The Waiting Place
Irene Davidson
The Waiting Place
By Irene Davidson
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Copyright © 2015 by Adrienne Irene Oaks
This is a work of fiction. All characters, organisations and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Table of Contents
Chapter 1 - the Announcement
Chapter 2 - the Departed
Chapter 3 - the Lounge
Chapter 4 - delicious
Chapter 5 - the Virgin queen
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Other Titles by Irene Davidson
Connect with Irene Davidson
A Sample of Irene’s next Title
Dedication
For my beloved Bryony, who is never petulant and has spent considerable time waiting patiently in airports with her mother. And for Tim, master of midnight-flight pick-ups from Perth domestic.
Chapter One
the Announcement
“Virgin Australia regrets to announce the cancellation of this evening’s flight to Perth. Would passengers seated in rows fifteen to thirty please approach the information desk to be advised of alternative accommodation and onward travel arrangements.”
Oh nooo, I thought, inwardly groaning as I glanced up at the clock on the wall. It read eleven forty-five. So close to midnight, this was not the news I or any of the crowd of out-bound travellers around me wished to hear. We had all been loitering with intent since just after eight, shuffled around the airport like homeless refugees, moved by the airline from gate to gate and plane to plane, -something to do with a random lightning strike rendering our incoming flight incapable of retaking to the skies.
Presumably the ground crew would need to check the unfortunate craft before it ventured skyward to verify that no crucial circuits had been fried and all systems were A-Okay prior to take-off. Whilst this was a notion that I was quite in agreement with -after all, who really wanted to trust their life to some Frankenstein’s monster of an airplane that had taken a bolt out of the blue? I had read somewhere that a single lightning strike could transfer up to a billion volts -a zap like that could do nasty things to a plane’s wiring. Fortunately, the airline, being an airline and all, had mustered up a replacement plane. The problem was that the lightning strike had, in a sort of a sorry domino effect, created the further and seemingly insurmountable dilemma of sourcing a pilot who was sufficiently rested and suitably certified to sit at the controls of our replacement plane. Apparently, such appropriately qualified pilots were not thick on the ground at Brisbane this evening and as the hours ticked by it became apparent we might all be remaining firmly welded to the that same ground, keeping company with our stricken aircraft.
Bugger.
I added this thought to my silent groan.
So - with this carefully-worded but somewhat trite announcement my onward journey to home, hearth and my long-suffering kitty cat went completely to custard. And not even that nice firm custard you might find in vanilla slice, a yummy custard tart or a crème caramel -this custard was more the thin, runny, pale-yellow disaster that would end its days poured down my test-kitchen’s InSinkErator.
Not, of course, that I’d made a mistake like that in years.
But being an experienced television cook and author of numerous popular cookbooks specialising in baking and desserts, defining small details like the consistency of my current custard calamity was of relative importance to me.
Well this was one for the books, I thought. Stuck on the ground with a plane but no pilot. A veteran traveller and hardened survivor of delays and diversions too numerous to count, I could also have foretold my fellow-traveller’s quite predictable responses.
“Bloody hell, I’ve got an important meeting first thing in the morning. I have to get to Perth.” this in aggrieved tones from the suited businessman seated immediately to my right.
I turned my head to him, thinking, …Yeah mate, I’m sure you need to get there more than the rest of us. Not. …well, not unless you’re a surgeon heading for open-heart surgery first thing in the morning.
He didn’t look the type. I knew a heart surgeon, a good friend, and he travelled in jeans and a comfortable shirt. And that was his tidy look. I eyed this guy with a narrow-eyed gaze. He looked more like some sort of Tom-Cruise-dressed-up-in-an-Armani-suit type … not overly tall but compact and well proportioned.
Serves you right for travelling in a poncey suit, I thought. Really, -what kind of pretentious poser does that on a flight arriving at midnight? Dumb outfit for travelling. I looked down at my own comfortably loose-fitting pants and strappy sandals, glad that I had changed clothes while aboard my inward flight in preparation for Brisbane’s stifling heat and humidity.
Raising my head, I felt a little remorseful. That was a bit mean, I thought.
Normally I was a nicer person.
But right now. Not so much.
As if to make up for my unkind thought, I turned and gave a half-smile of commiseration to the dude-in-a-suit.
He leered back, I was sure his eyes were focused downwards, surveying my chest as if he could see straight through the fabric of my cotton tee.
I went back to my original opinion of his character, if anything, my Dow-Jones indicator of his attractiveness dropping several points as I pulled a light cardigan from my carry-on and pointedly donned it.
