Hundreds of people pass through the crew room even on a normal day, and this is not a normal day.
The hostage book full#
Who is this woman, so full of opinions? She could be anyone from a cleaning lady to a finance manager. I look for a name badge but don’t find one. “Yes.” I feel myself flush, half expecting her to call me out on it. A woman in civvies looks at me appraisingly. I queue for a coffee and cup my still-cold hands around the plastic. In the crew room, there’s the buzz in the air that comes with hot gossip or new rotas. I can’t wait to touch down in Sydney and see sunshine, dump my bag at the hotel, and head to the beach to sleep off the flight. I usually walk to the crew room, but the pavement’s slippery with gray ice thrown up from the roads, and what was fresh snow at home is slush here. Maybe I’ll keep using the bloody wet wipes, just to spite them.Īfter arriving at the car park, I lock my car then wheel my case to the shuttle bus. The absurdity of my reaction-to a woman on the other side of the railings, for heaven’s sake!-makes me cross with the lot of them. My heart races, and I reach for the central locking, my foot slipping on the accelerator in my haste to pull away. Seeing me looking, she thrusts it toward me, shouting incomprehensibly. I slow for the roundabout, glancing to the left where a woman holds a placard showing a photograph of a starving polar bear. A sign isn’t going to change their minds. It seems a pretty pointless exercise, given that anyone traveling to the airport either works here or has a ticket to fly somewhere. The police can’t stop them demonstrating, but they take down their signs as quickly as they go up. They must have only just put it there-security’s pretty tight around the airport. A banner’s been stretched across the road. I think guiltily of the daily wet wipes I use and resolve to dig out my Clarins again.
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