Page 6 of The Stipulation
“Umm, hi. I think you’re here for me,” I say uncertainly when I come face to face with the chauffeur.
“Miss Button?” he asks.
I nod.
He gestures for my suitcase. I hand it to him, and he opens the back door of the car without another word. I thank him and get in. The door closes with a soft thud. The interior of the car smells faintly of new leather and citrus, and the kind of luxury I didn’t know existed outside of Instagram posts swallows me up.
After a moment or two, the driver’s door opens, and the chauffeur gets in. He pulls away from the sidewalk, and we start to make our way down the quiet roads. I sink back against the soft seat, trying to relax as I stare out at the darkened streets of London, everything familiar slipping by too quickly, replaced by the gnawing anticipation of the unknown. It hits me that we’re not heading towards Heathrow, and I speak up anxiously.
“Excuse me?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I was told we’d be going to the airport.”
“Indeed, we are,” the driver replies. “We have an eta of approximately five minutes.”
“Oh,” I say absently, realizing that he hasn’t really confirmed why he’s gone past the turning for the airport, but I don’t want to sound like I am accusing him of abducting me or something, so I stay quiet and wait to see where we end up in five minutes’ time. Maybe he knows another route or something.
He turns off the road, and I peer out of the window, my mouth dropping open when I see our destination. It’s not Heathrow. Not even close. It’s a private airstrip, I realize in awe. There is a row of sleek jets lined up like swans on glass. The chauffeur has already gotten out of the car, and he opens my door for me. I step out and thank him. He gets my suitcase from the trunk and reunites me with it and then he closes the back door, tips his cap to me, and drives away, leaving me standing alone on the edge of the airstrip with no idea where to go or what to do.
I look around and see a building with orange lights in the windows and some activity going on inside. A woman in a stewardess’s uniform comes out of it and approaches me.
“Good evening, Miss Button,” she greets, all crisp white uniform and a polished smile. “If you would like to follow me, your flight will be taking off shortly.”
I follow her across the tarmac. She is surprisingly fast considering the height of her heels, and I almost have to jog to keep up. She turns around to flash me a professional smile before she goes up the staircase of a jet. Well, well… I follow her to the top where she stands aside and guides me aboard, gesturing for me to go on ahead of her.
“Choose any seat you like,” she invites in her award-winning customer service voice.
I glance at the immaculate interior in wonder, gawking at the subtle luxury touches around the cabin. The polished woodpanels, the ambient lighting, the cream leather. Someone closes the door of the jet, and it makes a huffing noise as it seals shut. And then it hits me. Whoa! Is it possible that I am theonlypassenger? The only passenger on an entire freaking jet! My father must be a very rich man.
“This is insane,” I mutter, sinking into the leather seat closest to me.
“Welcome aboard, Miss Button. I’m Melinda, your air hostess,” a blonde with a toothy smile greets in an American accent.
“Thank you,” I murmur, putting on my seatbelt.
“You’re welcome. Take-off will be in approximately five minutes,” she informs and glides away towards the cockpit.
Another air hostess approaches me, holding a tray with a glass of champagne on it.
“Where’s the Beluga caviar?” I ask, joking. Lame. Lame.
She smiles faintly. “I’ll be sure to serve the caviar after take-off. Would you like something to drink in the meantime? A glass of champagne, perhaps?”
I take the champagne. “Um… do you do G & Ts?”
“Of course,” she says pleasantly.
“Then, yes, please. I’d love one,” I say. “Uh… actually make that a large double.”
Her mouth tilts upwards as she nods. When she walks away, I take a sip of bubbles and turn around to look outside. It’s dark, and there are men wearing high-vis vests moving around. It’s so extraordinary, so surreal, I can hardly believe it is not a dream. The air hostess returns with my drink and puts it on the little table in front of me. I thank her and take a sip. It’s good. Like really good.
“Is that all right, Miss Button?” she asks.
I nod, still flabbergasted.
She leaves, and I turn to stare out the window as the plane begins to taxi. We build up speed, then the wheels leave the ground. I watch as we climb up, higher and higher. The bright lights of London shrink beneath me, the familiar grid of streets and glowing lights fading into clouds. My thoughts swirl faster than the wind. I wait until the seatbelt light stops flashing, before I fumble for my cell phone and call Serena. She answers on the first ring.
