Fly Me to the Moon

Fly Me to the Moon

4.0 28
by Alyson Noël
     
 

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When flight-attendant Hailey discovers her boyfriend has been less than faithful, drama unfolds at 30,000 feetSee more details below

Overview

When flight-attendant Hailey discovers her boyfriend has been less than faithful, drama unfolds at 30,000 feet

Editorial Reviews

Publishers Weekly
Former flight attendant Noel's valentine to high-flying single gals is Sex and the City at 37,000 feet, a fashionably dressed, ditzy romp up and down the jetports of major cities across America and Europe. Just when flight attendant Hailey Lane thinks her live-in pilot boyfriend, Michael, might finally pop the question, she catches Captain Cad with his pants down, forcing her to land a new apartment and a worthy boyfriend while finishing the novel she's writing. After a weekend of binge grieving with best pal Clay, the "born and raised in the OC" Hailey juggles dates with a pervy Pulitzer Prize-winning author, a wealthy businessman with performance issues and a Greek hottie with an Oedipal hangup. Noel's debut adult novel (she's written three YA novels) has some fun with the air-traveling public: the inane questions, the bad behavior, the mile-high club hookups. She also lobs a few barbs at an airline industry willing to sacrifice its workers' morale for the bottom line. There's never a doubt Hailey will land the right guy, the book deal and the great pad, and the romantic misadventures turn out to be no more memorable than a cross-country red-eye. (Jan.) Copyright 2006 Reed Business Information.
Library Journal
Flight attendant Hailey Lane has been uncommitted and capricious lately, especially since catching her boyfriend in flagrante, and her life and job are going nowhere. She used to enjoy work (especially the company of her coworker and best friend, Clay) but has tired of arduous shifts and nitpicking bosses who reprimand her for wearing opaque pantyhose with her uniform. Amid rumors of company downsizing, she returns to her dream of writing a novel. When she misplaces her long-unfinished manuscript on a flight, it is returned to her by Dane, a handsome passenger. Hailey then effortlessly finishes and submits her novel among flings in exotic Paris and Greece and misunderstandings with Dane, who gets worked in as Hailey's love interest-though for all but the last few pages she claims she can't stand him. Former flight attendant and current YA novelist No l (Faking 19) shines when describing the minutiae of a flight attendant's life, but Hailey's growth as a person and author and her relationship with Dane are so glossed over that she remains more self-entitled than enlightened. Despite this flaw, No l has penned a solid adult novel debut.-Lisa Davis-Craig, Canton P.L., MI Copyright 2006 Reed Business Information.
Kirkus Reviews
A flight attendant's love life is prone to turbulence. In her first novel for adults, Noel sticks closely to the chick-lit formula, setting up Atlas Airlines air hostess Hailey Lane for a proposal from her four-year-live-in pilot/boyfriend Michael on page one, only to have her walk in on him in bed with another man 12 pages later. The inevitable period of mourning and readjustment to the single life follows, with the role of sage best friend filled by Hailey's gay fellow attendant, Clay. Despite relocation to a seedy apartment, and a bad case of sunburn during a layover in Puerto Rico, Hailey is soon back in the dating pool, fancying first Dane Richards, who returns her lost manuscript (she is an aspiring novelist in her spare time) after an onboard mix-up, but getting more deeply involved with wealthy Maxwell Dunne, until she realizes that, despite his suite at the Paris Ritz and his excellent kissing ability, size really does matter. We know that Dane is really "the one" because Hailey's dealings with him are fraught with misunderstanding. Meanwhile, the reader gets to hear plenty of gripes about the downside of her job: "They expected us to work overbooked flights with half the staff, search the airplane for bombs before boarding, defend ourselves against violent passengers with dialogue learned in a Verbal Judo seminar, and act as an unarmed human shield for pilots who, securely locked in their cockpit, were now packing heat." Having endured another dubious affair, on Mykonos, Clay's declaration that he's leaving New York and a round of layoffs, Hailey is finally rewarded with a publishing deal for her novel and the love-and contractual advice (he's a literary agent)-of Dane. Aspredictable as an onboard safety video.
From the Publisher
"Watching flight attendant Hailey discover her own wings—ones not pinned on a polyester blazer—is romantic, hilarious, and moving."

-Liz Ireland, author of The Pink Ghetto

"Fly Me to the Moon is a sweet and funny adventure of love, friendship and finding one's way in the world. Chick-lit readers will love Hailey Lane's first class tale from 30,000 feet."

-Jennifer Coburn, author of Tales from the Crib

"Fly Me to the Moon is a frequent-flyer gift to Chick Lit lovers everywhere. Part "Sex and the City," part Plane Insanity, part Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, this sweet gravity-defying book is as bubbly and welcome as a glass of good champagne."

