The Bakery

Flights had never been my best friend. I could handle long hours of driving or overnight rides by train, but I could never stand flights.

Even if it was just for an hour, I would look at it as a shameful waste of time. It was simple really, I despised flights for the most basic but irritating reasons. The seats were never comfortable; they practically squeezed you between two seatings and expected you to stay the way you were for the rest of the ride, with barely enough space to cross your legs. The anxiety you’d get during take off and landing was also never my favourite. You know, the moment when you felt your ears pop and you had to chew gum to return it back to normal; I hated that.

Besides, the food was just plain inedible.

Nonetheless, there I was, minutes after my arrival at the London City Airport, with a messy hair bun on top of my head and slanted sunglasses barely hanging on my nose. I struggled to push it back up using the back of my hand while still holding my carry-on, but I ended up fogging it with my sweat instead. I then accepted that there was nothing I could do but wait for my appointed taxi to make the U-turn, which was taking way longer than it should have because of the jam-packed airport traffic.

Another reason why I hated flights and its entirety.

The only good thing about this trip, was the fact that it was paid-for by a publishing company. No, I didn’t win some contest, and no, I wasn’t a writer. I was an illustrator for children’s books.

I only had one of my pieces published professionally, so calling myself an illustrator would be an exaggeration, but it was what I came to work as in London for the next few years. Hopefully, that was.

I thought the explanation about how I got the job was rather unnecessary. In short, Ladybug Books, an international publishing company, apparently liked my mediocre doodles on my friend Andrea’s toddler’s book mock-up. They agreed to publish the book along with my original drawings and decided to hire me as one of their full-time illustrators. Ladybug didn’t believe in long-distance relationships as much as I did, so I was encouraged to move from Cheshire to here in London, near their headquarters, or else they would withdraw the offer. I guessed it was a matter of quicker assignment deliveries and easier communications with future author-partners, but I obliged anyhow.

Let’s just say that it was definitely a once in a lifetime miracle that I couldn’t have chosen to pass. The chance of it happening was probably equivalent to the chance of having tea with Kate Middleton in person or having your autobiography written by the fabulous J. K. Rowling.

With that being said, it was just logical for me to accept the free transport, as much as I despised it, but its main purpose definitely made up for it. I would fly for days if it meant getting another opportunity like this.

Okay, maybe I wouldn’t, but you get the idea.

After my sunglasses made a few annoying slides down my nose, I decided to just take it off altogether and shoved it apathetically into my bag. I winced at the sight of my taxi, just about two meters away from my access but it was blocked by a private car that was unloading its hilariously numerous loads. When it finally came around, a man rushed out of it and pulled open the door to the backseat with a grin that wiped all my sweat away.

“Thank you,” I smiled before I ducked myself into the vehicle.

“No more bags?” he asked. He sort of looked like Vernon Dursley, if I could be honest, just with a much kinder face.

“No, I have the rest of my stuff shipped here instead,” I confirmed. It was true; I didn’t plan to do it that way, though. I actually had my things packed nicely in two humongous suitcases and was planning on carrying them all the way here with me, God knows how. But my dad insisted that he’d just ship them straight away, keeping me from the trouble, and after a few on and off debates, I knew that I wasn’t going to win. I didn’t really mind, actually, I just didn’t see the point of paying the extra pounds. He told me that the suitcases and boxes should arrive at my new flat here by tomorrow.

The man eagerly nodded and jogged his way to the driver’s seat.

Frank, I found out was his name after I peeked over the passenger’s seat to see his ID, did a sassy hair flick before he looked at me through the interior rear view mirror, “Where to?”

“Oh!” I almost jumped out of realization, “I don’t really— hold on.” I slapped my own forehead, just remembering that I didn’t even know where to go myself.

I started to dig into my unbelievably messy bag because I could have sworn that I had written my full new address on a piece of paper before I landed. A minute passed and half of my arm was already inside the bag, but I still couldn’t find it. I shrugged and threw an awkward smile, worried that Frank was losing his patience, but he seemed to be perfectly content.

It took a lipstick, a few receipts, an empty sunglasses casing, and even a worn out pen spring to be removed from the bag before I could find the paper slipped between an almost-empty powder pack. I dusted the powder remains off it so the writing was readable again and handed it over to Frank. “Umm, here. You know where that is?”

He squinted and moved his head back and forth as if he was trying to decode it, but he didn’t seem to bother to take the paper away from me. It took him another while before he curved his mouth, making the ‘eh’ face, and said, “I think I do.”

As he stepped on the gas pedal, I realized just how absolutely exhausted I was. The acceleration threw me against the back of the seat a little, but I didn’t straighten back up and let myself relax instead. I knew sleeping inside a cab driven by a stranger in an unfamiliar city was probably not the best idea, but I thought Friendly Vernon was trustworthy enough, so I did it anyways.

Notes