The Waiting Place Page 3

  Chapter Three

  the Lounge

  That was all very well but here I was stuck for an entire day in the Virgin lounge …What to do now? I checked my watch once more …I had successfully filled in all of fifteen minutes walking here from my non-departure gate. Great -so that just left the vast void of Eight. Long. Hours.

  Stretching endlessly in front of me.

  I wished I’d thought to buy a magazine, or several, while I had been outside the lounge in the airport’s shopping arcade but I was not going back out beyond the lounge doors in case the nice ladies on the desk changed the rules and I couldn’t get in again.

  I’d swiped my new card, chatted briefly to the pleasantly smiling desk-clerk -who had said I was welcome to spend the entire day in the lounge, although under normal circumstances there was a two-hour maximum for guests.

  We both agreed smilingly, hers professionally-practised pleasant and mine a little sleep-deprived strained, that these were not normal circumstances. She wished me a nice day and directed me to the complimentary coffee bar, where I ordered a latte -the first, I surmised, of many that I would drink throughout the day.

  With this thought in mind I politely asked the barista for a single shot.

  I looked around for chocolate, hoping for some mini choc-bars to accompany my coffee to fulfil my chocolate craving. There were none in sight so I palmed a handful of wrapped mints and tucked three small chocolate-chip cookies on the saucer alongside my cup with my usual two sugars. They would have to do until I felt in the mood for breakfast.

  As for the sugars -well, I was a dessert chef ...they were practically obligatory.

  I’d tried giving up the extra sugar once before but that had turned ugly very quickly. The best I’d managed had been to cut down from four to two so I had considered it a win. So far, fortunately, every blood test I’d ever submitted to had shown perfect cholesterol levels and no indicators of diabetes, which given my occupation, was something of a plus. As for me, I’d always thought it was in my DNA that I should pursue the career I’d chosen and a proclivity to butter and sugar was, so to speak, merely the icing on the cake.

  I nibbled on a biscuit as I took stock of my surroundings. The lounge was larger than I had imagined and spread out on more than one level. Balancing my coffee in one hand and dragging my wheeled carry-on behind me, my handbag perched atop with its shoulder strap hooked over the carry-on’s handle, I wandered past couples eating breakfast while chatting, or catching up on the day’s news with the morning papers. Not stopped here, I thought. Next, I found myself amid silent flocks of drearily suited businessmen, assiduously checking the All-Ordinaries or Hang-Seng or whatever it was that businessmen checked on their laptops at this time of the morning. I by-passed one earnestly typing a report or email that I was sure nobody wanted to read, another texting as if his life depended upon it and a third mobile-phone conversing with that volume and intensity that only the selfish and self-involved can manage in a public place. Absolutely not stopping here. I pushed, -or was that pulled?- on.

  Mr Mobile-phone put me in mind of my last boyfriend -whom I’d ditched a little over two years ago, when, in the final analysis I had concluded he had been more in love with his mobile than me. It was this reminder that engendered both my less than sunny-side-up thoughts and my slightly harsh judgements of the business-world in general but I felt quite justified after my experiences. The angel, whom I had forgotten was still reclining upon my right shoulder, reached up and tugged at my ear in remonstrance. I winced and mentally apologised for my poor behaviour but regardless, I was still determined not to sit anywhere near any of them -although I did make an attempt to direct my thoughts onto a more positive track.

  It appeared I was not the only passenger from my flight who had found their way into the Lounge. As I continued searching for somewhere suitable to sit for the day, I stealthily manoeuvred past the teenager and her mother, ensconced in front of a large flat-screen television, the daughter lying prone along a high-backed sinuous banquette seat that divided the upper sitting area from the more business-oriented section, her head comfortably nestled on a travel cushion as she flicked through menus on an iPod she was holding aloft. Not wishing to be rude but as much not wanting to start any conversation that revolved around delayed flights to Perth or anywhere else I turned my eyes to the carpet and studiously kept my face turned away from the pair as I crept by.

  Cowardly I knew, but I was over it.

  I kept going until eventually I found just the right place for my sojourn.

