Fly Me to the Moon (33 page)

I stared at the two of them, guessing at what they could possibly be engaged in.

Just another night of fun and frolic, and celebrating their fabulousness?

On their way to a Beautiful Members of Mensa photo shoot?

Or had Cadence simply run out to buy the fixin’s for her dinner with Dane when she ran into an old friend?

Shaking my head at my pathetic envy, which apparently knew no bounds, I decided to just read the caption and get it over with.

LITERARY SENSATION CADENCE TAVARES AND HER LONGTIME
GAL PAL, EVIE KEYS, ARRIVING AT THE OPENING OF-

Wait
—
gal fall
I stared at the picture again, my heart beating faster as I studied the photo with newly informed eyes. Okay, this was the New
York Post,
not the
Podunk Periodical,
and the only
time you ever read the word “gal” in this rag was when it was followed by the word “pal.” And since everyone knows that “gal pal” is code for “sapphic sister,” “same-sex sweetie,” or the more blatant “lesbian lover,” there was no mistaking what this meant.

Oh. My. God. She’s gay!

It wasn’t until the guy sitting next to me peered over my shoulder, looked at my paper, and said, “Who’s gay?” that I realized I’d said it out loud.

“Um, no one,” I said, quickly folding it up and shoving it back in my bag.

“Hailer? Are you better now?”

Oh great.
I was in the JFK flight attendant lounge, with just moments to spare before I had to go brief, when Lawrence decided to pay me a visit. I didn’t need to look up to know it was him; I’d recognize that smarmy voice anywhere. I glanced up from my keyboard and concentrated on keeping my face calm, still, and expressionless while waiting for him to continue.

“I’ve yet to receive your doctor’s note,” he said, one hand placed firmly on his hip while the other fondled his Drakkar Noir—drenched neck.

“That’s because I don’t have a doctor’s note,” I told him, focusing back on my computer screen, looking for a good trip to pick up.

“I need a doctor’s note,” he insisted.

“Larry,” I said, knowing how much he hated to be called that. “Cut me some slack, will ya? That was my first sick call in over a year.”

“And if you read your memos you’d know that we’ve recently remodeled the sick-leave policy. You must now provide a doctor’s
note for every sick call, making sure it includes the three Ds—doctor’s name, diagnosis, and dates of illness. Yours is way overdue, and I need it on my desk by the end of the week.”

“Fine,” I mumbled, refusing to look at him, though his pervasive cologne assured me he was still there.

“And make sure you sign up for ‘Aware,’ as bids are due by the end of the week. And if you have any questions, please, don’t hesitate to ask.” This last part he said in a loud, upbeat, “we’re all just friends here,” singsongy voice that told me the base manager was somewhere in the vicinity.

“Hey, I have a question for you,” I said, turning to face him. “Why are we spending all this money flying all these employees to all these bases—springing for food, hotel rooms, and instructors—when you’re furloughing flight attendants, cutting the pilots’ pay, no longer reimbursing us for that measly dollar we tip the hotel van drivers,
and
according to both the
The Wall Street Journal
and
your
daily memos, we’re supposedly on the verge of bankruptcy?”

I watched his jaw clench and his face turn red as he glanced briefly at Shannon, our base manager, and then back at me. “Well, Hailey, as you know, customer service is the primary, cornerstone component of this industry,” he said in his “Academy Award winner acceptance speech” voice.

I crossed my legs and nodded.

“And with the impending companywide operational transformation Atlas has implemented due to the current climate of unprecedented industry struggle, we feel it imperative to immediately address the alarming decline in morale and overall lack of commitment that is currently being displayed amongst the flight attendant group.” He paused, sneaking another peek at Shannon, who as far as I could tell hadn’t heard a single word of this. “So in response to
your
feedback, we’ve formed an advisory committee, who paired with a review board, who then met with an outside consultant, who instituted a program that we believe will efficiently
provide for a positive impact on employee production, resulting in a renewed dedication to the return of profitability of Atlas Airlines.” He smiled triumphantly.

