My life was pretty much perfect.
Engaged to a gorgeous, charismatic fighter-pilot, my best friend as my room-mate, and a job I totally loved. What more could a girl ask for?
My mum had been an international flight attendant. When she wasn't away on a trip, I remember being put to bed with stories of real-life magical places and faraway lands. So, really, there was never any doubt as to what I'd be when I grew up.
Okay, so air hostessing wasn’t rocket science. But I wasn't an ordinary air hostess. I was a military, VIP flight attendant, flying our Australian Government around on comfortable business jets. The caliber of my passengers made my job unique and prestigious, while the military aspect kept it challenging. My mum had always said, “There is no greater curse in life than mediocrity. If you're going to do something ordinary, sweetheart, do it in the most extraordinary way possible.”
So I did.
My future looked rosy. Not quite Life Styles of the Rich and Famous (my one addiction), but a long way from ordinary.
Yep, I was on top of my game (or so I thought), completely and utterly satisfied.
That is, until Arizona.
Not Arizona the State. Arizona the stripper.
***
I opened the blinds in the living room. Kendi lay passed out on the couch, still in her hipster jeans and tiny tank-top from the night before. She groaned and pulled a cushion over her face. “What time is it? What the hell are you doing up so early on a Saturday?” she asked.
“Kendi! Your bedroom’s as close to the front door as the couch is,” I said, confused why she'd choose our lumpy, faded-red sofa over the comfort of a pillow-top mattress.
“You didn't answer my question,” she mumbled into the cushion.
“I have a flight today. And it's not early, it's two in the afternoon.” I handed her a bottle of Evian.
Kendi sat up pushing unkempt, golden hair out of her face and downed the entire bottle of water with one chug. “Really? You’re on the Prime Minister's flight to Perth? Lucky you. Man, I'd kill for four days on the beach right now, might cure my hangover,” she said.
“Nope, I swapped out with Judy. I'm taking the Defense Minister to Williamtown for two nights.”
The plan was to surprise Mike. There were only two postings for an active FA18 Hornet pilot, and neither of them were in Canberra, the one and only posting for a Ministerial flight attendant. I'd reluctantly take a ground position in Williamtown after our wedding, but ten months after our engagement, we still hadn't managed to set a date.
Kendi found the remote and started flicking through music video channels. “Well, don't gloat about spending the entire time in bed when you get back.” She pouted.
I rolled my eyes. Kendi was hardly without male attention.
“I think you do pretty well for yourself, Miss Watson,” I said, “You just think you're too good for the boys in this town.”
Kendi was a petite size 2 with pretty porcelain-doll features and thick, butt-length blonde hair. For such a small frame, she had unfairly landed herself a 30D bust line.
“No Sienna, I don't think I'm too good for the boys in this town, I just think I'm too good for this bloody town,” she said.
I snatched the remote from her lap and flopped onto the couch beside her. “Sorry, Lifestyles is on.” I flicked it over to Robin Leach in a black shirt with a black and silver paisley waistcoat standing in-front of an Olympic size swimming pool. A leopard dozed on a velvet lounger in the background, more drugged than his rockstar owner.
“No wonder you're so fashion challenged,” Kendi said, getting up off the couch. “You're addicted to the eighties!” She smiled and hit me playfully with her pink pillow.
“I'm not addicted to the eighties. It's not my fault they haven't made a new episode in fifteen years,” I said.
“Yes they bloody have. It's called Cribs. MTV. Get with the times.” Kendi winked and tottered off to her bedroom.
“Poor imitation!” I called after her. I wasn't hooked on gossip mags, I didn't give a crap about who was dating who or what stars looked like without makeup. It fascinated me how the other half lived. What they woke up to each morning. It'd be hard to have a bad day if you woke up to floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the ocean in Hawaii, and had a butler bring you breakfast in bed right before he waxed your board for a morning surf. You wouldn't even need to paddle. He'd push you right to the line-up.
I spent the next half-hour engrossed in a world I could only ever dream about, and often did. Since I was eight, mum and I had watched it religiously when she wasn't away on a flight. We'd bond over sparkling apple juice in champagne flutes and built castles in the sky. We even had a 'Top Ten' list going for our most-want-to-live destinations. The Leach List. Her number one was Beverly Hills, for the celeb watching. Mine was Maui, for the surf.