  I knew it was mine as soon as I saw it. A little space, my own private refugium; hidden from general view by the high-backed banquette, situated at the far end of the lounge and presumably not popular at this time of the morning because it was adjacent to an -as yet- unstaffed and unopen bar. Thankfully, I stopped searching. I telescoped the handle of my carry-on, dumped my handbag on the carpeted floor and deposited the coffee on the nearest low table, before I sat, toed off my sandals and extended my bare feet onto the opposite barrel chair, wiggling my toes to restore circulation and hoping my behaviour would go unnoticed this far from the desk. I figured this was unlikely as my hideaway was, after all, on the far edge of the galaxy, lounge-wise.

  My outer rim hideout had an unimpeded view onto the tarmac through the wide expanse of windows that ran the entire length of the lounge. Though the sun’s light was pleasant at this time of the morning I opted to stay away from all that glass. It looked as if the day might heat up and I did not wish to sit squinting in bright sunlight while contemplating droves of planes being readied for departure for the next eight hours. Seated as I was, it was difficult to ignore the flotilla of planes outside beyond the glass, taxiing to their designated gates, their attendant ground crews scurrying to and fro like frantic worker bees around their queens; trotting across the tarmac with fuel lines, luggage carts, food and drink supplies and an odd assortment of cargo.

  I did not wish to spend the day watching planes being prepped for departure.

  Purely on the basis, I knew with some certainty, that it would do my head in completely.

  I allowed myself one deep sigh -a long, protracted drawn-in-to-the-maximum-and-out-again breath, then made a pact that it would be the last for the day. Sigh, that was, not breath …I figured that I’d need to do quite a lot of breathing to get through the day. But no more feeling sorry for myself. Taking this as a sign her work was done, my angel jumped to her feet, raised a hand in a jubilant high-five gesture then promptly disappeared. I could have sworn I heard a tiny ‘pop’ as she winked from view but this would not be something I would be sharing with anyone else anytime soon. Not, I thought, if I liked living my life outside the funny farm, rather than inside, behind stout barred windows or incarcerated in a padded cell.

  I took a grateful sip of hot coffee, drained the cup then sat it back on its saucer on the empty table next to me, again wishing I’d bought a magazine or newspaper to pass the time.

  Well, it looked as if it was just me and my Kindle for the duration, until that five p.m. flight trundled out of Melbourne to whisk me back home. I changed seats, moving to sit in the barrel chair and swivelled so my back was facing the windows; sliding my body down into a more comfortable position in the comfortably padded seat before propping my feet on the cushioned seat of the banquette seating.

  Reaching down, I ferreted in my carry-on for my e-reader, searching through the accumulated debris of several days travel to find the device -determined to lose myself in a novel for the next eight hours. I navigated around several miniature bottles of booze tucked into my socks -the contents of the hotel mini-bar, gifted to me by the airline in a vain attempt to salve their conscience at taking away my chance of any useful sleep the night before. I wished now that I’d taken the complimentary chocolate bars as well but at three in the morning I had not been planning for this outcome. The e-reader had proved itself a great travelling companion on my increasingly frequent trips away from Perth, pe
rmitting me an almost unlimited choice of reading matter while I travelled without the need to carry a case-load of books everywhere I went. It was a good thing too, as I was one of those readers who had a tendency to read more than one book at once, flipping from title to title as the mood took me.

  I pulled the Kindle from the bag, having located it under my socks and their fragile as-near-to-contraband as I got cargo. I had been been reading a lot during the Seattle-Brisbane flight and the reader was out of charge so I fished around some more until I found the adapter and plugged it into the nearest electricity socket -conveniently located along the base of the banquette- glad I did not have to move to find a power source. Powered up, I flicked through several half-read books that I had on the go. None took my fancy -the content all seeming too serious for my current circumstances.

  I didn’t feel like searching for something new, so, thoughtfully chewing on one of my pocketed mints, I searched through my library of previously-read books until I found a novel that caught my eye; Mary Kay Andrews ‘Hissy Fit’ - that would do admirably- a suitably light, cheerful and sufficiently irreverent read to lift my sombre mood. Andrews was a favourite writer of mine and I had read this particular novel a couple of years ago. I felt it was high time I revisited Madison, Georgia and lost myself in the doings of Keeley Rae Murdock and co. for the rest of the day.

