The Time of Our Lives (5 page)

He blinks, clearly unable to think of a reply to that one. ‘Right. Well. Have a nice flight.’

I nod and force a smile, then head back to the girls, thanking the Lord that I never have to see him again.

He’s on the flight. Of course he is. I’m rifling through my complimentary bag of up-market toiletries when I register someone walking past and realise it’s
him. He’s removed his shirt and is down to a grey marl T-shirt. I take a deep breath and pray that he doesn’t sit next to me.

He pauses, surveying the seats as he glances at his ticket, before sailing past to sit two seats in front. I exhale with genuine relief.

Nic and Meredith are together in two seats by the window, while I’m in the middle, adjacent. It matters not that we’re separated by an aisle – in this utopia of aviation
nothing
matters.

Meredith leans over to me, wide-eyed. ‘There’s that guy!’ she hisses.

‘Hmm?’ I say vaguely, as if I hadn’t noticed.

‘The GUY! The one you threw your drink over.’ Meredith jabs her finger at him as if providing driving directions to a half-blind simpleton, and Nicola, torn between amusement and
feeling my pain, nudges her and tells her to shush.

Meredith lowers her voice – slightly. ‘Oh, come off it, Nicola Harris. Tell me you’re not thinking exactly what I’m thinking?’

Nicola raises her eyebrows innocently, with a half-smirk. ‘What would that be?’

‘That we need to stop neglecting our duties and get Imogen off with a gorgeous bloke like that.’

‘I’m saying nothing,’ replies Nicola diplomatically, going back to her book.

‘That sounds like an excellent idea, Meredith,’ I hiss sarcastically, drawing a finger across my neck just as Hot Guy spins round, prompting me to slump in my seat, pretend
I’ve never met this woman before in my life and do everything in my power to concentrate instead on enjoying my first ever business-class flight.

It’s already amazing, and we’re not even off the tarmac. Oh, the luxury, the sophistication . . . the prospect of not sitting for two and a half hours with my knees in the optimum
position for a triple pike. The air hostesses are smiling angels – attentive, but not overly so – offering to cater to our every whim, with the possible exception of supplying Ryan
Gosling and several tubs of whipped cream (this isn’t exactly on the menu, but you get the picture). Plus, the majority of passengers are seated and ready for take-off, and it’s looking
like the three seats next to me are going to be free. If I was in economy, my heart would leap at this prospect – I could stretch out! – but here, no encroaching on an area other than
mine is required; my own legroom is so vast, I could probably undertake an entire Pilates session in it.

‘What are you reading, Imogen?’ Nic asks, leaning across Meredith as I take my book out of my bag.

‘
The Book Thief
. I’ve been trying to get this started for a while, but life’s got in the way. This time it’s going to be different.’

I used to read constantly – everything from chick lit to classics such as
Great Expectations
and, my all-time favourite,
Captain Corelli’s Mandolin
. These days, reading
represents a luxury that I don’t have enough time for. Consequently, I first opened
The Book Thief
in 2010 and got to chapter three. I tried again that September, then in January 2011,
then March this year. Those first three chapters were bloody good, so this time I am absolutely determined to get through it.

I open the first page and re-acquaint myself with the haunting words of its opening passage. ‘
Here is a small fact: You are going to die
.’

This might not be an optimal reminder just before take-off, but I persevere. I get to the third line before I am abruptly interrupted by a sound similar in volume to that of a Cape Canaveral
rocket launch.

‘
WAHHHHHHHHH!’

The piercing screech of the small boy who has suddenly appeared in the seat next to mine is discernable only nanoseconds before his foot lands with a violent thud on my chin.

Neither of my friends witness this; indeed, it’s only when Meredith breaks her momentary gaze at Hot Guy in front that she does a double take. ‘Have you got a nosebleed?’ she
asks me.

‘Oh . . . bugger!’ I grab the complimentary lemon and bergamot wipe from my cosmetics bag, rip it in half and shove it up each nostril as the captain announces we’re ready for
takeoff.

‘Anisha. Now. NOW!’ The source of these frenzied pleas is the chubby little boy’s mother. She looks like an Arabian supermodel, with perfect eyeliner, glossy hair and a figure
so tiny it’s impossible to believe that belly ever contained not one but two children. Despite the cabin crew’s repeated requests for the little boy to fasten his seatbelt, it’s
his older sister who is being shrieked at by their mum for refusing to hand over her iPad.

