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Authors: Amanda Brunker
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started flicking switches and muttering ‘Roger to that.’
Seeing my distress Anna and Maddie each grabbed one of my hands but their touch didn’t work. Instead, frustrated by me being difficult, Parker did a Parker and began to sing. I put my fingers in my ears and started to hum. But all I could visualize was this flying coffin, spinning out of control and crash-landing in the sea.
Where were the snooty air hostesses? I wanted lunch with real cutlery. Not a gliding minibus to take me across the Irish Sea. It was a far cry from the John Travolta beast that Parker and I had been expecting. Without letting his disappointment show Parker continued to sing ‘Leaving on a Jet Plane’.
‘Shut up, Parker,’ I screamed, letting my nerves get the better of me. ‘John Denver died in one of these planes as well.’
‘So did Buddy Holly, Ritchie Valens and the Big Bopper,’ laughed Jeff.
‘Oh, don’t forget Jim Reeves and Patsy Cline,’ added Parker. ‘Are we making you
crazzzzy
yet?’
‘SHUT UP!’
Getting into the spirit of things Anna gave me a reassuring nudge before spurting out, ‘Christie Brinkley nearly died in a plane crash. But after six hours of sitting in the snow on the side of a mountain, she was rescued. So that’s something positive.’
Baffled at her reasoning I could only moan, ‘Do you think?’
It was when Maddie offered, ‘And didn’t that young singer Aaliyah go down over the Bahamas?’ that I finally started to laugh. ‘OK, OK, you all win,’ I conceded. ‘If we’re going to hurtle to our death, so be it. Just please try and avoid turbulence. And definitely don’t crash, Jeff. We’re all too good-looking to die.’
‘Will do my best,’ smiled Jeff. ‘And so will I,’ said the very young co-pilot, before he resumed muttering into his headset.
Shortly after our bumpy take-off, Maddie remembered the spare snipes of Moët she had stuffed in her bag, and in true rock ’n’ roll style we necked them back while singing Westlife’s ‘Flying without Wings’, along with various other aviation-themed songs for the duration of the journey.
* * *
By five o’clock we were sitting in London traffic, after our thankfully uneventful flight to Heathrow. What a relief.
The little suited man, complete with chauffeur’s cap, waiting for us with the sign JEFF’S PARTY PEOPLE, was hilarious.
Resembling Sid James from the
Carry On
movies, Charlie C spread the cockney charm on thick, with cheesy lines like, ‘Olright my lovelies. Neva before ’ave I seen such beauties’, and, ‘Treacle, are you what they call Oirish royalty?’
Loving the attention being showered on us, we hardly noticed that Parker and Jeff had huddled in the back seat of the people carrier, locked in a private chat. Despite previous hesitations, Parker seemed to be uber-keen on his new suitor. It was good to see him so happy. Come to think of it, all complications aside, I was happy too.
London, lock up your sons, I thought, da diva was comin’ to get ya.
An hour later we were still stuck in traffic, but Jeff’s driver had kindly hopped out of the car and bought us chips, chocolate and Diet Cokes.
‘Sorry about this, Jeff, but we’re starving,’ I said, as I dripped ketchup on my damned shoe and on to the carpet.
‘No worries,’ said Jeff. ‘I’m sure Charlie here is more than happy to have you ladies in the car, even if it does mean it stinks of salt and vinegar.’
‘So what’s the plan tonight then?’ I asked, curious about what to expect.
‘Whatever you ladies desire,’ smiled Jeff. ‘Fancy an early night? Maybe get a take-away and watch a DVD?’
‘As if!’ shrieked Maddie.
‘Fine by me.’ Parker winked, then remembered he was supposed to be playing butch.
A little thrown off track, a nervous Jeff resumed with, ‘Ah, em, well would you like to grab a drink in town before we head out? Or do you just want to go back to Primrose Hill and change first?’
‘Aren’t we staying in
Seeing my distress Anna and Maddie each grabbed one of my hands but their touch didn’t work. Instead, frustrated by me being difficult, Parker did a Parker and began to sing. I put my fingers in my ears and started to hum. But all I could visualize was this flying coffin, spinning out of control and crash-landing in the sea.
Where were the snooty air hostesses? I wanted lunch with real cutlery. Not a gliding minibus to take me across the Irish Sea. It was a far cry from the John Travolta beast that Parker and I had been expecting. Without letting his disappointment show Parker continued to sing ‘Leaving on a Jet Plane’.
‘Shut up, Parker,’ I screamed, letting my nerves get the better of me. ‘John Denver died in one of these planes as well.’
‘So did Buddy Holly, Ritchie Valens and the Big Bopper,’ laughed Jeff.
‘Oh, don’t forget Jim Reeves and Patsy Cline,’ added Parker. ‘Are we making you
crazzzzy
yet?’
‘SHUT UP!’
Getting into the spirit of things Anna gave me a reassuring nudge before spurting out, ‘Christie Brinkley nearly died in a plane crash. But after six hours of sitting in the snow on the side of a mountain, she was rescued. So that’s something positive.’
Baffled at her reasoning I could only moan, ‘Do you think?’
It was when Maddie offered, ‘And didn’t that young singer Aaliyah go down over the Bahamas?’ that I finally started to laugh. ‘OK, OK, you all win,’ I conceded. ‘If we’re going to hurtle to our death, so be it. Just please try and avoid turbulence. And definitely don’t crash, Jeff. We’re all too good-looking to die.’
‘Will do my best,’ smiled Jeff. ‘And so will I,’ said the very young co-pilot, before he resumed muttering into his headset.
Shortly after our bumpy take-off, Maddie remembered the spare snipes of Moët she had stuffed in her bag, and in true rock ’n’ roll style we necked them back while singing Westlife’s ‘Flying without Wings’, along with various other aviation-themed songs for the duration of the journey.
* * *
By five o’clock we were sitting in London traffic, after our thankfully uneventful flight to Heathrow. What a relief.
The little suited man, complete with chauffeur’s cap, waiting for us with the sign JEFF’S PARTY PEOPLE, was hilarious.
Resembling Sid James from the
Carry On
movies, Charlie C spread the cockney charm on thick, with cheesy lines like, ‘Olright my lovelies. Neva before ’ave I seen such beauties’, and, ‘Treacle, are you what they call Oirish royalty?’
Loving the attention being showered on us, we hardly noticed that Parker and Jeff had huddled in the back seat of the people carrier, locked in a private chat. Despite previous hesitations, Parker seemed to be uber-keen on his new suitor. It was good to see him so happy. Come to think of it, all complications aside, I was happy too.
London, lock up your sons, I thought, da diva was comin’ to get ya.
An hour later we were still stuck in traffic, but Jeff’s driver had kindly hopped out of the car and bought us chips, chocolate and Diet Cokes.
‘Sorry about this, Jeff, but we’re starving,’ I said, as I dripped ketchup on my damned shoe and on to the carpet.
‘No worries,’ said Jeff. ‘I’m sure Charlie here is more than happy to have you ladies in the car, even if it does mean it stinks of salt and vinegar.’
‘So what’s the plan tonight then?’ I asked, curious about what to expect.
‘Whatever you ladies desire,’ smiled Jeff. ‘Fancy an early night? Maybe get a take-away and watch a DVD?’
‘As if!’ shrieked Maddie.
‘Fine by me.’ Parker winked, then remembered he was supposed to be playing butch.
A little thrown off track, a nervous Jeff resumed with, ‘Ah, em, well would you like to grab a drink in town before we head out? Or do you just want to go back to Primrose Hill and change first?’
‘Aren’t we staying in
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