  Within seconds I was transported away from the airport lounge into the humid happenings of he-done-me-wrong brides and southern-fried-chicken goings-on.

  Just what the doctor ordered.

  …Until.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Wh-what?” I jumped, almost dropping the Kindle in my surprise. Just as well the coffee was no longer in my hands.

  The disembodied voice that nearly caused me a minor heart attack had come from directly above and behind my chair. I peered upwards, blinking like a deer caught in the headlights as the bright light from the windows hit my eyes; followed by immediately cringing back in mortified surprise. I was clutching the Kindle to my chest as if it was some kind of protective body armour, designed to shield me from attack -and not of the heart-attack kind- mostly, I think, in guilt from my earlier less-than-solicitous thoughts towards the owner of the head.

  “Hi there,” the possessor of the voice was obviously wanting to speak with me.

  Why?

  I couldn’t think of a single reason why someone should want to accost me in my far-flung sanctum.

  Like Garbo had once famously said, I just wanted to be left alone.

  I dearly wanted to hiss, but the good manners my mother had instilled in me from childhood would not allow me to be rude -well, no ruder than I’d already been to him, that was. Remembering the way he had leered at me the day before, I did think, -well, at least today I was wearing a high-necked top that wouldn’t allow him a view down my cleavage. I supposed that I should be thankful for small mercies.

  Twisting my neck into an even more acute angle, I cautiously studied him from my upside-down vantage.

  “Uh, hello,” speaking from this position felt akin to drinking water from the wrong side of a glass. My attempt at a passable polite greeting had come out squeaky and uncertain. There went any chance I’d had of making a good first impression. I put a hand over my mouth to stop any more falsetto utterings from escaping my lips.

  By contrast, his voice was deep and pleasantly honeyed in a way that wouldn’t have been out of place in the novel I’d just started. Shame was, it belonged to the Armani-suited businessman from the night before -only this morning he’d ditched the suit and was dressed in jeans and a light casual shirt. Big improvement. Without the dark suit and the equally dark scowl I had seen last evening he looked less serious and yet quite at ease in these surroundings.

  I imagined he spent a lot of time in airport lounges.

  Last night, he’d looked the type.

  Now, I wasn’t so sure.

  Whilst remaining frozen in that uncomfortably topsy-turvy position I noted that his short-cut mid-brown hair precisely matched his twinkling brown eyes. Faint designer stubble on cheeks and chin suggested that he might have omitted this morning’s shave; making him look younger than the night before and giving him something of a devil-may-care appearance …two deep cheek dimples had appeared from nowhere around a full mouth quirked in an embarrassed half-smile. If asked, I’d have guessed his age to be around low to mid-thirties. Those figures might make for a pleasant summer’s day in Perth, I thought, but they were too young for me, I calculated, inconsequentially.

  I briefly wondered why the sheepish expression.

  I was about to find out.

  He held a book above my face, turned so I could easily see the front cover. My own smiling, perfectly made-up and deftly-styled visage looked down on me from above.

  Oh, look at that.

  It was me.

  On a good day.

  Which was to say, not today.

  Whoopee.

  He turned the book around so I could now see the back cover. Graced with an even larger photograph of me, spatula in hand as I put the finishing touches to a cake. Truth be told, the cake had been finished the day before the photo. Great cake, I thought, one of my best. Three layers, splendidly draped with the French flag and sporting the characters of Les Misérables, scrambling the layers as if climbing the ramparts up to a barricade I’d fashioned atop the upper layer.

  ..Yep …this stranger had one of my cook books…it was the latest edition, too. And very nice it looked. Only out in bookshops this past three months and the reason for my recent promotional tour.

  And seeing myself like this made me realise that I needed to have a snappy little chat to my publisher about the size and frequency of photos of me that appeared on the covers of my cook books.