‘
NOOOOOOOOWWWWWW!’
she adds, just to be absolutely clear.

‘Um . . . can I help?’ I offer, but she doesn’t even hear me and the dispute between mother and daughter escalates until it is less a familial tussle and more something
you’d expect to see on WWE’s
SmackDown
: hair is pulled, eyes are scratched but, eventually, the iPad is ripped from the little girl’s hands and she’s thrust into her
seat, a lollipop produced from somewhere and shoved in her mouth. I have no idea what’s in it – Valium, judging by its effects – but it certainly calms her down.

‘Madam, I’m so sorry, but you really need to take your seat,’ the air hostess pleads.

‘I’m
attempting to
!’ growls the woman, flicking hair back from her now perspiring forehead, grabbing her little boy’s legs and – as I dive out of the way
– flipping him over with the skill of a Chinese gymnastics instructor. The lollipop trick is employed on him too and, finally, the woman flings herself down and clicks on her seat belt.
Seconds later, we take off.

I her offer a sympathetic smile. ‘Flights can be a bit of a challenge with kids, can’t they?’

She responds with a flaccid look and picks up the in-flight magazine.

Over the next two hours and twenty minutes, it’s evident that the flight would have been more peaceful seated next to a hyperactive goat. The only saving grace is that I’m not seated
in front of the Demon Child – that seat is kicked, stamped and head-butted to such an extent that I’m surprised the passenger sitting there isn’t in need of emergency spinal
surgery.

Their mother, or perhaps she’s their probation officer, has the right idea: she flips on her headphones, orders two large gins and tonic, and reclines her seat, clearly hoping to shut out
the last five years. It’s only when she throws a pill down her neck and pops on her eye mask that I consider getting a bit cross – particularly as it coincides with her son trampolining
on his seat, launching into a rousing rendition of ‘Food, Glorious Food’ and spilling my champagne all over my copy of
The Book Thief
.

‘Are you okay?’ Meredith asks, an hour from landing. She’s been asleep and the whole episode, nosebleed apart, has passed her by.

‘This is fantastic, Meredith.’ I dredge up a genuine smile. ‘Honestly, it’s incredibly kind of you to have shared your prize with us.’

At which point, a bumper bag of M&Ms spills exuberantly all over my lap and the little boy attempts to retrieve them by shoving his podgy hands under my bum.

The children’s lunch menu has a choice of dishes, including spaghetti Bolognese: a genius addition given that no under-five ever manages to get more than about 25 per cent of it in their
mouth. Sure enough, my neighbour’s sauce ends up in the seat pocket in front of him, the seat pocket in front of
me
, in his hair, in
my
hair – everywhere, in fact, except
his stomach. He concludes this dining experience by picking his nose with a bright red-sauce-coated finger, wiping it on the arm rest between us, and burping voluminously. At which point, Hot Guy
two seats in front turns around, clearly believing it to have been me.

I sink even more deeply into my seat as the two children put their complimentary flight socks on both hands and proceed to have a ‘puppet show’– which may be better described
as a GBH spree.

The air hostesses are aware of all this, of course, and make up for my misery by pushing as much champagne as possible on me, presumably to dull the pain. Other than that, there’s little
they can do given that there are no spare seats to move me to. The children’s mother remains in a near coma until the very end of the flight, when she wakes up with a start, rushes to the
toilet, and begins throwing up loudly, a process that continues right until we’re on
terra firma
, when she emerges, wiping her mouth, her eyeliner only slightly smudged.

By that stage, I am filthy, drunk, and have read only ten words of
The Book Thief.
It’s fair to conclude the experience wasn’t entirely as I’d envisaged.

At least I can look forward to our first treat on Spanish soil: the limo that Elegant Vacations promised would be picking us up. It’s not a proper limo, according to
Meredith that’s the sort of thing in which a rap star snorts coke off a Page 3 Girl’s bum cheeks, it’s really just a plush taxi. At least . . . it
was
.

After a fifteen-minute wait and a long phone call by Meredith, it becomes evident that the plush taxi company that was supposed to be picking us up is, in fact, the figment of someone’s
fraudulent imagination.

