Famous (46 page)

‘You need something?’ she asked.

‘Yes,’ I replied, teeth gritted with the pain of desperately trying not to wet myself. ‘Toilet.’

She lifted up the rope and wheeled me out of the cordoned area and around the back of the check-in queues, to the toilets.

This must be what it’s like to be an old person, I thought, as the lady helped me to balance on one leg as I pulled down my knickers and gathered up my skirt, then put her large arms under my shoulders and hoisted me onto the toilet. No privacy or dignity to be had.

‘You yell me when you finished,’ she said, closing the door behind her.

The relief was indescribable, although the results were nothing to write home about. It was a miracle I’d managed to wee anything considering my advanced level of dehydration.

‘Finished,’ I called out, meekly. But no one was forthcoming.

‘I’m finished!’ I called again, louder this time. Just like I was three-years-old and needed my mummy to wipe my bottom.

‘Sorry,’ said the lady, opening the door. ‘I go toilet too.’

Knickers back up and me back in the wheelchair, she wheeled me out of the toilet and across the terminal. I presumed I was heading back to the ropes.

‘On plane soon,’ she said. ‘We go for little walk ’til then.’

No more ropes. This was good news.

Until she wheeled me straight past my colleagues, who were all gathering their things ready for the boarding call but who, despite this, still managed a final stare and loud whisper as I passed.

Please, God, I prayed, don’t let me be sitting beside any of them on the plane. Surely I’ve suffered enough?

But it appeared God had his hearing aid turned down, because when I was wheeled and then carried onto the very full plane fifteen minutes later I was lucky enough to be sitting in the front row, with room for my broken leg, but unlucky enough to be sitting directly beside Him. He looked just as surprised to see me.

‘Oh for fucksake, what are the odds?’ I muttered, as he stood up and assisted my carrier to deposit me into my seat.

‘Do
not
touch me,’ I hissed, pushing away his helping hands.

Bloody hell, I thought, four hours of sitting next to Him. What had I done in my past life to deserve such rewards? Murdered my mother? Conned old people out of their retirement funds? Slept with a priest?

‘Jools,’ he whispered, once we were left alone, ‘I know you’re angry with me, but you have to understand, I had
no
idea how serious it was. And I couldn’t have stayed with you at reception last night . . . what if someone had seen us together?’

There had been just
so
many other people riding bicycles around the resort and hanging out at reception at 2 a.m.

‘Gary,’ I snarled, spelling it out as slowly as I could, ‘In case you hadn’t no-ticed e-ver-y-bo-dy KNOWS we were SHAG-GING!’

‘Not everybody,’ he whispered, clearly delusional. ‘My wife doesn’t.’

‘Not yet,’ I replied. But it was only a matter of time.

‘Jools . . .’ he said, reaching for my hand, but checking for spectators before he did so. I’d never seen him look so nervous. In fact I’d never seen him look nervous. Ever. He obviously thought I was going to spill the beans to his wife. But I had no intention of sinking that low, not yet anyway.

‘You know I think you’re a top girl . . .’

A top girl?
What a fucking wanker.

‘. . . and I wouldn’t have left you alone last night unless it had been absolutely necessary . . . for both of us.’

‘Gary,’ I snarled again, whipping my hand away from his, ‘I was just wondering if, perhaps, you would consider going and fucking yourself? Or, at the very least, shutting the
fuck
up?’

I plugged in my headphones, in case he didn’t get the message.

Four long hours later we finally landed at Auckland Airport, where I was carried to another wheelchair by airport staff and pushed through customs. Gary had wisely decided to leave me in peace for the rest of the flight, but only after I put on my eye mask and pretended to be asleep. Usually I stayed on full alert during a flight until the food came, in case the unthinkable happened and the trolley passed me by without stopping, but I just didn’t feel hungry. My stomach was far too busy churning with embarrassment, shame, anger and the remains of twelve Pina Coladas to process any food.

I was so glad to be off the plane and free of evil stares that I didn’t mind all the fresh pitiful stares which greeted me.
Poor girl!
Went and broke her leg on holiday!
I was glad not to be relying on The Bastard to carry my suitcase, he had finally had the good sense to make himself scarce. I asked my helper to wheel me very slowly so my colleagues could steam on ahead. With any luck I wouldn’t have to see them again. Well, at least not until I was back at work.

Work.
How on earth was I going to get there, let alone do any? Sick leave, I comforted myself. But it was a fleeting moment of comfort because I quickly remembered that, being a contractor, I wasn’t entitled to paid sick leave, or any leave for that matter.

Thankfully, Francie had offered to pick me up from the airport, so I was spared the agony of catching a taxi van with Gary and his faithful flock, who had congregated outside the terminal.

I’d texted Francie from Fiji, with minimal details of my physical demise, so I was spared a gasp of horror as I was wheeled through the arrival gate towards her. The pathetic look on my face warned her not to erupt into fits of hysterical laughter, and she read it well.

‘Hell’s bells,’ she said, taking the wheelchair from my helper. ‘Let’s get you out of here, babe.’

I bestowed her with the full gory details on the car journey home.

‘Wanker!’ she agreed. ‘Arse-licking bastard!’

Francie was my oldest and dearest friend. And just like all best friends, she was unfailingly loyal and more than willing and eager to hurl abuse at any man who dared to upset or cross me. Francie was a hand model. There were only a few professional hand models in the country and Francie was one of them. Naturally, she had lovely hands. Smooth and soft and wrinkle-free, with long slim fingers and perfect nails. Of course there was a lot of work involved in keeping her hands in such pristine condition. Weekly manicures and massages, only the best and most expensive hand creams, concocted from the sweat off a newborn emu’s brow, among other ingredients. And, for the love of God, no direct sunlight. Not to mention the insurance premiums she paid to safeguard them.

Finally I was back at my apartment after what had been, without any shadow of doubt, both the worst trip and the longest day of my entire life. Francie helped me to unpack and then kindly went to the supermarket to get me some much-needed provisions. She also offered to stay with me for a few days, which was a godsend.

I hope he gets mauled by a stray rabid dog, I thought, as I hoisted my throbbing leg up onto the sofa. I really, truly do.

About the Author

Kate Langdon is the best-selling author of four chick-lit novels –
That Slippery Slope
,
Famous
,
Making Lemonade
and
Next of Kin
. She stumbled across writing a book over several glasses of wine one evening and enjoyed it so much she decided to keep going. Not a very auspicious start to a writing career…but that’s where it all began nonetheless. Kate lives in Auckland, New Zealand with her partner and young son.