Given Time Page 8

  There were fourteen others taking the tour, mostly Americans, and I enjoyed the company of the intimate group, but at each stop we joined huge crowds around the tourist hotspots, making it difficult to take pleasure in the sights.

  For the most part I put up with it in good humour – after all, I was adding to the numbers – but I found myself getting annoyed when we reached Pearl Harbour. The gleaming white memorial bridge over the USS Arizona, which lay just below the surface, sealed since World War Two with the bodies of its crew undisturbed, should have been a poignant and sombre experience. Even though numbers were limited, the solemn atmosphere was ruined by people taking selfies, who immediately uploaded them to Instagram or Facebook, to be shared with the world and seen by no one.

  By the time the bus dropped me back at the hotel I’d seen enough, even though the island had been fascinating and the views were stunning: we’d stopped for about half an hour on the north shore, watching some spectacular surfing in huge waves that made the surf off Waikiki Beach look tame in comparison. But that was the only part of the day I would have considered going back to see again. I was pleased I’d taken the tour, but didn’t feel any need to repeat it.

  After five days, I was bored with Hawaii. As well as the minibus excursion, I’d taken a helicopter tour and been parasailing, whale-watching and snorkelling; all of which had been fun and exciting, but all of which I had only wanted to do once. I’d taken one evening to stroll around the souvenir shops and market stalls, and resisted the temptation to buy Hawaiian shirts and leis. I could do without T-shirts depicting palm trees or surfboards, with Hawaii or Waikiki Beach emblazoned on them. I found it even easier to forgo the shirts that read ‘Here today, gone to Maui’ or ‘Just another shitty day in paradise’. There seemed to be plenty of customers for them, but I hadn’t seen anybody wearing one, so I guessed they were mostly presents for unfortunate friends and family back home.

  There were many other things to do on the island, but the temperature and humidity had remained higher than normal for the time of year, so I was spending more and more time escaping the heat, either in the bar or in my room. I’d originally booked for two weeks, but by Monday morning I was checking the availability of flights back home. I wasn’t bothered about my return ticket; it was flexible, so I could use it if I could get a seat, or get a refund on it at some stage. That thought had no sooner formed in my head than I was laughing at myself for my inability to get used to the idea that my sudden wealth meant a refund would be unimportant.

  There were two flights back to Seattle: one, which I’d missed, had left at seven in the morning, and the other was around ten in the evening. Now I’d made up my mind to leave, I really didn’t want to wait all day so I started checking other airlines. It was then I noticed a banner ad for an air taxi service with a picture of a private jet. I tapped the link and an exciting new adventure opened up in front of me.

  The prices were every bit as high as I had expected, but when I reminded myself, yet again, that I was a multi-millionaire they quickly became very reasonable. A button labelled Empty Leg aroused my curiosity, so I tapped it to find a list of flights available at a fraction of the usual cost. These were planes that were either returning empty to their base or flying to another destination for their next booking.

  Nestling halfway down the list I found a flight from Honolulu to San Francisco, which was ready to go at any time within three hours. I didn’t hesitate; I tapped on the booking button and filled in the details.

  Less than ninety minutes later, I was watching Hawaii shrink away as the Gulfstream powered into the sky. It felt distinctly weird but oddly thrilling to be the only passenger on board, with sixteen seats to choose from. Amber, the flight attendant, served me champagne, and then as she had little else to do I invited her to join me.

  She told me that for safety reasons she wasn’t allowed to drink while on duty, and when I said that I wouldn’t tell anyone she smiled but still declined. She poured herself a fruit juice, and came to sit opposite me. I found her easy to talk to, and soon confessed that it was my first time on a private jet.

  ‘I guessed that,’ she told me.

  ‘Is it that obvious?’

  She gave a small laugh. ‘You’re very polite. A lot of our customers either ignore me or treat me as their personal slave, getting me up every two minutes to fetch them stuff, and never satisfied with anything.’