I waited for a moment, to see if he had anything to add to that, but apparently that was all he’d memorized. “Okay,” I said, nodding and getting back to my computer.

I mean, I knew I’d have to attend “Aware”; I really didn’t have a choice, as Atlas loved nothing more than their annual flight attendant roundup, where we’d sacrifice an off day to attend a seminar that would explain the “new direction” the company was taking, and what we must do to “prepare.”

During the last six years, I’d already survived “Backstage Pass,” where fashion-challenged supervisors tried to convince us that Atlas Airlines was the hottest, most exclusive ticket in town, while subliminal techno music pulsed in the background; “The Encounter,” where we lounged in crazy round chairs that required assistance to get in and out of, drank company Kool-Aid out of a plastic volcano cup, and watched a film on corporate branding that left us with an identity crisis so severe we were no longer sure if we worked for Atlas, Target, Nike, or Starbucks; “Verbal Judo,” where we learned how to be sympathetic but firm oral warriors; “SASSY,” where we discovered that the new Atlas message was Safe Affordable Stylish Savvy and all about You (but that’s
You
the customer, not
You
the flight attendant); and “Atlaspalooza,” which is still too embarrassing to talk about.

Atlas had tried to reinvent itself so many times, I felt like I was working for Madonna.

So later that evening, when I returned to the penthouse, I picked up the phone, called Kat, and asked her to get one of Yanni’s doctor friends to write me a note, including a detailed explanation of my inability to work due to illness, and making sure every single word was in Greek. I mean, it’s not like Lawrence ever specified what language it had to be in.

Ever since my return from Mykonos, I’d been so busy with flying and writing that nearly two weeks had passed before I actually found time to see Clay.

“Hey,” I said, rushing up the stairs in front of the Metropolitan Museum of Art. “Am I late?”

“Not at all.” He leaned in to hug me. “I got here early. It’s such a beautiful day I just wanted to be outside. Wanna take a walk?” He smiled hopefully.

“No, let’s go inside while we can still get in free,” I said, fearing the loss oi yet another Atlas perk—free membership to the Met.

He looked at me, eyebrows merged together, and [ knew he was thinking of the best way to negotiate this. “Okay, one exhibit, a quick spin around the gift shop, and then Belvedere Castle,” he offered.

“Two exhibits, ixnay on the gift shop, and then you buy me a pretzel in the park,” I said, waiting as he weighed his options.

“Deal,” he said finally, trailing me up the steps and into the building.

Attaching our little metal “M”s to our collars, we headed for the Modern Art gallery, both of us talking quickly and listening patiently while we caught up on the events of the last several months that couldn’t be properly conveyed in an e-mail or phone call. I mean, some stories required dramatic hand gestures and facial expressions to really get the point across. And as I watched Clay dramatize a showdown with a customer in a T-shirt that read “Fuck You, You Fucking Fuck,” which ultimately involved a planeload of outraged passengers, six flight attendants, a gate agent, two OOs (one, a conflict-resolution specialist who taught Verbal Judo), and finally the captain, who resolved the whole mess by handing over his jacket and extorting her promise to keep it zipped until reaching her final destination, I realized it was the first time I’d ever gone that long without seeing him, and just how
much I depended on his friendship, advice, and overall presence in my life.

“So have you called him yet?” Clay asked, changing the subject as he stopped in front of a Lichtenstein.

“No.” I shrugged, knowing exactly who he was talking about, as Clay truly believed that Dane and I belonged together.

“What are you waiting for?” he asked, gazing at me instead of the painting.

“Listen,” I said, turning to look at him. “I know you think he’s cute, and now that he’s apparently single and not dating Cadence like I thought—”

“All good reasons to pick up the phone,” he said, steering me quickly to the other side of the room.