-Lori Jakiela, author of Miss New York Has Everything

Jennifer Coburn

Fly Me to the Moon is a sweet and funny adventure of love, friendship and finding one's way in the world. Chick-lit readers will love Hailey Lane's first class tale from 30,000 feet.
Lori Jakiela

Fly Me to the Moon is a frequent-flyer gift to Chick Lit lovers everywhere. Part "Sex and the City," part Plane Insanity, part Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, this sweet gravity-defying book is as bubbly and welcome as a glass of good champagne.

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Product Details

ISBN-13:
9781429919135
Publisher:
St. Martin's Press
Publication date:
12/26/2006
Sold by:
Macmillan
Format:
NOOK Book
Pages:
336
Sales rank:
264,656
File size:
0 MB

Read an Excerpt


Chapter One So there I was, awkwardly reaching for the USA Today left outside my hotel room, determined to ignore the fact that my black, opaque, control-top pantyhose were seriously impairing my ability to breathe, when I heard the muffled sound of the phone ringing from the other side of the door. Now, on any other day, I would have just grabbed the newspaper and made a mad dash for the elevator, since a ringing phone at 3:55 a.m. can only mean one thing: that some overbearing, micromanaging, type-A Flight Attendant in Charge is trying to track me even though I still have thirty-two perfectly good seconds before I actually have to be in the hotel lobby. But today was different. Not only was I a full five minutes ahead of schedule, not only was it my twenty-eighth birthday, but I also knew that by the end of the day I would be engaged to Michael, my boyfriend-slash-roommate of the last four years. It had all started the day before I left on this trip. I was cleaning the bedroom and singing along to the latest U2 CD, and just as Bono and I shouted "Uno, dos, tres . . . Catorce!" my right hip slammed into Michael's flight bag, sending it soaring off the dresser and crashing to the ground. Now I admit, up until that very moment his bag had never held much interest. I'd always thought of it as a briefcase, or a man purse--something completely benign but totally off limits. But as I stared at the wreckage spilled all around me, I instinctively dropped to my knees and examined each artifact as though it were the gateway to a secret world I never knew existed. Oh sure, there were all the predictable items, like well-used navigational maps, half-eaten protein bars, his company photo ID, and a big yellow flashlight to be used in case of emergency. But there were also a few surprises, like the brand-new tube of Rogaine that landed next to the half-empty bottle of Levitra that was covering the red plastic card from a video store that obviously didn't cater to families. And just as I lifted his bulky, FAA-mandated flight manual I discovered a small, robin's-egg blue box with a crisp white ribbon tied snugly around it. My breath grew shallow, my heart beat faster, and my hands were actually trembling as I lifted that tiny box to my ear, shaking it ever so slightly as I imagined Michael kneeling before me, eyes misty with emotion, asking me to be his wife. . . . And I was almost positive I would say yes. So, anticipating an early-morning birthday greeting from my almost fiancé, I frantically slid the key card back into the lock, hurdled over the mound of soggy white towels I'd left piled on the bathroom floor, and grabbed the receiver conveniently located next to the toilet. Before I could even get to hello, a disembodied, Southern-accented male voice said, "Hailey Lane? This is Bob in scheduling." And the fourteen words that followed were the ones that flight attendants around the globe live to hear: "The rest of your trip has been canceled. You are scheduled to deadhead home." Wow. But even though I was expecting something great doesn't mean I wasn't skeptical. "Come on, Clay, quit fucking around. I'm on my way down," I said, peering in the mirror and smoothing my out-of-control auburn curls while checking my teeth for lipstick tracks. "Ms. Lane, let me remind you that all scheduling calls are recorded," said the unamused voice on the other end. "This isn't Clay?" I whispered, my breath caught in my throat. "You are scheduled to deadhead on flight 001, nonstop from San Diego to Newark," he continued, in a crisp, no-nonsense tone. "You will arrive at fifteen hundred." "Are you serious? You mean I don't have to fly to Salt Lake, Atlanta, and Cincinnati before I get there?" I asked, still not totally convinced I wasn't dreaming. "I still need to contact the rest of your crew," he said, beginning to sound annoyed. "Okay, okay. Just one more question: Can I deviate?" I asked, fingers frantically reaching for my flight schedule book, trying to spin this into an even better deal for me. "Let's see, there's a nonstop landing in La Guardia an hour earlier. Can you put me on that instead?" He sighed. "Your employment date?" "Three, twenty-five, ninety-nine," I told him, listening to the distant sound of his fingers tapping on the keyboard. "Done." "Really? Oh my God, thanks Bob! I mean really, thanks. You have no idea how much this means to me! It's my birthday, you know, and, hello?" I said, staring at the receiver, listening to the steady hum of the dial tone. Tucking the newspaper under my arm, I dragged my roll-aboard all the way down the hall to Clay's room, where