That was until I was twelve. Then my dad died in a fighter-jet crash. 'Aspartame induced flicker vertigo', the coroners report had read. Go figure, diet-Coke killed my dad. Six months later mum met an LA movie producer on a SYD-LAX flight and famously got fired for joining the mile high club with him.
The good news, for her, was that he married her. The bad news, for me, was that Hank didn't like kids. Aunty Pearl always said Hank was a re-bound husband after the loss of my Dad. But considering she'd dumped me to be with him, I doubted she was that upset about losing either of us. No Purple Heart for that gutless act.
I stopped taking her calls. All mail hit the trash, unopened. Pearl was dad's sister, so her loyalties laid with me. For all Pearl's diplomatic comments about it, I'm sure she felt exactly the same way about my mum as I did. She was a selfish, heartless bitch. To this day, people still recognized my last name and asked if I was related to the Flight Attendant who shagged a Yank in-flight.
“...Champagne wishes and caviar dreams...” Robin Leach closed the episode.
I got goosebumps, as always. God I love this show.
I didn't care much for champagne. Not that I'd ever tried the real stuff. According to my Sommelier instructor, back in VIP service training, if it wasn't from the champagne region in France, it wasn't champagne. Thirty bucks or three hundred bucks, I'm sure it all gave you the same headache in the morning. As for Caviar, I tried the leftovers once after a visiting dignitary insisted we have it on-board. I would've got as much enjoyment from a tin of double salted wallaby droppings.
That said, there was still something in the way 'champagne wishes and caviar dreams' rolled off Robin's tongue that made me think I should want those things more than anything in the world.
Maybe it was Robin's glossy depiction of the good life that made you feel like everyone else lived the bad life. Or maybe it was because my mother had traded me for a chance at her own Caviar dreams.
I sighed and turned the TV off. One hour to get ready. Standing in the bathroom, I pulled my dark, shoulder-length hair back into a military standard bun and combed my thick bangs. A brush of mascara and a slick of natural lip sheen, and I was done. In a male-dominant environment we always tip-toed the line between well-groomed and flat out feminine. The term 'Princess' in the Air Force was an insult, not a compliment. This was fine with me, since I'd never been fussed with hours of preening. Luckily I got my dad's olive skin and my mum's high cheekbones.
I heard the phone ring in the living room.
Kendi answered it then poked her head around the bathroom door. “Your Aunty Pearl’s on the phone, hon. I'm heading out for a Bloody Mary brunch, can I use the bathroom?”
“Sure.” I buttoned my crisp blue shirt and pinned my half set of wings above my left breast, identifying me as aircrew.
I parked on the arm of the couch so my trousers wouldn’t wrinkle. “Aunty Pearl? Hi! What's new?” I asked. I'd moved to tiny Marimnbula to live with Pearl and Stan after cop-out left town. On joining the RAAF, Saturdays became our weekly catch-up day.
“Not much, darl, how about you? Been anywhere exciting lately? How's that fabulous Prime Minister of ours?” she asked, suggesting I sat down and drank tea with him rather than serve it to him.
“Flew with him on Wednesday; we had two full days off in Melbourne. They have the best airport hotel there, nearly four stars I reckon.”
“Well, aren’t you the little jet setter? In my day flying was such a big affair, it was more common to take the train to visit other cities, if one was even to visit another city at all.” She sighed. “And Michael? Any closer to committing to a date yet, darl? You know that engagement ring is only half the battle. Women are pregnant for less time than you’ve been engaged.”
I cringed. Here we go, I thought. In Pearl’s opinion, if a girl hadn’t closed the deal on marriage within two years of 'courtship', she probably wasn’t going to; I was going on three years with Mike.
Aunty Pearl also had some warped ideas on what denoted 'good wife material': “Now Sienna, always talk more about them than yourself, always keep yourself in good physical shape, always oblige their intimate needs, and never let them see you without make-up on.”
This view had gotten worse after Uncle Stan nearly left her six years ago for an Asian reflexologist. Pearl swore it had been because she wasn't giving him enough attention (or herself for that matter). Now that they were both retired she only let him out of her sight for two hours a day; to do her Denise Austin aerobics videos and to put her hair in rollers. She'd also gotten her certificate in reflexology.
“I'm flying to Williamtown today actually, so we'll probably talk about it over the weekend,” I said, hoping to change the subject.
