2. Villains

 We had lived together for eight months and dated for a year before that (which, for the record, is almost two years, thereby making it serious shit, okay?). I know it sounds dramatic and pathetic, to hop continents in order to deal with a break up, but, honestly, I’m cured of those qualities now. I couldn’t give the tiniest shit about David Phillips. Or his red Mercedes Benz. Or his blue suit that brought out the color of his eyes. Or his tall, broad physique and how he spoke so charmingly that he could be mistaken for royalty. Or his stupid cat Phyllis and the way he laughed when he found her sleeping in the laundry basket. Or Abigail Bloom, the blonde bimbo from the marketing research department of his P.R. firm whom he left me for. 

I really couldn’t give a shit about her. 

I wouldn’t even give a shit if a car hit her, perhaps even if David’s Mercedes hit her. That’s how much I just don’t give a shit about fluffy, blonde Abigail. I mean, it’s been a year, anyway. Who knows if they’re even together anymore?

  

Actually, I do. And they are. And I hope they’re very happy together. Because I don’t give a shit.

 

Suddenly there’s a huge bump as the plane hits the ground and my gin and tonic goes flying into the aisle, splashing me in the face on its way. My first instinct is to look at the old lady sitting next to me. She’s shaking her head, muttering something about tray tables being upright.

I scowl. Not because of the judgmental old lady—who apparently has not picked up on the fact that I am a professional Non-Carer—but because half of a plastic cup of perfectly good gin and tonic has just been wasted. And that is a crying shame.

‘Thank you for flying British Airways,’ says the loudspeaker cheerily, ‘welcome to London or welcome back to all of our native Brits. We do hope you enjoy your stay or your final destination.’

I rummage around for the fake Louis Vuitton bag shoved under the seat while wiping my gin reeking face with the bottom of my shirt. I must say, I am really looking forward to smelling like a booze-hound for my first encounter back in the motherland. Not to mention some of it has gotten in my meticulously straightened hair (freshly dyed ombre for my London comeback) causing random strands of it to curl up so that I look like an extra from a Steps video. Typical. 

At baggage claim I get a few stares. I want to think it’s because I’m so devastatingly beautiful, even after a delayed seven-hour flight. More likely it’s because of the wet stain on my white t-shirt revealing my lace bra underneath. At least I don’t have on the Sesame Street bra—the one that’s bright red and has a little Elmo face over each nipple. And yes, it’s as pervy as it sounds. Even pervier is the fact that my brother hid it among the birthday presents at my twenty-third birthday party (the family one, NOT the adult one) and labeled it “for Lovebug—love, David” so that he could document with his video phone the moment I opened lingerie, supposedly from my boyfriend, in front of my entire family. The bonus features include my grandad adjusting his glasses and shouting, ‘what’s that eh? A tea cozy? Let’s have a look-see, pass it here.’

  

Remembering this moment makes me feel better about my current one, which wouldn’t even rank on the Cringe Scale in comparison. And there’s no use crying over spilled milk anyway, or in my case, spilled gin all the way down your white top. Then my phone starts ringing as I’m scrambling to get my suitcase off the conveyer belt. I’d forgotten how absolutely, barking loud it is and suddenly all of baggage claim is receiving a little taste of David Bowie’s ‘Under Pressure’ as it croons out of my pocket. I couldn’t have just stuck to Xylophone, or whatever the default is, could I? In a rush to stop this unintentional musical, I snap one of my hands down to answer it which sends my suitcase tumbling to the ground with a crash. If my see-through shirt hasn’t achieved enough stares or a place on the Cringe Scale, this one-woman show certainly does the trick. I try to save face by pretending to laugh it off and answer the phone breezily as though public humiliation doesn’t even faze me.

 

‘This is Natasha,’ I say, attempting to fool on-lookers into thinking I’m someone important, like a CEO who receives calls from other important people, such as…other CEOs...or, you know, Obama.

    

There’s a pause followed by a very poor attempt to stifle laughter and a mocking voice replies, ‘And this is Rebecca. I’m so glad we decided to stop using our secretaries and answer our own mobiles.’

‘Yes, I had to let her go,’ I say loudly, ‘she kept changing my ringtone to David Bowie. It was very unprofessional.’

There’s whispering, followed by Rebecca saying, ‘no I’m not saying that,’ followed by more whispering, and finally, ‘Connor wants me to ask if you made some changes and if you turned and faced the strain of answering your own phone? Ha. Ha. Very funny, I know. But more importantly, we’re here. Where should we meet you?’

I thought she'd never ask.