Take A Look At Me Now. Miranda Dickinson

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      CHAPTER FOUR

       Good morning, San Francisco

      ‘Ladies and gentlemen, we will shortly be approaching San Francisco International airport. Local time is eleven thirty a.m. It’s sunny, with a light westerly breeze and the temperature on the ground is a very pleasant twenty-two degrees Celsius. Please fasten your seat belts and place your seats and trays in the upright position …’

      ‘Almost home,’ smiled the tanned woman in the seat beside me. During the eleven-hour flight from my connection at Paris Charles de Gaulle airport, I had learned that her name was Patti, she was returning to San Francisco after a business trip to Paris and was something big in electronic security systems. When she discovered this was my first time in her city, she had launched into an enthusiastic commentary on all the places I simply had to visit: from Alcatraz to the Museum of Modern Art, Macy’s to a particular Latino-jazz bar she often frequented in the Mission District. After several waking hours of her tour suggestions, part of me felt as if I knew the city already. ‘You’re going to have the best time, honey. There’s nowhere on earth like it.’

      I gazed out of the window as the aircraft began a slow, stomach-flipping descent through the white, wispy cloudbank. The week since my momentous decision in the small Islington travel agency had passed in a blur: giving notice to my startled housemates, moving back in with my even more startled parents, applying for a visa, buying a new suitcase and clothes for my two-month American adventure and avoiding calls from Aidan, who didn’t seem to have received the message that I wanted nothing more to do with him. When I’d checked my mobile in Paris waiting for my connecting flight, the number of missed calls from him had been heading towards twenty. I had no intention of speaking to him yet. The next eight weeks of my life were a clean sheet, a chance to start afresh. Once this time was over I would start to think of what was next for me. But right now, Nell Sullivan was about to arrive in San Francisco with no agenda, no plan and no restrictions.

      I had been so engrossed in the details and logistics of my brilliant plan that it was only when the plane landed at San Francisco International airport that reality actually hit me. As the plane made its slow taxi along the runways towards the terminals, the sensible side of me (which had been so noticeably absent in my decision-making over the last seven days) made a magnificent return with a hissy fit to end them all.

       What am I doing? Why am I blowing all my money on this?

      I was going to a place I’d never visited before, to spend eight weeks with a cousin I hadn’t seen for years. Yes, we had been virtually inseparable during our teens, but that was a long time ago. Lizzie had undoubtedly changed and so had I. I hadn’t given her much option, calling from the travel agency and more or less holding a gun to her head. What if she had only suggested eight weeks because she felt it was the right thing to do? One thing I knew about my cousin was that she was officially the sweetest being on the planet. Growing up, she would always tie herself in knots rather than offend someone.

      In the stuffy confines of the pressurised air cabin, my nerves tipped further on edge as I lurched towards a full-blown panic attack. After we’d brought each other up to speed on our respective lives, what would we talk about then? I realised that for the last couple of years my life had more or less revolved around my job and whether Aidan and I were together or not. Even my beloved baking had taken a back seat, especially given the dubious state of the kitchen in my former house-share. Not only was I leaving all of that behind, but I also had to figure out what would fit in their place. Questions about my future waited at home to be dealt with later, but questions of the next two months of my life lay in wait for me in San Francisco. What if Lizzie wasn’t ready to welcome someone who knew so little about herself?

      Once my nerves had run themselves sufficiently ragged and we were nearing the terminal building, I began to feel decidedly more positive. Everything would be fine, I reassured myself. There was nothing I could do about any of this now – I would have to discover the answers in San Francisco.

      Besides, I’d promised Vicky that I would make the most of my time here. Knowing that she was at home facing the horrors of unemployment unsettled me, but she’d insisted I was doing the right thing.

      ‘Don’t you worry about me. You need this, Nell. And I need every gorgeous, gory detail you can chuck my way. I’m counting on you to entertain me, OK?’

      Standing in the seemingly never-moving line for Immigration at San Francisco airport, I smiled to myself. Only Vicky could make that kind of demand sound like fun.

      ‘First time in San Francisco, Ma’am?’ the huge Immigration officer asked, his politeness at odds with the fact that he looked as if he could quite easily snap my neck like a pencil if he wanted to.

      ‘Yes it is.’

      He held up my passport, dark eyes beneath his thickset brow flicking between my face and my totally embarrassing passport photo. Just as the scrutiny was beginning to verge on uncomfortable, he handed it back. ‘Thank you. Enjoy your trip.’

      As heartfelt sentiments go, this wasn’t a contender for welcome of the year, but I smiled my thanks and scurried away in case the neck-snapping option began to appeal to him.

      Even though I was surrounded by my fellow passengers from England and France, the moment I walked into the baggage hall I knew I was in America. The noise in the cavernous hangar was distinctive in tone, the phrases on the overhead signs a little dissimilar to those at Heathrow or Paris Charles de Gaulle – even the atmosphere of the admittedly impersonal surroundings seemed different.

      Emerging from the long tunnel-like walkway into the blast of noise, light and activity, I struggled momentarily to gain my bearings. Scanning along the selection of name signs being held by the barriers, I spotted Lizzie, grinning like a Cheshire Cat on happy gas and brandishing a sheet of card framed in what looked like a cerise feather boa, my name artfully spelled out in multicoloured glitter-glue and sequins. I was struck by how beautifully relaxed she looked. Her wavy blonde hair was loosely pinned up, her sunglasses tucked into it at the crown of her head, and her tanned skin glowed against the loose white blouse and pale blue shorts she wore.

      ‘Nellie!’ she yelled, ducking underneath the stretched elastic barrier, shedding bright pink feathers as she went.

      ‘Hi!’

      I was hit with the full force of my cousin’s embrace as she nearly rugby-tackled me to the shiny-tiled airport floor.

      ‘I’m so glad you’re here! How are you? How was the flight? Are you hungry? I bet you’re hungry. Well we’re catching a cab home so we can pretty much stop anywhere. You just tell me what you fancy and we’ll find it. This is San Francisco, after all. Coffee! I bet you need coffee. Your first shot of American Joe is always special, trust СКАЧАТЬ