We're in the departures lounge at Stanstead, waiting for our flight to Split. V casually sips a frappuccino as she harvests every last nugget of information she can from the Rough Guide to Croatia. I pace to and fro.
"Come on then, what is it?" asks V. "Worried about the flight?"
"No, not at all," I lie, pointlessly.
"The journey here was more dangerous you know," she says.
She has a point. We were driven, at pace, to the airport at 6am by a saturnine character who was quite obviously wearing pyjamas underneath his clothes.
"Have you read your book?" she asks. She's talking about Learning to Fly, which aims to combat aerophobia by explaining in simple terms that travelling in a jet is not, in fact, witchcraft. I skimmed it yesterday, but decided not to take it with me today as I couldn't stand the embarrassment of being seen with it at the airport. Logic is not my strong point when it comes to air travel.
A dashing gent aged about 60 and wearing jeans, blazer and deck shoes sits down next to V. With him is a toddler. Grandad puts the toddler on his knee. The child grins up at his bronzed face, gurgles and grins. V looks over at this scene and smiles, no doubt imagining her dad doing something similar with our FC (future child). Then a woman in her twenties sits down next to grandad and hands him a coffee.
Grandad leans over and kisses her on the lips. Tongues are involved. V turns to me and mouths what the fuck? as the penny drops: they are a couple with a newish child. I mouth back what?. V nods to the couple and pulls a 'disgusted of Hackney' face. I mouth back so what? and shrug. Suddenly, I wish I had Learning to Fly to bury my head in.
We board and the plane fills with silver-haired funseekers, solo travellers, young couples and a group of around a dozen women who appear to have mistaken our aged Boeing for a nightclub.
After we have taken off and climbed to the outer reaches of the stratosphere, I have a V&T and relax enough to cease sitting in the 'brace' position. V opens her Cosmopolitan and starts reading, all the while humming I Believe I Can Fly. Hilarious.
The man from the departures lounge plays with his little boy in the aisle. Observing this, V turns to me.
"Bit past it to be a new dad, isn't he?" she whispers.
"I don't think so. It's fairly common these days - Paul McCartney, John Humphrys..."
"Yeah but it's against nature. By the time the kid's 20, his old man'll have croaked it."
"Will you be complaining if I can still produce the goods when I'm 90?"
"We'll probably be having our first around then," says V, with a melodramatic tut.
Across from me sit an obviously well-off young couple with two children, both of whom are screaming like banshees with croup. As the disturbance approaches its violent crescendo, a small majority of other passengers look to the parents to do something. No-one actually says anything, naturally. Alas, it appears mum has important old texts to re-read, while dad is for some reason staring into space with a sulky look on his face.
As I alternate between observing this scene and checking out the window that the wing is not on fire, I wonder whether having children purely to provide a distraction on a flight is a legitimate reason for starting a family. I conclude that it is, as long as you don't tell anyone, perhaps not until you are on your deathbed.
This train of thought leads me to the idea of being an old dad, like the man in the departure lounge. I have a warm fuzzy image of myself aged 70, having already led a full life involving Booker prizes and appearances on Later with Jools Holland, pushing my young child on a swing. All goes well until I do my back in. Then I realise that this scenario would mean me having a different, younger partner, unless V were to give birth aged 65. Then I frown and mouth 'oops' quietly to myself.
My deep philosophical reverie is broken when I become aware of someone hovering next to me. V glowers. I look round to find a woman the colour of a teak sideboard staring at me.
"Any chance of a snog mate?" she asks in an up-down Welsh accent. She explains that she is on her hen weekend and has to kiss every piece of 'totty' on the plane. It would be ungentlemanly to refuse.
"Ooh, nice smooth cheeks!" she exclaims with a giggle and a provocative flick of her blonde extensions, before clomping off down the cabin atop a pair of huge wedges to accost more strangers. Some of the older men look round anxiously, to check her progress.
"Celtic whore," snarls V, head buried in Cosmo. I note that she has completed a quiz entitled 'Are You ready For Kids?' and make a mental note to sneak a peek at her responses while she is asleep.