  Needless to say, …I, the almost-famous chef, looked like nothing that remotely resembled those studio-styled photographs on this particular morning.

  Kudos to him for even recognising me. Right at this moment I felt every one of my forty-one years ..and then some. On top of being discovered in my hideaway, I also felt unjustifiably aggravated that he looked fresh and rested, like someone who had slept a full eight hours, which, of course, he could not have -since we both must have had a similar night. Though I imagined he was more the type to stay up and keep the minibar company rather than nap as I had.

  At that moment, my micro-angel reappeared, obviously having used the break-time to change her clothes. Dressed up in a short white feathery number à la angel-does-sexy, that I recognised as a Naeem Khan original, she looked as if she was ready to go clubbing. Unhappy at being disturbed was obviously an understatement -she stamped her tiny Jimmy-Choo clad foot in irritation at being recalled to shoulder-duty. It seemed the even the angels were better-dressed than me this morning. So much for my notions of an angelic host clad in plain while linen. Arms folded across her chest, she went to some trouble to remind me of the contents of said (very similar) hotel minibar -stashed among my footwear in the bag by my side. Barely taking breath, she then went on at length -quoting bible verses about planks of wood and sawdust and judging that ye be not judged, or some-such, before oddly finishing her homily with, “And you might want to remember girly, Beggars can’t be choosers.” I was fairly sure that last one wasn’t Biblical. She popped out of sight once more, after warning me to “not make me come back here again, or there’ll be big trouble missy, y’hear.”

  I knew from that last inflection that she’d been listening in on my eBook choice. I did not like the idea of an angel, no matter how small, reading over my shoulder. It wasn’t as if I was about to start reading ‘Fifty Shades of Grey’ or similar, but I liked my privacy.

  “Could I bother you for an autograph?”

  I came back to the real world with a jolt.

  Hmpf, speaking of privacy, he was still standing over me, smiling hopefully. One of those little boy smiles that mothers couldn’t resist.

  But I was not his mother.

  A
nd I was still not impressed.

  ..Not at all.

  …Well, not much.

  I removed one hand from the Kindle and waved it in a vague circling motion, indicating for him to come round so I could turn myself the right way up to sign the book.

  Taking this as an offer to sit, he took up a position opposite me on the banquette. I quickly removed my feet, smoothing my calf-length skirt over my knees.

  “Pen?” I asked shortly. Verging on rude. Again. Oh dear.

  I normally try to be pleasant to fans, with no exceptions, but this morning was proving to be an exception to my no-exception rule. As I have just mentioned, I was not anywhere near my best and not in a mood to appreciate being caught out. I’d have to do better or my avenging angel would be back to make good on her warning. And I had a suspicion that in her case, size wouldn’t matter. She’d looked as if she could heft a fair punch. I rubbed my earlobe, which still hurt from the pulling she’d given it.

  He made a show of patting pockets before shrugging apologetically.

  What kind of idiot comes asking for an autograph and doesn’t bring their own pen, I thought grumpily as I bent to search through my voluminous hand bag. Delving down through the contents like a diver searching murky water for sunken treasure, I found one nestled on the bottom of the bag and dredged it forth.

  He passed the book and I started to sign my name. But before I could put pen to paper he leaned towards me and reached out to still my hand with his own.

  Unexpected.

  Fondling the author was not a normal part of the autographical procedure.

  I looked up, one eyebrow raised in a sardonic question mark. I would have added ‘back off buddy’ but his look was so diffident that the words would not come. It would be like smacking a puppy. And I might get grumpy with humans but I never hurt animals.

  “Will you make it to Tom, please” he interjected, grinning now as if he was following my thoughts with the accuracy of a heat-seeking missile, “that’s Tom McCartney, ..you know, like Sir Paul ...but younger …and I keep my singing for the shower.”

  Well, I had eyes. I could see he was younger than the renowned singer-songwriter of Beetles fame, given that the musician in question was knocking on seventy and this guy was still on the right side of forty.

  Huh.

  Like I needed another reminder of my age.

  As to the shower reference, now I was imagining him in said shower. Without clothes. His fault for bringing it up, not mine. I was tired, not dead, after all. And what kind of person takes a shower with clothes on? It’s not proper.

