And petals, petals fall all around us as we step out into the autumn air of London. Husband and wife.
I’m woken by a gentle knocking. Mark hasn’t woken up yet; he’s still sound asleep, nestled beside me in the vast hotel bed. My husband. My sleeping new husband. The gentle taps continue. I roll out of bed, throw a robe on, and tiptoe into the suite’s sitting room.
It’s coffee. Two tall silver coffee pots on a white-clothed trolley waiting outside in the hall. The room service waiter whispers a “Good morning” and beams.
“Thank you so much,” I whisper back, and wheel the trolley around myself into our thickly carpeted lounge area. I sign and return the bill; there’s a bloody big tip on there. Today I’m officially sharing the joy.
It’s six o’clock on a Sunday morning. I ordered the coffee last night because I thought it might soften the early start. But to be honest, I’m okay. Already wide-awake and raring to go. I’m so glad I didn’t drink too much last night. I didn’t really want to. I wanted to stay clearheaded, stay focused. I wanted to remember and treasure every moment.
I push the trolley around our plush hotel furniture and into the bedroom and leave it to stand while I pop into the shower. Hopefully the pungent aroma of coffee will wake him up naturally. I want everything to be perfect for him today. He loves coffee. I hop into the rainforest shower and soap myself, careful not to wet my hair as I wash. We need to be out of the hotel and on our way to the airport in half an hour.
Today is, technically, going to be the longest day of our lives. We’ll be traveling backward across eleven time zones and the International Date Line, so that after twenty-one hours of air and boat travel we’ll be on the other side of the world and it’ll only be ten o’clock. I let the hot soapy water flow over my shoulder muscles, my arms, the new gold band on my finger.
Snapshots of yesterday shutter through my mind: the church, Fred’s toast, Mark’s toast, Caro talking to Mark’s parents, the first dance. The last dance. Last night, finally alone. Desperate for each other.
I hear the light clink of china on china. He’s up.
And I’m out of the shower in a second and wet in his arms.
“Too early, Erin. Too early,” he protests grouchily as he pours the hot coffee out for us. I cover him in kisses and shower water.
He hands me a cup and I stand there fully nude and soaking wet as I sip it. I’m looking pretty good at the moment, if I do say so myself; I’m in shape. I sort of made a point of it. It’s not every day a girl gets married. He drinks his coffee perched on the end of the bed, his eyes playing lazily across my body as he sips.
“You’re beautiful,” he says, still half asleep.
“Thank you.” I smile.
* * *
—
We’re dressed and checked out in no time. A Mercedes glides into the Sunday morning half-light outside the hotel. The driver introduces himself as Michael but doesn’t say much else during the journey to Heathrow. We sail through the abandoned early morning streets, safely muffled in our leather-scented cocoon; the only people about are the occasional revelers, still stumbling home. Somewhere out there in the half-light, out toward North London, through locked corridors of sleeping bodies, lie Alexa, Eddie, and Holli, in bare, sealed rooms I’ll never see, about to live a day I’ll never really understand. I feel my freedom with renewed clarity.
At Heathrow, Mark leads me past the already-snaking British Airways queues toward the empty check-in desks at the end of the aisle. First. I’ve never traveled first-class before. I have that odd mixed feeling of excitement paired with middle-class guilt at the idea of it. I want it, but I know I shouldn’t want it. Mark has traveled first with clients—he assures me I’ll love it. I shouldn’t overthink it.
At the desk a woman with a dazzling smile greets us like long-lost friends returning home. Fiona, our check-in assistant, the only check-in assistant who has ever introduced herself by name to me, is infinitely hospitable and helpful. I could definitely get used to this. I suppose money buys you time and time buys you attention. It feels great. Don’t overanalyze it, I tell myself. Just enjoy. You’ll be poor again soon.
We glide through security. The guards seem almost embarrassed to check our bags. Once my shoes are back on, Mark points across the security hall to the far right wall. In the wall is a door. Just an ordinary white door. No sign. It looks just like a staff room door. He smiles.
“That’s Millionaire’s Door.” He grins and raises an eyebrow. “Shall we?” he asks.
All I can do is follow. He strides confidently as he crosses the hall, like he knows exactly where he’s going, whereas I feel absolutely certain we’ll be stopped at any moment. As we walk toward its un-signposted archway, I half expect, at any second, a hand to grab my arm, to escort us into some tiny interview room for hours of grueling terrorism questioning. But that doesn’t happen; we make it across the hall unnoticed, through the strange little doorway, and out of the low-level bustle of the concourse into the cool hushed air of the Concorde Room lounge.
It’s a secret shortcut for first-class passengers only. Straight from fast-track security into the private British Airways lounge.
So this is how the other half lives? Well, the other 1 percent, anyway. I had no idea.
British Airways apparently pays one million pounds sterling a year in compensation to Heathrow to make sure their first-class passengers don’t have to suffer the indignity of having to walk past all those duty-free shops full of shit they don’t need. And today neither do we.
It’s heaven inside the lounge. It’s nice to be on this side of the door, not that I even knew there was a door up until five minutes ago. That’s strange, isn’t it? When you think you know what a good thing is and then you suddenly realize that there is a whole other level beyond what you knew even existed? Scary, in a way. How quickly what is good can become not good enough through comparison. Maybe best never to see it. Maybe best not to know that everyone else in the airport is being shepherded through retail units designed to strip them of the very little that they have, while you keep yours safe.
Don’t overthink it, Erin, stop it. Just enjoy it. It’s okay to enjoy having this good thing.
Everything in here is free. We sink down into the leather restaurant booths and order a light breakfast of freshly baked pain au chocolat and English breakfast tea. I look at Mark. Gorgeous Mark reading the paper. He looks happy. I look around at the other people in the lounge. Somehow first class has imbued them all with a kind of mystery, a mystique that drips from every movement, endowing it with a sort of grace. Or perhaps I’ve imbued them with that because I feel like I’ve wandered into a glen of unicorns.