Читать книгу Mr Cleansheets - Adrian Deans - Страница 13

“Mmm … this is unreal!”

Like most people who hadn’t grown up in Ethiopia, I hated airline food. But a business class dinner on Qantas could not fairly be described as airline food - not in the accepted plasticky stodge sense.

Miss Palmer, however, did not share my enthusiasm. Indeed, she had accepted a glass of red but had declined dinner.

“Would you mind not speaking with your mouth full?” she enquired.

“Don’t mind at all,” I replied, tucking into a filet mignon - medium rare with mushroom sauce - and a nice little tray of roast and steamed vegetables. Then I held up a glass of red wine and savoured its bouquet like a pig rooting for truffles. It was my third glass of Penfolds 389 Cab/Shiraz, and it delightfully complemented both the steak and the eight Drambuies I’d consumed earlier.

Miss Palmer shuddered with revulsion.

“You’re enjoying that, are you?”

Despite having a bit of a glow on from the intake of fine wine and spirits, I was sober enough to understand that Miss Palmer did not approve of my exuberant enjoyment of the fare.

“My fuckin’ oath love. Best feed I’ve had since Shona’s work took us out to the Black Stump two Christmases ago!”

Miss Palmer fixed me with her most condescending stare.

“So, on what basis are you enjoying the food and wine?”

“Eh?”

“On what basis are you enjoying the food and wine?”

What a royal pain in the arse she was.

“I’m enjoying it on the basis that it tastes unreal.”

“I see,” she replied, the superior smile returning to her bitch-goddess face. “So, how would you describe the wine?”

She swirled the wine in her own glass and examined its contents expertly.

“Erm … red?”

She raised her eyebrows in joyous sarcasm.

“Red? Well, I must say, it’s exhilarating to share wine with a con-noisseur.”

She took a delicate sip and declaimed: “Doubtless you would have noticed that this is a particularly fine example of the 2001 Bin 389 with its deep colour, spicy nutmeg and aniseed aromas. The palate is well concentrated with dark chocolate and blackberry flavours.”

She savoured a second sip and continued: “Supple, ripe tannins. Finishes firm and tight … still a bit young but drinking very nicely, wouldn’t you say?”

Fucking cow. I just stared at her, plotting toxic, methane revenge.

“Because if you wouldn’t say, then you’d clearly not be qualified to be drinking this wine. It’d be like serving strawberries to pigs.”

At that moment, the smiley hostie rematerialised at my shoulder.

“How is everything?”

“Adequate,” informed Miss Palmer.

“Fantastic,” I said, raising my glass of supple, ripe tannins.

Smiley gave me a friendly nod and then composed herself seriously. “Miss Palmer, I do apologise for the problem with the seating earlier.”

“So you ought. It’s a disgrace to treat important guests in such appalling fashion.”

“Well, thankfully Mr Judd was kind enough to give up his own seat.”

“It wasn’t his seat to give,” replied Miss Palmer with a flare of anger. “This was my seat all along. It was simply justice being done that the seat was restored to me, and if he hadn’t given it up I would have complained to the captain!”

I was utterly speechless. I thought ratbags like this could only exist in fiction. But then a strange note came into Smiley’s voice as she said, “So, you would say that you are now in the seat properly allocated to you?”

“Of course I am.”

“I see. And you wouldn’t want to return to seat 4B?”

Miss Palmer was aghast.

“Return? Absolutely not. Under no circumstances!”

“Fair enough. Thank you for making that clear. Would you come with me, Mr Judd?”

We looked up at her - me in confusion, Miss Palmer in sudden suspicion. Smiley broke into a beatific grin, and was clearly struggling not to laugh.

“Three first class passengers failed to make the flight. As a result, lots were drawn for upgrade and seat 4B was chosen. If you come with me, Mr Judd, I’ll take you down to first class.”

“What!” shouted Miss Palmer.

I allowed Smiley to take my tray, unbuckled my seat belt and retrieved my hand luggage as Miss Palmer seethed.

“You can’t take him to first class,” she sputtered. “He won’t appreciate it!”

“You’ve already had dinner, I see, but you can have anything you’d like for dessert in first class,” said Smiley, ignoring Miss Palmer. “Literally anything!”

I glanced back at Miss Palmer, inarticulate with indignation, her mouth opening and closing once again like an anaphylactic goldfish.

“I think I’ll have strawberries.”