I sat back in my seat, hugging my over-large travelling handbag to my chest and took stock. It wasn’t that I had anywhere significant to be, any major deadlines to meet or a funeral to attend, unlike the poor fellow seated opposite, who had been woefully bemoaning the multiple ‘delayed departure’ messages flashing at regular intervals ever since our flight’s planned eight-fifteen departure time.
Nope.
Nothing so important for me.
I was merely homesick and tired of airport lounges -and of jerks like the one sitting next to me.
…Even so, I was less than happy at the news.
If, for no other reason than that I had had quite enough of travelling and I dearly wanted to go home and get away from people just like him. I did not help that, personality-wise, I had a tendency more to introversion than extroversion and found crowds draining. My three-week speaking tour up America’s west coast, with multiple book signings and several live television appearances had taken its toll on my energy levels. Right now, I desperately wanted my home and my blissfully quiet and peaceful space again, to recharge my depleted batteries.
Snapping at the heels of my busy tour; the three hours plus of waiting for a departure that was apparently no longer departing, on top of a day that had already included sixteen hours en route flying from Seattle to Brisbane, was a trifle wearying to say the least. Hence, I was every bit as disappointed at the delays as my fellow-passengers, though not quite so vociferous at announcing my feelings to the world at large as those in my immediate surroundings.
I did however, take a massively deep breath, and exhale loudly.
That would do, I thought.
Sighing over, practical considerations kicked in. I pulled my mobile from my pants pocket and called my neighbour back home, asking Lizzie if she would mind keeping Flanagan, my gargantuanly-proportioned Maine Coon cat for another night. Since Lizzie was not-so-secretly in love with Flanagan, this was really not a problem.
I ended the call and made
my way, as per request, to the end of a line of passengers forming in front of the information desk.
To be told that I was now rebooked on an onward flight, leaving at, Oh no, …five a.m. …flying not westwards but …south … to Melbourne.
And then onwards to Perth. What?
I had barely registered the time of departure before the initial direction of my alternative flight sank in …considerably more compass points away from my actual destination than I wanted to fly. Who, after all, in their right mind, elects to fly LA to New York via Seattle? It just wasn’t sensible. Bemused, I stood …stunned, while the fast-talking lady behind the desk handed over my new flight details, -behaving as if her speedy speaking-pace could prevent any objections on my part.
Which, of course, it did. You had to hand it them -they knew their stuff, psychology-wise, these airline desk staff.
Cordially concise in take-no-prisoners sort of way she waved a perfectly manicured hand in the general direction of the sliding terminal doors, mentioned a bus arriving shortly which would whisk me to a hotel of the airline’s choice -with a returning bus that would need to be boarded at, she tapped one perfectly-polished red fingernail on the printed page to get my attention …and no wonder she thought I needed to take note of the time …the returning bus was leaving at three-thirty a.m..
Wow, I thought, …effectively shell-shocked into submission.
So much so that I couldn’t say a word, other than a briefly murmured ‘thank you’ before moving aside to make way for the next sheep-to-the-slaughter …-there is, after all no point in shooting the messenger, I acknowledged. Though as I walked away, the irate businessman’s ‘bloody hell’ did come to mind.
I briefly wished I’d thought to use it.
Too little, too late. As per usual.
I had never been one for a quick come-back.
Probably just as well. I was sure that Mr Suit would have plenty to say to the desk staff without me adding to their woes.
As per instructions, I walked through the doors and waited for the coach, sitting on my larger suitcase that I had collected from the baggage carousel, along with fifty or so wearied fellow-sheep while a warm breeze wafted the combined scents of aircraft fuel and fragrant frangipani around our tired faces. Eventually an air-conditioned coach drove up and we boarded in something of a zombie-like daze. As I found an empty seat on the coach, I wondered what the average ‘awake-time’ of the combined passengers might be.
All aboard, we were off. From the driver’s practised introduction, his quip about “I’ll be your captain aboard this flight,” and his jovial instructions to buckle up and stow our tray table etc. it was obvious that our ‘pilot’ had done this trip many times before. His routine fell on mainly deaf ears -I could see that several passengers had nodded off in the time it had taken for everyone to settle into their seats.
On the positive side, we got to see a fair portion of Brisbane on the coach journey to our designated hotel.
I did briefly wonder if Brisbane didn’t have suitable hotels a little closer to the airport but by then I was somewhere in that land-past-caring. I’m sure the airline knew this and carefully calculated that stranded passengers lost the will to live or, more importantly, to complain - not long after the witching hour.
A refreshing shower, a fifty-minute nap in crisp cotton sheets, a polite wake-up call from the hotel’s front desk clerk and I was back to sitting in a smaller bus for the return journey -a trip, I noted with wry amusement as I stared out the bus’ window at a still-sleeping Brisbane streetscape, that felt like it took almost as long as my nap.