  “Not about to give up your day-job for a life on the stage then?” I queried. Not that I was interested in hearing about his day job, the corporate world not being an area of interest to me.

  Somewhere in the depths of my subconscious, I could hear my angel cautioning me to be more circumspect in my judgements of other people’s career-choices.

  I hastily scrawled, ‘To Tom, Best wishes from Kate,’ wondering if I could have gotten away with writing ‘To Tom, who accosted me in the Virgin Australia lounge when I was least expecting it’? As I passed the book back, I purposely turned it spine-upwards, keeping my studio-enhanced images out of my line of sight. Still, it was hard not to admire the pretty artwork on the covers and I was tempted to take a peek inside. This volume was my twist on favourite French desserts, with beautifully-shot photographs of food set in stunning locations throughout France and it even featured satin tri-colour ribbon place-markers ..a nice touch I had thought, when it had been suggested by my publisher.

  “Ha. Not likely. Not unless it’s the first one out of town,” he replied in a self-deprecating tone.

  I got the jocular reference. “You may have to resort to your stagecoach yet -if our plane doesn’t leave, that is. You might get to Perth faster that way,” I retorted dryly.

  “You may be right,” he laughed, “but I’m not in any hurry now. The meeting I was sent to attend has been postponed until tomorrow. Turns out it wasn’t such an emergency as everyone thought. Go figure.”

  I couldn’t help myself -turns out I was more curious about what he did for a living than I’d thought, “Hmm, so is that typical in your line of work?” I questioned, hoping for a throw-away tone that indicated I could care less about what he did to earn a crust.

  “Well, it’s not untypical,” he returned, giving away nothing. The slight upturn to his lips told me he knew I was fishing for information.

  “Can I get you another coffee?” he stretched forth a hand to lightly touch the rim of my empty coffee cup, effectively changing the subject as he dumped the autographed volume on the bench seat beside him without even bothering to check my entry. Unimpressed that he had not opened the book to read my scribbled message, I hoped I’d spelt something wrong, but between ‘Tom’ and ‘Kate’ there was not a lot of room for errors.

  “My treat for disturbing you,” he added politely. I had a feeling there was some other intent lurking just under the good manners, but was unsure what it might be.

  I’d nodded mutely, before I thought to retort, “the coffee’s free here, you know.”

  “Yeah, but someone’s got to walk the three miles over yonder and back to fetch it,” he responded with quirky good humour.

  Bugger. I liked quirky.

  Especially when it came with humour.

  I was not so sure if that was good thing or not.

  I cast a furtive glance disguised as nonchalant towards his left hand sitting there in open view on top of my book. No wedding band. Well that could indicate either one of several options, -either he wasn’t married- and not for the first time the thought drifted through my mind that people should wear co-habiting bands so the rest of us knew when they were taken off the market …or he was married and didn’t choose to wear a band, since men still seemed to regard them as optional. Or -and this was my least desirable option- he was married and chose to take his ring off when travelling -in which case he was nobody I wanted to spend time with. I began to channel my inner detective, determined to work out which scenario was true.

  Before I had time to marshal my first question, he was up and off across the lounge, out of my sight in a few quick strides, manoeuvring deftly around occupied tables and left-luggage. Speaking of which, he’d left his own luggage, in the form of a compact black carry-on, on the floor near my toes, which I’d hastily removed from the banquette upon his arrival.

  I eyed the bag, tempted to check the contents while he was gone, thinking that I might find out a little something about my average-height, brown-haired, handsome stranger. The thought had no sooner occurred than I felt a thump inside my head, directly behind my right ear, as if someone had banged on the wall of my hotel room. Yes siree, I’d been correct in my assumption -that little Barbie-angel could pack a punch. Mollified, I hastily shelved that thought, and instead made do with putting my feet back up on the banquette, determined I’d leave them there this time. It was, after all, my refugium, not his and I should be able to do as I pleased. I crossed my arms across my chest and glared at the bag, wishing I had x-ray vision to enable inspection of the contents.