“Yeah, well, I just feel that ever since I broke up with Michael, I’ve had a few false starts. I mean first there was Max in Paris, and then there was Adonis in Mykonos.” I shook my head. “And it’s like, even though they were nothing alike, with totally different backgrounds, from totally different cultures, in both those situations I was all too eager to just pack it up and move, to say
adios
to my life so that I could go live theirs. And it wasn’t until I was confronted with some huge, glaring flaw that I woke up.”

“But Hailey—” Clay started, then abruptly stopped, probably because he knew I was right.

“And the fact is, I have to build my own life, from my own dreams, before I can go merging with someone else. And if I keep allowing myself to get sidetracked, that will never happen. I mean, how many men do you know who let some woman distract them from their goals?”

“But you can build your life
and
call Dane. It’s not like he lives in Europe; he’s just a few floors down!” He looked at me. and I knew he thought I was crazy, but I was serious about what I’d said, and this time I was planning to act on it.

“Look at them,” I said, pointing to Botero’s
Dancing in Colombia.
“They’re having a great time.”

“Don’t change the subject.”

“Clay, forget it, I’m done. Besides, I can barely stand the guy. And if you were ever forced to hang around him for more than a few seconds you’d know exactly what I mean. He’s arrogant and annoying, and he acts like he’s this major player in publishing, when the reality is he’s just a creepy . . . sapphic sycophant.”

“A what?” Clay looked at me, eyebrows raised.

“I just made that up. You know, like the male version of fag hag?”

“That’ll never catch on.” He laughed.

But I just shrugged. “Look, I’m not calling him, and that’s final. I’m revising my book, saving my money, and I’m through with dating. So tell me, what’s going on with you?”

“I’ll tell ya,” he said. “But only if we go to the park.”

We made our way outside and headed straight to Central Park, where we stopped at a cart and bought some warm, salty pretzels and a couple bottles of water. And just as we were strolling down the path toward the castle, Clay sighed and said, “Peter and I are moving.”

I stopped in my tracks and stared. “But, when? And where? And what about Atlas? And what about we?” I cried.

“Okay,” he said, nervously twisting the cap on his water bottle. “When? Soon. Where? California. Atlas? I’m either taking a leave, getting furloughed, or quitting so I can go back to school. And you? Well, that’s the hardest part.”

I stood there looking at Clay. If he was happy, then I was determined to be happy for him. But that didn’t mean I wasn’t devastated for me. “How did this happen?” I asked.

“Peter got a promotion that required a transfer to Los Angeles. And you know how I’ve always loved California, and you know how I’m so over these winters. So when he asked me to join him, I said yes. I’m hoping to get into UCLA, so I can get my master’s in psychology.”

“And how soon is soon?” I asked, blinking hard and trying not to cry. He was my best friend in the whole world, and he’d been such a major part of my life for the last six years I had no idea how I’d fill the big empty space he’d leave behind.

“Well, we’re headed there this weekend to look for a place to live, and then we’ll probably be moving shortly after that. But Peter’s so attached to New York he’s determined to keep the apartment. So we were wondering if you’d want to sublet?”

“Are you serious?” I asked, tearing off a piece of my pretzel and searching his face. I’d been to the apartment only once before, but I remembered it as being full of light, with a surprising amount of storage space.

“We’ll leave most of the furniture, so you won’t have to worry about that, and I know he’ll keep the rent reasonable, since he’d rather have someone in there that he can trust. So, are you interested?” He looked at me.

I did need a place to live, and so far everything I’d seen was either out of my league or completely unlivable. But I wasn’t sure I was up to staying in his old place, using his old furniture. I mean, it would seem weird without him. “I have to think about it,” I said, slipping on my sunglasses so he wouldn’t see me cry.

Then I leaned into him, and he put his arm around me, and we headed toward the castle.

I had just left the service elevator and was rushing through the lobby on my way to meet Clay and Peter for dinner when I ran smack into Dane and Jake. And having no choice but to acknowledge them, I reached down to pet Jake while carefully avoiding eye contact with his owner, as he’d recently crammed another message under my door that I hadn’t bothered to answer.