“Well good. Make sure you do, darl, Michael’s such a fabulous catch. I saw that new Air Force advertisement on television, you know. He looks so handsome with his helmet tucked under his arm, and that fancy bomber-jet parked in the background... he'll have girls swooning all over him.”
I choked a giggle. Mike was the new poster boy for the Air Force recruitment campaign. But it was a corny ad, and he bore the brunt of teasing over it from friends as well as strangers. We couldn't get through a night out without someone mimicking him by pumping his fist in the air and shouting: “Air Force! Way to go!”
“Mike and I are totally in love,” I said, although, comfortably in love was probably a better descriptor. “The only people swooning over him because of that ad will be doe eyed high-school girls.” Doe-eyed high-school girls and Aunty Pearl’s knitting club. “Anyway, tell Uncle Stan I send my love, but I really have to run. Love you!”
“We love you too, sweetheart. Say a big ‘hi’ to the Prime Minister from your Aunt and Uncle, you can tell him we voted for him, both times,” she said, with a patriotism usually reserved for war heroes and Americans.
***
Our Falcon 900 business jets could seat twelve, but usually we averaged two to six pax. This day I only had the Defense Minister and the Chief of Air Force. Judy had jumped at the chance to swap onto the Prime Minister's flight. Flying with the Defense Minister often meant staying at a military base; not quite the 3-4 star hotels we were used to as VIP Hosties. I'd stay at Mike's town-house, so thankfully I’d get to pass on the musty, on-base rooms with their mildewy, communal showers.
On arrival to Williamtown Air Force base, A.K.A the Hornet’s Nest, I passed the passengers their luggage and saluted them off. Over the thunderous rumble of FA18 Hornets above, I reminded the pilots I'd be staying off base with Mike.
“No worries, Harris. Say G'day to him for us. Mike's a good bloke; would love to catch up with him for a beer one of these days.”
Fighter pilots were to standard pilots what we girls were to commercial flight attendants, the top tier.
But then, not to appear too kiss-arse, they followed it up with an air punch and, “Air Force! Way to go!”
Like that wasn't wearing thin.
In the cab on my way to Mike's, I released my tight knot of hair and massaged my scalp. It was sweet relief. Mike still didn’t know I was is town, so I dialed his number to make sure he was home. If he hadn't come down with a cold this weekend, he would've driven up to Canberra to stay with me. The weekend before, he'd been issued some last minute flight scheduling. I was really missing him.
“Sie Sie, hey sweet thing, what's going down?” Mike was thirty five, thirteen years older than me, much to uncle Stan's chagrin. He never acted it, though. Most of his mates were younger than him, which spoke for his maturity level. Not that I cared. Growing up in Marimbula didn't exactly make me worldly or wise. Although, I could definitely do with less fart jokes.
“Hey babe, just checking in with you. Feeling any better?” I asked.
“Not a whole lot. Rugged up on the couch watching Dvds.”
Top Gun, probably. He watched it three times a week; even named his wiener Maverick (“Maverick's coming in to land, baby” “Oh yeah, Maverick's firing his Seek And Destroy!”).
“Good. You should rest. Get better so you can come and keep me warm in crappy Canberra,” I said.
“Now that sounds like something worth getting better for, sugarpop.”
We said our goodbyes. Five minutes later, the taxi pulled up in the drive next to Mike's black Nisan 350Z. Beyonce’ was blaring from the living room. Beyonce’? I usually couldn't get him to listen to anything but AC/DC or the soundtrack to Top Gun; Our first night together was spent with Danger Zone alternating with Thunderstruck in the background.
I stepped through the front door to his town-house and called over the music, “Mike? It's me babe, where are you?”
I needn't have asked.
Mike was sitting in the living room in his boxers, his hands behind his back in fluffy pink handcuffs while a flame-haired Amazonian, complete with leopard print thong, gyrated on his lap to Crazy in Love.
I was half way through the door with my hand still on the door knob and my jaw on the floor. My first thought was that I'd just seen my first pair of bare, silicone tits. Not a common sight in the circles we hung with.
Mike was just as stunned, but he didn't look nearly as worried as I thought he should have. “Sie, what are you doing here?” he asked.
My stomach lurched into my throat.
Big Red got of his lap, bored, but didn't attempt to clothe herself or to un-cuff him. She switched off the music with the remote, looked me up and down (or just down, considering she was nearly 6ft tall), and swaggered to the bedroom. “Let me know when you’re done,” she called over her shoulder.
