Going Too Far Read Online Free PDF Page A

not-much-food rules, but while I always like to imagine myself as a disciple of health, fitness and asceticism, it is of course a complete lie. I can’t do the common sense stuff in life and the bit about drinking nothing but water and not eating on a plane always strikes me as the first step to catatonia. So although I resisted breakfast en route to Amsterdam – a bizarre route but it was cheap – I was more than ready for a little sustenance, especially of the alcoholic variety, by the time I got on the next plane.
    The woman who had sat next to me had obligingly moved to the aisle seat when no one else appeared after takeoff, so I had contentedly spread out my sweatshirt, mags, books and diary when the stewardess appeared. Ready to order a large anything I was more than irritated that instead of taking the drinks orders she was guiding someone else into the empty seat. I picked up my things resignedly.
    ‘I’m sorry. It’s just that I was at the front with a load of kids, and –’
    Smiling politely I stowed my stuff in the sickbag pouch. ‘Don’t blame you. No problem.’
    Still I was a bit annoyed to have had space and to have lost it. However he was a nice-looking guy, Dutch, but dark and fine featured, not the homely farmer type like yours truly. I could have flirted with him but in view of his Wall Street Journal I put my nose back in Marie Claire and began the countdown for the drinks trolley.
    At last I got my miniature vodka followed shortly by one of those quarter bottles of wine with my ‘lunch’ and felt a bit better. I’d managed to prop the Peru hiking book by the window so I could pretend I had no neighbours but I wasn’t going to be allowed to get away with a long flight like that without conversation.
    ‘Looks like you’re planning an adventurous trip.’
    I couldn’t blame him for wanting to chat; he had no room to read and the woman in the aisle seat looked like Nana out of The Royle Family .
    ‘Yeah. I guess.’
    ‘Have you been before?’
    ‘No.’
    Maybe it would be entertaining to see how long I could keep the conversation going by answering only in monosyllables.
    ‘Are you alone?’
    Even better, I looked round as if startled at having lost my pal. ‘Yes.’
    He laughed. Nice deep chuckle.
    ‘You don’t have to talk to me. Are you afraid of flying?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘It’s just the way you’re going through the booze . . . maybe you’re just an alcoholic?’
    ‘Cheek.’
    ‘OK, you’re just bored. So I’ll carry on talking to you. My name’s Peter, what’s yours?’
    ‘Bliss.’
    He really burst out laughing at that one.
    ‘Seriously?’
    ‘Yep.’
    ‘Peter Verhoeven.’
    ‘Bliss van Bon.’
    We shook hands. His face was grave but his mouth was dimpling rather nicely at the corners. I wondered if he believed me or thought I’d invented my name as part of the monosyllable game.
    ‘You’re Dutch?’
    ‘Half.’
    ‘Which half?’
    I shrugged. Like Mum, I like the Dutch. It always seems to me that they’re very similar to the English; they have the same sense of humour and practicality; their idea of a good meal is Indonesian food while ours is Chinese, and we’ve got Soho and they’ve got their red light district. The only difference is that we’re more buttoned up about sex and drugs than they are. I like to think the broadness of my mind is Dutch rather than English, though Kip would tease me that the broadness of my brow is ditto.
    Peter Verhoeven had turned his attention away from me and managed to flag down the stewardess for another bottle of wine for each of us, for which I was duly, monosyllabically grateful.
    ‘It’s brave of you to travel to Lima alone. Do you know anyone there?’
    ‘Yep.’
    ‘Will they be meeting you at the airport?’
    ‘Sure.’
    ‘Good, because it’s quite intimidating. Your friend: male or female?’
    ‘Male.’
    ‘Uh-huh.’
    He looked slightly disappointed and I started to feel just a bit interested. After all,