The descent towards Croatian soil is quite bumpy. My mind racing, I realise that if anything goes wrong, the last person I'll ever kiss will be teak woman. On impulse I lean over and give V a smacker.
"We're not going to crash," she says with a sigh.
We survive the landing, disembark and make for the hotel. After we've gone through the traditional mini-break ritual of giving the manager a hard time about our room and demanding to be upgraded, which we duly are, we head out. Split looks lovely in the early evening summer sun. The warm air caresses our skin and we can smell the sea. We are definitely on holiday. We go to a bar, order a bottle of plonk and sit outside.
"Here's to you and me," says V, raising her glass and grinning.
My phone goes. I consider not answering it, then remember V's tip on min-break etiquette.
It's Ian, Jody's husband/partner/whatever.
"Hello Ian. How's it going?"
"Yeah, not bad mate. In Yugoslavia then?"
"Croatia. Split. It's really fantastic."
V mouths who is it? I mouth back Ian. She pulls a face.
"Nice weather is it?" asks Ian. I can hear Jody in the background at his end whispering, sotto voce, Ask him what he can see right now!
"What can you see right now mate?" asks Ian, on cue. "Paint me a picture."
"Lots of beautiful old buildings...restaurants...people eating. We're in a really nice square having a drink."
Jody whispers Ask him the name! Ask him the name!
"What's the name of the square, buddy?" asks Ian.
"What's the name of this square?" I ask V. Head shaking, she grabs the phone.
"Hello Ian, Hello JODY!" she bawls down the line. "Bye Ian, hi Jody. Yes, it's beautiful and the weather is sensational. Hotel's gorgeous. What's it called? Hotel Split. No, I'm not making it up."
V winks at me. She becomes keen, all of a sudden, to tell Jody in minute detail about our hotel room, the bar we are sitting outside, the square the bar is located in, the restaurant we are thinking of going to and its cuisine. Then she embarks on a monologue about Split under Venetian rule in the 15th century. After 15 fairly dry minutes, the conversation draws to a close.
"Oh!" says V brightly. "I've just thought. This must be costing you a fortune! Okay. See you next Sunday. Byeee!"
"Told you," cackles V. "She didn't believe we were here. That'll teach her to be suspicious."
"To be fair, you were fibbing when you first told her we were coming here."
V waves away my protestations as she sets about photographing everything within 50 feet that has Croatian writing on it, before sending the evidence to Jody in picture message form.
For the rest of the weekend we drink wine, bask in the sun, read a lot (gruesome thrillers for V, newspapers for me), eat more seafood than an average-size basking shark, watch the locals promenade in the early evening, visit a couple of museums and generally have a lovely romantic time with little or no arguing over minutae. Before we know it, it's time to go home.
V is in good spirits on the flight back.
"You know what?" she says, "I feel brilliant."
"Me too. Such a great weekend. Beautiful surroundings, good food, sunshine, great company of course..."
"I know, and the thought of Jody's face when she gets her next phone bill..."
There is a commotion behind me, then a figure runs down the aisle. It is the blonde Welsh hen weekend woman. She fails to make it to the toilet and is sick into her hands. There are groans and tuts from other passengers.
"Just when you think it can't get any better," laughs V.
As we approach Stanstead, golden sunlight streams through the windows. There are big white fluffy clouds dotted in the blue sky around us. The descent feels smooth.
"This is actually quite pleasant!" I find myself saying out loud.
V is too engrossed in the Cosmo article she is reading to celebrate this breakthrough in the battle to beat my psychological flying demons. She guffaws, her eyes widen, she says "no way!" then punches the air and shouts "Yesss!"
"What is it?" I ask. She holds up her hand and hushes me, completely absorbed.
Finally, as we are at that point in the flight where the plane suddenly seems to speed up as it heads towards the runway, she holds the magazine up with a flourish so I can read it.
In big, bold letters, the headline above the article says:
OFFICIAL: MEN HAVE BIOLOGICAL CLOCKS TOO.
"How do you like them apples?" she says gleefully, as we come back down to Earth with a resounding bump.
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