flowers.
    There’s a knock at the door. What now? I wee as quickly as I can while the knocking increases in urgency and volume, and then unlock the door. Surprise, surprise, it’s Franny’s frosty friend. She must have seen me come in here. I haven’t even had time to use the hand cream yet–damn.
    ‘Miss, these are Business Class toilets–the Economy Class toilets are at the other end,’ she tells me condescendingly.
    I motion to the passengers in Business Class and say, ‘I don’t think anyone here really mi—Wait. Are those telephones ?’
    An Asian businessman has a phone to his ear and this phone is attached by a cord to the back of the seat in front of him.
    ‘That’s certainly what they look like, don’t they?’
    I look at her desperately. ‘I need to make a phone call.’
    ‘I’m afraid you can’t. They’re for Business Class passengers only.’
    ‘No, you don’t understand. I have to make an urgent call.’
    ‘I’m sorry, but there is nothing I can do. You need to take your seat now.’
    I should’ve known better than to piss off an air hostess.
    She determinedly guides me back to my seat as I look over my shoulder in desperation at the phones. I don’t care that there’s only a few hours left of this flight. I want to call the son of a bitch and scream at him NOW. I will use that phone.
    An hour later, when all the other