  I told her I’d met people like that in first class, and she wasn’t surprised.

  ‘So, not the glamorous job it appears to be?’

  ‘It can be okay,’ she said, and went on to explain that there was usually a big difference between customers who paid full price and those who took the empty leg deals. ‘Those people,’ she said, making it clear she didn’t mean me, ‘usually try to fill as many seats as possible, just to get their money’s worth, and they’re always the worst.’ She explained that it was unusual to have only one passenger, especially on a plane this size. She told me about the other aircraft her company operated, from the largest Gulfstream, carrying up to nineteen passengers, down to a four-seater Cessna, and many variations in between.

  I asked her whether she preferred to work on the bigger or smaller planes, and she laughed, explaining that the smaller aircraft didn’t have room for cabin crew.

  ‘I’m glad I chose this flight then,’ I said.

  ‘I’m glad you did too.’ She smiled. ‘Excuse me for a moment, but I have to go make coffee for the pilots. Would you like any more champagne?’

  ‘I would prefer a coffee, if you’re already making it.’

  ‘Coming right up,’ she said.

  She came back with freshly made coffee and a tray of cookies, as she called them, before disappearing onto the flight deck with cups for the pilots.

  I didn’t see her again for over half an hour, by which time I’d finished my drink and was trying out the other seats. When she reappeared from the cockpit I was sitting on one of the sideways facing sofas.

  ‘Hey. How ya doing?’ she asked. ‘Can I get you anything?’

  I told her there was nothing I needed, and she said they had blankets, if I wanted to stretch out for a sleep.

  ‘No, I’m fine, thanks. I just sat here for a change of view.’

  ‘That’s no problem,’ she assured me. ‘Perhaps, there’s something I could do for you?’

  It took me a moment to realise her intention, and as I grinned, she clarified. ‘Shall we say fifteen hundred?’

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t carry that amount of cash,’ I said, feeling genuine regret.

  She laughed. ‘I didn’t expect you to. I can take a credit card. It will be completely discreet on your bill.’

  She went to the galley and returned with a hand-held terminal.

  I joined the mile-high club with what was possibly the world’s most expensive oral sex. What Carole the Cougar had promised a few days ago, Amber delivered; she’d pulled up the hem of her pencil skirt so she could kneel in front of me, and holding my wrists against the seat she’d produced the blow job I never wanted to forget. What she did both excited and amazed me, but she knew exactly how to get the job done as quickly as possible. Under two minutes from when she started, she was standing up and smoothing down her skirt. I watched her wipe the corner of her mouth with her immaculately manicured little finger, and I noticed she had barely smudged her lipstick.

  Before she had started she’d pressed a button on the panel next to my seat, and now she leaned over and pressed it again.

  ‘What’s that?’ I asked her.

  ‘It’s the privacy button. Tells the crew you don’t want to be disturbed. They wouldn’t bother you even if we were flying headlong into the Rockies.’

  ‘That’s reassuring,’ I said.

  ‘Don’t worry.’ She laughed. ‘We haven’t done that for at least three weeks.’

  As Amber went and busied herself in the galley, I sat back feeling very pleased with myself. It was only as the euphoria wore of
f that I did a mental calculation of the cost. The experience had been nothing short of incredible and I could easily afford it, but working out at around seventeen dollars a second, I couldn’t help feeling it could have been better value for money.

  I toyed with the idea of turning back time for a second go, in the hope that Amber might do more next time, which I doubted, especially as having earned her fee she was showing no further interest in me. I guessed she would have been equally uninterested if I’d declined her offer. I couldn’t help considering that although Amber had been more honest than the others – she hadn’t promised anything more than she had provided, even if it was less than I might have expected – she was the third woman in under two weeks who had taken advantage of me. I contemplated going back to before she had charged me, so she would never know she’d done it for free, but then I remembered the incident with Drew’s car. At the speed the plane was flying, even travelling back a couple of seconds would have put me outside in the open air and falling fast as the aircraft soared above me. The idea of plummeting to earth from forty thousand feet sent my pulse racing and chilled me into inaction.

