LITMIR.BIZ

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      The terminal is already abuzz with suited and booted businessmen on their way to Brussels or Belfast for a hard day’s wheeling and dealing.

      I scan the concourse, looking for a tall, wiry, bearded Scotsman, clutching a boarding pass for Edinburgh and a beautifully wrapped box.

      Couples cling to one another, off on romantic breaks to Vienna or Athens … Hang on a minute! My gaze rewinds to the Vienna check-in queue. Eyes narrowing, I move in for a closer look. It can’t possibly be. He’s ten and a half thousand miles away … and yet … I’d recognise that sunburnt, bald patch anywhere. (As a first class galley slave, you can spend a lot of time gazing at the back of pilots’ heads, patiently waiting, steaming-hot tea burning your hands, while they finish prattling on to air traffic control and punching buttons on the automatic pilot thingy.)

      It is him, I swear. And who’s that woman he’s got his arm wrapped around? It’s not Beverley, his wife. She looks young enough to be one of his daughters, but she definitely isn’t. I know this because I once served his family in first class when he took them on a working trip to Houston at Christmas.

      Swiping my shades from my pocket and pulling my cycle helmet down over my eyes, I venture nearer and take up position behind a pillar.

      ‘Vienna? Two passengers?’ says the check-in girl, switching on her Stepford-Wife smile. Taking their tickets, she taps furiously on the computer.

      ‘Any chance of an upgrade?’

      Oh, yes, that’s our Mikey all right. The cheapskate, asking for an upgrade on his twenty-pound concessionary ticket. Bloody typical.

      I’m tempted to walk right up to the desk and say, ‘Hey, Mike, what happened? Céline told me you were in Sydney.’ I’d love to see him try and wriggle out of that one. Talk about leading a double life – no, a triple life. How does he manage it?

      ‘Would all remaining passengers travelling to Edinburgh on BE2102, please proceed to gate five, where this flight is now closing. That’s all remaining passengers …’

      Oh, Lord! In all the drama I’ve completely forgotten about finding Mr Beardy Man – Mr Soon-To-Be-Divorced Beardy Man if I don’t get my act together pronto.

      Zipping my way in between trolleys and wheelie suitcases, I race towards the security gate. Standing on tiptoes, I spy him in the distance, collecting his coat, shoes, and a small gift bag from the conveyor belt.

      ‘Boarding pass,’ grunts the security man.

      ‘Please let me through. I need to give this to that gentleman down there – it’s really important,’ I beg, waving the box in the direction of the long line of travellers, waiting to be prodded and processed.

      ‘If you don’t have a boarding card, then this is as far as you go,’ he says firmly, darting me a scathing glare.

      ‘Please. I can’t explain now, but if I don’t get this to him …’

      ‘Stand aside,’ he growls, as a queue of red-eyed travellers starts to form behind me, brandishing their boarding passes, impatient to proceed.

      There’s nothing else for it – filling up my lungs to maximum capacity, I push out my diaphragm and emit a rip-roaring, show-stopping ‘WAIT!’

      It’s like someone has momentarily pressed the freeze-frame switch. All eyes swerve in my direction – all eyes but those of the one person whose attention I so desperately desire. He is now trundling along to gate five, blissfully unaware of the brewing storm about to hit north and south of the border.

      Back on the road, my mind is buzzing with the thought of what I’m going to say to Miss Cutler, and more importantly, do I tell Céline that Mike is not in Oz, but on a romantic, Viennese mini break with … with … another mistress?

      It’s just like one of those letters you find on the Cosmopolitan problem page:

      Dear Irma,

      One of my best friends has been dating a married man for ten years. He keeps promising her he’s going to leave. I saw him at the airport today, canoodling with another woman, who was not his wife. He’d told my friend he couldn’t see her as he was going away on business. Do I tell her and risk ruining our friendship, or do I turn a blind eye?

      Yours,

      Anonymous.

      Do I really need an agony aunt to advise me what to do, when the answer is spelt out before me in ten-foot, flashing, neon letters? TELL HER.

      ‘Oi! Look where you’re going, willya! Bloody cyclists!’ hollers an irate taxi driver, through the open window.

      * * *

      ‘I’m afraid head office has taken the matter very seriously,’ gloats Miss Cutler. ‘My hands are tied. I have no alternative but to let you go.’

      ‘If you could just give me one more chance …’ I grovel, panic rising.

      ‘If I were you, I’d go back to what you do best – serving ready meals and selling novelty goods to tourists,’ she says in a condescending, I’m-telling-you-this-for-your-own-good sort of way. ‘It’s a tough old world out there, and jobs aren’t easy to find – even for the young.’ Ouch.

      She presses the door-release button; I draw a deep breath and exit the shop, cycle-helmeted head held high.

      I am in a kind of daze, oblivious to the pushing and jostling of hurried passers-by. This is serious; I now have no job, my meagre savings are fast disappearing, my overdraft has reached its limit, and I am barely able to cover the monthly minimum payment on my Visa card. An empty, lost feeling takes hold of me. Perhaps Miss Cutler is right; perhaps I should have stuck with my safe, familiar job and my secure life, instead of foolishly casting myself adrift without a set of oars. I’ve lost my way. I used to be so focused, so positive that despite all the hardships, things would work out in the end. I feel like I got six winning numbers in the lottery and now I can’t find the ticket.

      Grabbing a mozzarella and tomato panini, I head for the river to think.

      As I chain my bike to the side of the bridge, my thoughts turn to Céline. I pull out my mobile from my bag and scroll for her number. My finger hovers over the green button. Why am I hesitating?

      As one of her closest friends, it is my duty to tell her, but how? Taking a bite of my sandwich, I rehearse what I’m going to say:

      ‘Céline, are you sitting down? I’m afraid I have some shocking news for you …’

      No, too dramatic.

      ‘Céline, as much as it pains me, as one of your closest friends, I feel duty-bound to tell you …’

      Nope, too convoluted – just cut to the chase.

      ‘Céline, Mike’s not in Australia. He’s in Vienna with another woman.’

      The number rings once then diverts to voice-mail. A wave of relief breaks over me. I compose this text instead:

      <Mike not in Oz. In Vienna with a woman I’ve never seen b4. So sorry. Call me. Luv E x

>

      I stab the SEND button and off it flies, like winged Mercury, into cyberspace – and the deed is done.

      THE SCENE IS THE WELL-FURNISHED LIVING ROOM OF A SEMI-DETACHED HOUSE ON THE OUTSKIRTS OF EDINBURGH. A SWEET, HOMELY COUPLE ARE SIPPING CHAMPAGNE AND GIGGLING.

      MAN: Cheers! Many happy returns, pet. (HE TAKES A BEAUTIFULLY WRAPPED BOX FROM UNDER THE CUSHION.) This is just a wee something to show you how much I love and appreciate you.

      WOMAN: Ach, you shouldnae have. (DABBING HER EYES AND SMILING, SHE KISSES HIM AND OPENS THE BOX. IT IS EMPTY. SHE BURSTS INTO FLOODS OF TEARS) Is this some kinda cruel joke?

      CUT TO AIRPORT. A BALDING, MIDDLE-AGED MAN

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