Allison Rushby - It's Not You It's Me

I’m impressed, to say the least.

And, after a good inspection, I have to admit that first class is fantastic. Everything about it is—well, first class. The flight attendants, for example, like Jessica—they’re better-looking and they speak four languages and wear expensive stockings. Even Jessica’s red lipstick is first class, I think, as I watch her lean down and talk to another passenger.

I realise then that she’s a Woman. I’ve always wanted to be one of those. Yep, I know—I guess the breasts and all the other equipment give you instant qualification into the club, but that’s just to be a woman. The kind without the capital ‘W’. What I’m talking about is a Woman. With the outfits and the shoes and the smell. The kind of Woman who sashays instead of walks. The kind of Woman men trample each other over in order to get to her first and light her cigarette. A Woman like Marilyn Monroe or Jane Russell in Gentlemen Prefer Blondes.

A vavoom, boom, boom kind of Woman.

And, yes, I realise that you can’t go out till five p.m. when you’re a vavoom, boom, boom kind of Woman, because you have to spend all day getting ready, but what the hell? It’s a great look. I catch another glimpse of Jessica as she smiles her perfect red-lipsticked smile at another passenger, making me wonder if her lipstick is a magic lipstick that’s reapplying itself every five minutes—a magic lipstick that’s resistant to leaving even a smidgen on her glossy white teeth. Maybe she’s done that trick—the Vaseline on the teeth thing that they do in the beauty pageants.

Or maybe I’m taking it all a bit too far now? Either way, I’m distracted—distracted away from Womanly things by material things.

By my seat, actually. Because, I think—wriggling my satisfied behind around a bit—it is sooo comfy. It’s really more like a lounge chair. I snuggle back and fold my hands neatly on my lap, wishing I’d worn something a bit classier than my old denim jacket, black stretch pants and grey felt Birkenstocks.

Like the pale pink pashmina the woman a few rows up is wearing.

I almost laugh out loud then. Me in a pale pink pashmina? How long would that stay pristine and pale? Well, I know the answer to that—until right before the apple juice and the biscuit arrived, that’s when. I’m not a pashmina kind of girl anyway. Mark brought me one back from overseas once and I accidentally put it in the wash. It was more like a short, gnarled scarf after that.

I spot the arm of the guy in front of me as I think this. He’s wearing a denim jacket quite like mine, which makes me feel a bit better—because I figure he’s actually paying to be here. At a cost of approximately $7,000 one way or $11,000 return, if I remember the figures on the whiteboard of my local travel agency correctly. It’s even a pretty old and daggy denim jacket he’s wearing, which makes me wonder for a second or two—but then I tell myself it’s probably meant to be that way, it’s been professionally beaten up and most likely cost ten to fifteen times the price I paid for my one, which I think came from Bettina Liano and was already way out of my budget.

I lean forward a bit to see if I can read the label on the bottom of his jacket. It’s sticking out over the side of his chair. There’s a patch there with some writing on it that seems vaguely familiar, and if I just…

There’s a clearing of a throat above me, which makes me glance up. It’s Jessica. With my biscuit and apple juice. On a plate. A real plate! And in a glass. A real glass! I’m sure my eyes are completely round by now, and I probably look very much like a character in a Japanese cartoon.

I smile at her. She doesn’t smile back.

Uh-oh. Bye-bye Woman; hello economy-class-passenger-eating-Rottweiler, I think.

‘If you’re going to disturb the other passengers, I’m afraid I’ll have to move you back to—’ She starts to lecture me, but stops when the guy in front turns around.

‘Oh my God,’ I say a little too loudly as I recognise him.

He just stares.

‘That’s it,’ Jessica hisses under her breath, and I get the distinct feeling she’s going to throw me out of first class.

The guy keeps right on staring at me.

It’s Jas.

And without his make-up, long black hair, leather bodysuit and whip, he’s a lot easier to recognise.

I think he might even be wearing the same denim jacket he had when we were living together.

Beside us, Jessica is still making annoyed first class flight attendant noises.

‘It’s OK,’ Jas says, standing up next to her. ‘We know each other.’

‘Oh.’ She doesn’t look particularly pleased with this, as if we’ve broken the rules somehow—me coming from economy and all—and moves her attention to smoothing her skirt with one hand for a moment.

Somehow, I feel it would be an appropriate moment to break into a rousing, economy meets first class ‘breaking down the barriers’ rendition of Paul McCartney and Stevie Wonder’s ‘Ebony and Ivory’, but I can’t quite bring myself to do it.

‘Right. I’ll leave this here, then, shall I?’ She puts down the tray with the biscuit and apple juice onto another seat’s table and stalks off.

I stand up too. Awkwardly, not sure how Jas is going to react. After all, you hear stars complaining about it all the time—people claiming they went to high school with them etc. Confused, I mumble, half looking at the floor, ‘I heard them calling for you. At the airport.’

He makes a face. ‘Late. Still.’

This makes me smile and I raise my eyes to meet his. ‘As usual.’

There’s a pause then, as if neither of us knows what to do next. I’m about to sit back down, thinking I’m making a nuisance of myself, when Jas makes a move.

‘What am I waiting for?’ he says, and steps forward to give me a kiss on the cheek and a hug. I hug him back. He smells shockingly familiar. But the hug feels right and puts me at ease.

‘Come on. Sit with me,’ he says.

And this time I don’t need to worry about the convenience of an aisle seat. You could put on a production of Cats between the rows up here if you wanted to. I make myself comfortable beside the window and Jas passes me my biscuit and apple juice. I pull out my tray-rest. ‘Somehow I don’t think they’re getting homemade wild fig and wattle-seed biscuits back there.’ I nod my head in the direction of economy and tell Jas the story of the wayward videotape and how I ended up here with the famous people.

When I’m done, he feels my head for the lump.

‘Ow!’ I yelp as he finds it.

‘Sorry. It’s pretty big. Sure you’re all right?’

‘I’m certainly a lot better now,’ I say, holding up the biscuit and taking a big bite. With my other hand I feel the lump one more time as Jas watches me. I can’t help noticing he looks exactly the same as he used to.

‘Charles. Your hair.’

My hand still on my head, I pat what’s left of my hair, knowing precisely what he’s talking about. We used to have this joke. We’d been swimming one day, a few months after he’d moved in, and I’d pulled my wet hair back into a pony-tail to get it out of the way when we were done. Jas had fallen about laughing when he’d seen the end result. It was my ears. They were—well, of the sticky-out variety, which is why I kept my hair medium to long and down. Always. Thus, the second nickname—Charles.

I realise my face must have fallen a bit when he mentioned it again because Jas touches me on the arm. ‘No. It’s great. Just different, that’s all.’

I shrug. ‘I’m growing it. I had to have it short. It was damaged.’

‘Damaged?’

‘Um, over-processed, actually.’ I roll my eyes and take another bite of biscuit. ‘It was the only option. Hair extensions cost a fortune, you know.’