November 23rd, 1990

November 23rd, 1990

Night flight from LAX – LHR

Trying to hold it together at 35,000 feet, surrounded by hundreds of strangers is proving to be difficult, but at least we’re homeward bound.

After David left yesterday, I collapsed on the bed and experienced every emotion possible. I sobbed for hours, willing the phone to ring or for him to knock on the door and say he was sorry and he’d made a terrible mistake. Of course none of that happened and somehow the hours ticked by, the tears let up slightly and I got hungry!

I rang room service but with it being Thanksgiving, the hotel was operating with only a skeleton staff, therefore a two-hour minimum time for delivery. Just hearing that made me ravenous, so I willed myself to take a shower, after which I chucked my dress in the bin and vowed never to buy anything ever again in that colour.

When I got to the lobby, I noticed a new crew arriving and in attempt to avoid any familiar faces, I spun around, with the thought I’d slip out again later if I didn’t find a vending machine somewhere in the hotel.

“Miss McGarr!”

Oh no, I thought, scurrying on.

“Miss McGarr!” Knowing Annabel as I do, I knew she’d chase me down, so I stopped and turned.

“Hello you,” she grinned, coming towards me. “Guess who got called out on standby!”

I took one look at her and burst into tears.

“Oh, poppet,” she said. “What’s wrong?”

“I, I, I-” I stuttered.

“It’s ok, it’s ok,” she said, stroking my arm. “Give me your room number, I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

When the gentle knock came, I still wanted it to be David, coming to pick me up as planned with a big smile on his face and a few sneaky kisses before we headed to San Diego.

Annabel barged into my room, her arms laden with biscuits, crisps and a bottle of wine that she promptly opened.

“Ok poppet,” she sighed, filling a glass all the way to the top. “Spill.”

I gulped down most of the wine, then began telling her all that transpired since I arrived yesterday, throughout which she uttered only two words; Sorry and Bastard.

“We need to get you out of this room,” she said. “It reeks of sadness.”

We ended up at the Santa Monica pier and sat quietly on the end, our legs dangling high above the sea, as we watched the sunset.

“See?” she said. “You made it through the first day of your breakup. Now chin up and let’s go find a place to eat before I get you ridiculously drunk.”

We ate at Café Casino then Annabel insisted we go to a bar called Marty McFly’s, where she garnered much attention asking for suggestions from the barman for drinks suitable for a freshly broken heart. He stared at her with a gormless expression and mumbled a few words.

“Do speak up,” she demanded, sounding posher than ever. “I can’t hear you.”

“A pitcher of Margarita’s?” he asked, tentatively.

“Yes!” she exclaimed. “We’ll start with that.”

We stumbled back to the hotel, where Annabel insisted on, “Triple everything in those drinks please, my good friend here has had the most dreadful Thanksgiving.” She winked at me and I couldn’t help but laugh.

Some of my crew were in the bar and were surprised to see me. I was drunk enough to share with them, a mini version of what happened. Andy kept gasping, covering his mouth with his hand and suggested meeting for breakfast, like that was going to happen. Annabel had previously arranged to meet a friend of hers, a girl she went to boarding school with, who now works in Beverly Hills as a nanny (“such salacious sordid tales darling, I’ll fill you in next time.”)

When I got up this morning, there was a note under the door:

“Chin up, lovely girl, see you back in Blighty, where there are plenty of fish, all swimming in your direction! So, so sorry. Hope your head doesn’t feel as bad as mine. And don’t forget Christmas Eve with moi! Not so sloppy kisses, Annabel xxx.”

 

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