“Sienna, it's not what it looks like,” Mike said.
“That's original.” So my eyes must be mistaking me that I just walked in on you getting a lap dance? I wanted to say, but the bile build up in my mouth only let me swallow.
He took a deep breath. “Sie, can you un-cuff me? Then we can talk. The keys are over there on the coffee table.” He nodded in the direction of the table; a gift from me.
If I weren't so shocked I could've found his situation amusing. In a daze, I inched over to the table.
He took my silence as a cue to continue. “Arizona is a stripper, okay, but it's not as sleazy as it looks. We're old friends.”
I thought about activities a I partook in with my old friends. Lap dancing wasn’t one of them.
“There's no easy way to say this, sugarpop,” he continued, “I think we’re in love.”
My heart stopped.
I didn't know which would've been more insulting, that he was paying another woman to gyrate on his groin, or that he was in love with another woman who was gyrating on his groin.
The blood that had drained from my face returned with full force. “You're in love? You’re still calling her by her stage name and you think you’re in love? You have a $20,000 ring on another girl's finger, and you think you're in love?” I said, my voice not nearly matching my internal meltdown.
“Sienna, I'm so sorry, babe, this is hard for me too you know. I guess the heart just wants what the heart wants...”
I stared at his bound and pathetic-self and had an overwhelming urge to kick the chair from beneath him. “No Michael, in your case I think the dick just wants what the dick wants.”
A lipstick caught my eye on the table. I picked it up and examined the base. Final Seduction, how appropriate. Mike sat jaw clenched as I wrote the word DICK across his forehead in Hooker Red then turned and walked out the door. “I'm keeping the ring,” I called over my shoulder as I left.
***
I don't know if it was disgust or denial that kept me from crying, but I headed back to the Air Force base in a numb silence.
It wasn't until I'd picked up my bed linen from the guard box, yep, to add salt to the wound I'd have to make my own bed, and had settled in to my dingy room, that the tears finally broke through my bravado. It was short-lived but a good release. On regaining my composure, I called Aunty Pearl.
“Hi ya Pearl, it's me.” I lay back on my squeaky bed, a spring digging in to my shoulder blade.
“Sienna? Hi love. Whatever are you doing calling me on a Saturday night? I thought you'd be wining and dining with Michael by now. Is everything okay, dear?”
I gulped and wondered if I should have called Kendi instead. “Ah, no, every thing's not okay actually. I just found Mike with another woman.”
I didn't know what I was expecting. Sympathy maybe, empathy?
There was a long pause before she spoke. “Sienna, this might come across as a little harsh, darl, but have you let yourself go lately? I only say that from experience, sweetheart.” Her voice held genuine condolence.
Oh sure, Aunty Pearl. I ate a second bowl of ice-cream for desert last week, skipped one of my morning runs, and now Mike's leaving me for a stripper.
“Pearl, I'm still a size 6. Mike's just a major jerk who had me fooled for the last three years.” If I wasn't going to get reassurance from her, then I'd have to give it to myself. Convincing or not.
“Well Sienna, I'm afraid that's your first problem right there, darl. You just don't understand men. Men are from Mars and women are from Venus, you know. When I first-”
“Sorry, could you hold for just a second?” I put my hand over the mouth piece, closed my eyes, and bit my lower lip. I can not do this right now. Taking a deep breath, I fought back the quiver in my voice. “Sorry Pearl, my Commanding Officer is on the other line, there might be a flight change. We'll talk soon. Bye.” I hung up without waiting for her reply, feeling even more deflated than I had before I'd called.
Kendi. She'll have some words of wisdom for me. Or else she'd tell me to go out and get good and drunk, and good and laid. I dialed her number.
She answered, but I could only just make her out over a rowdy crowd and a rock-band. “Hello? Sie? I can't really hear you, hon. I'm at the Ballistics concert at the Uni bar. Do you want to text me instead?”
“No worries, I'll do that.”
“Sorry, what did you say?” she yelled.
I yelled back, “No worries! I'll text you. Have fun!” I wasn't about to get into the details over text, so I sent a message to say: just calling for a chat. Have fun. Speak soon x
I'm not sure if it was the lingering words of my aunt, or the lingering vision of Arizona's tiny waistline and lean limbs, but I spent the rest of my Saturday night pounding out six miles on the treadmill of the Hornet's Nest gymnasium.
***