‘The woman from Elegant Vacations is beside herself with apologies,’ Meredith says, shaking her head when she comes off the phone. ‘I felt a little sorry for her.’

‘Oh, tell her not to worry – we’re hardly in a position to complain,’ I reassure her.

We take the metro instead, a transport system that, in common with most major cities in the world, does not showcase the best of Barcelona. Within minutes, two descriptions spring to mind:
oppressively hot and grotesquely grubby. And that’s just me.

I rest my head on the window and close my eyes, slipping into a familiar dream: a flashback to the day I met Roberto.

It was when Peebles was about to sign a deal for its brands to become one of the official sponsors of the Commonwealth Games. I was a junior marketing executive at the time, but as my boss was
off sick it was down to me to brief the PR company so they could produce a press release.

I was slightly late after my previous meeting had overrun, and I arrived in the boardroom distracted and self-conscious. David was already introducing the members of the legal team employed to
work on the contract, of which Roberto was one.

The only available seat was next to him and, as I sank into it, I singularly failed to register how gorgeous he was – at least, at first. Maybe it was because I’d recently come out
of a relationship that, although not serious, had lasted a year, so the furthest thing on my mind was another man, but, with hindsight, it wasn’t only that.

Roberto wasn’t the sort of man who walked into a room and made everyone look twice. He was handsome but understated, with a slight build, modest smile and dark, glossy eyes framed by
unfeasibly long lashes. His attractiveness was the type that started small but grew and grew on you until you could do nothing but be dazzled by his beauty. In fact, the first thing that grabbed my
attention that day was his smell: a sublime combination of soap and Grigioperla. One minute I was taking notes about the deal, the next I was struggling to concentrate on anything but the heat
coming from the person next to me.

When the meeting broke for coffee, I was unable to resist any longer. And so I took my first glimpse of the man with whom I would fall irreversibly in love; the future father of my child.

‘I’m Roberto D’Annucio.’

I could never resist the way Roberto spoke – his accent would make bingo-calling sound like a sonnet. In those early months of his time in the UK, he relished picking up quintessentially
English phrases, everything from, ‘I’ve eaten like a horse’, to ‘Sleep tight’, the latter of which he would soon whisper to me every night, between kisses.

That day, as we shook hands, the dry warmth from his fingers radiated through me and, though I’ve never believed in love at first sight, it stirred every inch of me.

He sent an email the following day about the press release. I sent one back. Those first few were infuriatingly perfunctory, achingly business-like. Although I would soon become very acquainted
with the fire in his belly, at the start Roberto was nothing but reserved. It was therefore to my surprise that the emails continued after the press release was sent out, appeared in the media, and
the deal was well and truly completed. They become friendlier, sweeter and with a tantalising hint of flirtation. But, after eight weeks of lying in bed each night, unable to expel thoughts of him
from my head, I became convinced that my growing obsession was futile.

Then a note containing two simple, perfect sentences arrived in my inbox.

Our first date – because it
was
a date, as foggy as that definition felt in the run-up to it – was at my favourite pub in Clapham, the Windmill.

It was on the best type of winter afternoon, with a vivid blue sky dotted with storybook clouds and a marshmallow layer of snow on the rooftops. We settled by a window and hours disappeared in
minutes as I lost myself in his eyes and a blanket of darkness fell upon the day.

We didn’t just have things in common: meeting Roberto was like discovering a male version of me. He’d overplayed that
Razorlight
album as much as I had, laughed at the same
bits in
Meet the Fockers
. We even worked out that he’d arrived in London for the first time in exactly the same week that I had.

‘Do you think Fate is telling us something?’ He smiled and I laughed and blushed. And silently prayed that he wasn’t joking.

The Roberto I discovered that afternoon was a man I’d never realised could exist: as sweet and funny as he was clever and kind (although, admittedly, at the time the sole basis I had to
conclude the latter was the £1.50 he gave to a
Big Issue
seller). And, despite being convinced that a man who’d taken nearly two months to ask me out surely wouldn’t kiss
me at the end of the date, he proved to be deliciously bold. On that heavenly, snow-laced London afternoon, we stood beneath a blackberry sky and his lips met mine.