  San Francisco was a revelation. I’d intended to find a flight back to London as soon as we had landed, but as we made our descent, I could see the city and the Golden Gate Bridge, so familiar from films and TV shows, and it all looked very inviting. I decided to stay a day or two, to take in some of the sights, but eventually stayed for a week.

  Airport information found an available suite at the Hyatt Regency. I booked it without asking for details, but as I entered from the ground floor I began to wonder if I’d done the right thing. The entrance opened onto a non-descript passageway that led only to a couple of escalators. However, as I rode up the stairs the lobby came into view and my jaw dropped.

  Arranged like a hollowed-out pyramid, I could see right up to the top level, fourteen storeys above me. To my left, curtains of white fairy lights cascaded down from the balconies of the first eight levels to just above the bar area; and to my right, three elegant glass elevators, their illuminated tops and bottoms resembling custard-coloured meringues, ascended in full view to the highest point of the building. In front of me a huge spherical sculpture, at least four storeys high and looking like a latticework football, sat with its base in a large ornamental fountain. The pool had no jets; the water flowed over the edge of its massive square base into a trough around its perimeter. The liquid’s surface and the waterfall were so smooth that it was possible to imagine it was a sheet of glass until, like several people around me, I put my finger into the drop to confirm that it was fluid.

  There was so much to do in the city that I barely scratched the surface in seven days, and I knew it wouldn’t be long before I came back again. The weather was much kinder here; it was still warm, but not the full-on heat of the tropics, and because the city was compact, it was easy to do a lot on foot, without being drenched in sweat after a few hundred metres.

  I strolled along the Bay Trail, from the ferry terminal to Pier 39, and wandered around the tourist shops, even though I felt no more inclination to buy souvenirs than I had in Hawaii. At the far end of the jetty, I leaned on the rails to watch the sea lions as they tussled and fought for space on the forty or more pontoons anchored next to the pier.

  I took a number of the tourist excursions – a boat trip that went around the bay, under the Golden Gate Bridge and around Alcatraz Island was followed by a ride on the world-famous cable cars, up and down the steep streets – but it was the trips that I made on my own that gave me the most enjoyment. Hiking through Golden Gate Park, I chanced upon the exquisite Japanese Tea Garden. Its manicured trees and shrubs concealed narrow paths leading to hidden pagodas and large ponds filled with colourful koi carp. Secret waterfalls fed streams that wound past statues and ornate shrines, and were crossed by a variety of intriguing ornamental bridges.

  My favourite experience was walking across the Golden Gate Bridge. I set out early from the hotel and caught a bus to the southern end of the bridge. It was a beautiful sunny morning, and I was looking forward to some striking views of the bay and the city, but as the bus approached the Presidio it ran into thick fog, reducing visibility down to a few metres. Despite my disappointment I was determined to walk across, if just for the experience of having done so. Halfway over, I was glad I’d made that decision: the mist began to thin and break, and I stepped from the grey into brilliant sunshine.

  Looking back from the northern viewing point, I was treated to a magical view of the fog streaming in from the ocean and skirting around the hills on the southern tip of the Golden Gate. The nearside of the bridge was bathed in sunlight, while the rest faded and disappeared into a bank of cloud that rolled across the surface of the water.

  By the time I returned to London, I’d decided on things I didn’t want to do with the money – even if I still had no idea what I did want. I didn’t want lots of expensive jewellery. Apart from a wristwatch I’d never been bothered about personal adornment, and I’d already swapped my expensive timepiece for a smartwatch. I’d seen a number of people over the previous two weeks almost dripping with gold. One guy in particular had four bulky curb chains around his neck, a similar number of bracelets on each wrist, and rings on every finger. I’d observed the ostentatious display with unrestrained amusement; he looked more sad than cool.

