Читать книгу Meet Me In Manhattan - Claudia Carroll - Страница 10

Andy McCoy, that’s his name. Captain Andy McCoy if you don’t mind, a senior airline pilot with Delta, as it happens. Later on that night I fall into a troubled, broken sleep and at one point even have a nightmare that I’m a passenger on a flight he’s piloting that’s just about to crash. And of course, the last thing I hear is Andy’s panicky voice – that gorgeous, deep, resonant voice that I’ve come to know so well over the past few weeks – coming over the aircraft tannoy saying: ‘Ladies and gentlemen, we’re about to attempt an emergency landing; please assume crash positions. Oh and if you’re the praying type, then right about now would sure be a heck of a good time to start.’

I wake just after 5 a.m. with a sharp jolt, then realize it was only an anxiety dream and that I’m actually safely tucked up in bed with the electric blanket turned up full. But after the usual thirty-second time lag before my conscious mind kicks into gear, reality sets in. And as regards last night in Fade Street Social, yup, that particular nightmare was fairly real alright.

Shock and crushing disappointment kept me numb for most of last night, but in the cold light of day the God-awful, humiliating reality slowly starts to set in.

Then the one thought there’s just no running away from, no matter how hard I try. I thought this could actually go somewhere. I thought this one had legs. I really, genuinely felt that for once I might just be able to have the first happy Christmas I’ve had since – well, since. Clearly not to be, though, and the disappointment is crushing.

Groggily coming to, I’m suddenly aware that my head is pounding. So stumbling like an aul one on a zimmer frame, I kick the duvet off and am just making for the bathroom when suddenly something lying innocently on my bedside table catches my eye.

My phone. I flung it there before I collapsed into bed last night; just switched it off and tossed it aside, figuring that if Andy thought all it would take was one of his late-night phone calls to set things to rights between us, then he could go and take a running jump with himself. But now I pick it up, twiddle around with it for a bit and am just about to shove it into a drawer and ignore it completely, when a sharp curiosity gets the better of me.

So I switch the phone back on.

Dear Jesus, seven missed calls. Every single one of them from him.

This better be good, this better be good, this better be good, I think, frantically clicking on voicemail.

‘Received at one-oh-three a.m.… ’ says that annoying automated women’s voice in a dull monotone.

‘Holly? Holly, are you there? It’s me, it’s Andy. I gotta explain what just happened. Don’t get a fright, but we just had a mid-air …’

I swear, just the very sound of his voice instantly raises my pulse rate. But the message is abruptly cut short just as I’m thinking a mid-air? A mid-air what exactly? But nothing more. So I stab impatiently at the phone’s voicemail button again.

‘Received at one-oh-four a.m.,’ drones the same automation’s voice down the phone again.

‘Holly,’ he goes on, sounding tensed and panicked now. ‘I hope you can hear me? I’m calling you from Newfoundland … I’m right here at St John’s Airport; don’t worry though, I’m OK and everything is absolutely fine … we just touched down here after an emergency landing.… ’

An emergency landing?

Shit! His phone cuts out again, so fingers trembling, I click straight onto the next voicemail.

‘Received at one-oh-five a.m.… ’ says the automatic voice and I find myself snarling, ‘oh will you shut up!’ back down the phone at her.

‘… Holly, are you even getting these messages? Look, I know it’s past one in the morning your time, but I had to get in touch as soon as we touched down to explain what happened. Because I can’t begin to apologize for leaving you high and dry like that. That’s just not who I am. I hope you know only something like a real, genuine emergency would keep me from being there to meet you last night …’

Bloody machine cuts him off again. So walloping sweaty fingers off the keys, I hit on the next voice message, hissing aloud, ‘What emergency? What the feck happened?’

‘Holly, me again,’ he says, over a whole load of background noise. Sirens? Ambulances?

‘I sure can’t begin to apologize for not getting to meet you tonight,’ he says, raising his voice to be heard over all the background fracas. ‘But here’s the thing. We were just about two hours out of Atlanta when we had a mid-air incident with a passenger who …’

Bloody well cut off again. A passenger who what? Caused a fight? An air-rage incident because they were pissed out of their head on duty-free? What?

I’m just about to turn on the telly, in case the story’s made it onto Sky News or BBC 24, but next thing there’s a ping down my phone and I realize there’s an email that’s been waiting for me all this time. And sure enough, it’s him again.

From: Guy_in_the_Sky

Holly. It’s me. I’ve been calling and calling you, but your phone just keeps clicking straight onto voicemail.

I totally get it if you never want to see or hear from me again after my letting you down so badly last night. But I also hope you know there’s just no way in hell I’d ever do a thing like that without real good cause. And boy, did I have good cause last night.

Trouble started when we were just under two hours out of Atlanta, headed northeast over the Atlantic. Next thing, my senior flight steward came into the cockpit to say a passenger had suddenly been taken ill. Course I immediately asked if there was a doctor on board and not one, but two, came forward to examine this passenger.

So my co-pilot took over while I discussed what was happening with the medics. Both quickly agreed that the passenger, a middle-aged guy who was travelling alone, had most likely suffered a cardiac arrest and needed to be rushed to hospital ASAP.

Now we got all sorts of procedures in place for when incidents like this happen, so I got on the radio immediately and requested an emergency landing at the nearest international airport. Which given that we were headed east over the Atlantic, happened to be right here at St John’s, Newfoundland. Anyway, we touched down within thirty minutes of my putting out the emergency call and they had ambulances already waiting right on the tarmac to rush our patient to hospital just as fast as they could.

It was dramatic; it sure as hell was traumatic and it genuinely killed me not to be able to make our date last night, but I hope this goes some small way towards explaining the downside of a life in the sky.

I’ll try calling you at a more respectable time and if you don’t want to speak with me, then I’ll totally get it.

I’m being re-routed back home now. Like I always say, gotta fly.

Andy.

I go online and do a quick google of the international news in this morning’s online papers. I scroll down through countless pages and links and, lo and behold, there it is.

Buried up at the top of page seven in the Chronicle; a tiny breaking news feature about a Delta flight that had to be re-routed back to Newfoundland when a passenger unexpectedly took ill. Not only that, but it’s on both the Sky News app and the BBC app too.

Which means he was telling the truth then, the whole truth and nothing but.

So I climb back into bed, mind racing. And deep down, I think, almost a bit relieved. After all, as excuses go, this one’s a doozy.

Not long after I fall into a fitful, troubled sleep and keep flashing back to when this all first began.