  Having never learned to drive, I had no interest in cars. Working from home and living in London meant I didn’t need my own transport, and now that I could easily afford them, using taxis seemed like an ideal choice for getting about; I could relax in the back while the driver put up with all the idiocy and abuse on the roads.

  I also knew I didn’t want a private jet, although from now on that was the only way I intended to fly. I’d calculated that if I took an air taxi flight every week it would take more than forty years for the price of the fares to add up to the cost of owning my own aircraft. On top of that there were costs for fuel, maintenance, crew to fly it, landing charges – the list went on and on. It simply didn’t make any sense, especially as I didn’t expect to fly that often. Having done a bit more research, it seemed that air taxis were available pretty much whenever I needed them.

  Neither did I want a boat. While I’d been in San Francisco I’d seen a luxury yacht for sale and checked out the brokerage website. But after drooling over the pictures for several minutes, I’d realised that if I wanted to spend time at sea, chartering a fully crewed vessel was a much better option than having all the associated hassle of owning one.

  I’d finally come to a decision about the situation with Drew, and I arranged to visit him that weekend. I had another decision to make that was still troubling me, but I could put it off until I’d had a chance to talk about it with him. I knew my brother well enough to guess what his advice would be, but I still wanted to sound him out about it.

  Before that, I had more mundane things to deal with. I’d got a suitcase full of clothes that needed washing, and there was no food in the flat. I’d got plenty of fresh clothes in my wardrobe so the laundry could wait, but I didn’t even have milk for a coffee so the shopping couldn’t.

  After a quick shower and change of clothes, I decided I couldn’t be bothered with a major trip to the supermarket, so I strolled down to the local shops for just the essentials.

  On the way I met my neighbour, Harriet, coming from the opposite direction. She lived a couple of streets away from me, but she was a regular at the local pub so I’d come to know her well over the past few years. She was a lively girl with a wicked sense of humour and a raucous laugh that had been a bit unsettling when I’d first met her but which grew to be quite attractive as she became more familiar.

  The only time I’d ever seen her depressed had been a few weeks earlier, after she’d split up with her boyfriend of six years. I’d kept her company for an evening at the pub, consoling as best I could while she literally cried into her beer.

  Harry, as she liked to be called, was a
little overweight, but she was voluptuous rather than obese, and she usually dressed to show off her curves, giving the impression that she would accept no criticism of her figure or her style. Today she looked unkempt, wearing a baggy sweat top and jogging bottoms.

  I worried that she might still be depressed and letting herself go, but as soon as she saw me her face brightened.

  ‘Hey, gorgeous man.’ Her warm greeting turned to enquiry when she noticed my tan. ‘You look like you’ve been on holiday. Somewhere nice?’

  ‘Just back,’ I said.

  We were standing outside our local café so I offered to buy her a coffee and tell her about it.

  She didn’t hesitate. ‘Great, yeah. Why not?’

  A few moments later, we were sitting at a table near the window, with cappuccinos and Danish pastries, which she was tucking into with delight. We’d ordered them at the counter, but when I’d pulled out my wallet, she insisted on paying for her own, as she’d ordered two pastries to my one. I’d said I was happy to buy them, but she wasn’t having any of it.

  ‘So, spill,’ she commanded. ‘Where have you been?’

  She listened intently while I told her about Hawaii and San Francisco, and she declared herself green with envy. I’d left out the parts about travelling first class and coming back by private jet: I didn’t want to brag, and I felt unprepared to field questions about the lottery. When I said I’d had trouble with the heat in Hawaii, her laughter reverberated from all the walls. ‘You wimp. I could have coped with it.’

  I had no trouble believing it. I was confident that Harriet could cope with anything. I explained about the fog on the Golden Gate Bridge, and she asked, ‘Like in Rise of the Planet of the Apes?’

  ‘No, much denser, and just at one end.’

  It was one of the few places I’d felt the need to take photos, and I pulled out my mobile to show her.