I knocked twice, paused, and then knocked twice more, which had been our secret code for the last six years, even though it was kind of lame and all too easy to crack. Clay and I had met the very first day of flight attendant training, and I give him full credit for getting me through it, because without him, I would have bolted two minutes into the creepy, overly peppy orientation. But every time I mentioned escape, he'd remind me of all the guaranteed fun and adventure that awaited us once we earned our wings: The long layovers in chic foreign cities; unlimited duty-free shopping; and the hordes of handsome, successful, single men all jockeying for a shot at the free first-class standby travel enjoyed by airline employees and their significant others. All we had to do in return was get through six weeks of unmitigated, soul-destroying, personality-quashing hell that only someone who's survived a brutal military boot camp can relate to. The flight attendant training regime is something rarely discussed outside the industry. Too many soft-core stewardess movies have dwelled in the public's consciousness for too long, making it impossible for us to get the respect we deserve. But truth be told, there is nothing sexy about a system of such carefully calculated, institutionalized paranoia, where forgetting to smile can result in an immediate charge of insubordination and a one-way ticket home. Over a span of six long weeks, two trainers eerily resembling Stepford Wives taught us the art of surviving days adrift at sea with nothing more than a couple of flares, a bailing bucket, and a lone box of ancient, fruit-flavored candy bearing a label never seen in stores. We learned how to deal with an in-flight death (never use the word "death"); how to handle an alleged in-flight sex act (offer a blanket, look the other way); how to secure an unruly, irate passenger to his seat using company logo plastic tie-wraps; how to deal with head injuries, burns, profuse bleeding, childbirth, vomiting, urination, defecation; and how to clean it all up afterward by donning a "one size fits most" plastic biohazard suit and using club soda for stains and coffee bags for foul odors. We fought fires; crawled through dark, smoke-filled cabins; and even evacuated a mock airplane by sliding down an authentic, double-lane inflatable slide, resulting in three pairs of torn pants, numerous rub burns, and one broken arm whose owner was "dismissed" for having weak bones. They restyled our hair, reapplied our makeup, vetoed our jewelry, fed us propaganda, and actively discouraged questions, jokes, comments, and any other signs of freethinking individuality. And once our spirits were deemed suitably broken and our formerly vibrant selves sufficiently rehabbed into paranoid automatons, they pushed us out into the world, onto an airplane, and reminded us to smile. "Happy Birthday, doll," which came out "duaawl" in Clay's lazy, Southern-accented impersonation of an old lady from Staten Island, which isn't very good but always makes me laugh. "You look great," he added, opening the door and slipping into his navy blue blazer. "Four a.m. and no undereye puffiness," I said, pointing proudly at my face. "See, being a slam-clicker and not going out with you guys last night paid off." "Yeah, but you missed out." He shook his perfectly tousled, blond-highlighted head and closed the door behind him. "We met downstairs in the bar, and when the check arrived the first officer divided the number of chicken wings each of us ate and split the bill accordingly." "You're making that up." I walked alongside him and laughed. "True story. He wears this calculator watch that does fractions. My share, including the glass of wine, was eight dollars and eighteen cents." "Did that include tip?" "You think he tips?" Clay looked at me, one eyebrow raised. "I waited until he left; then I paid the tip. So, are we deviating?" he asked, following me into the elevator. "I am," I said, pushing the L button and watching the doors close. "Good, because I told scheduling I was just gonna do whatever you do." "That sounds pretty codependent." I raised an eyebrow at him. "It's way too early to make an important decision when I know you can do it for both of us. And this way we can share a cab to the city." He smiled. "Fine, but no detours this time." I gave him a stern look. Clay was well known for running all of his errands on the way from La Guardia Airport to whichever apartment he was staying in that week. "No ATMs, no Starbucks, no wine stores, no video rental drop-offs, and no gay bars," I said, dropping my key card at the front desk. "I have a big night ahead, and now that I'm gonna get home even earlier I want to take a bubble bath, and maybe even get a pedicure." "So is tonight the night?" he asked, handing our bags to the van driver. "Definitely," I said, smiling brightly in spite of the nervous ping I felt in my stomach. "Are you gonna say yes?" he asked, eyeing me carefully. "Probably." I nodded, avoiding his eyes and biting down on my lower lip. "Probably?" He raised his recently waxed brows at me. "Well, yeah, I mean. It makes sense, right?" I said, suddenly wondering which one of us I was trying to convince. "I mean, we live together, he's good to me, he's normal. . . ." I shrugged, unable to come up with more good reasons, though I was sure they existed--didn't they? "Perfect. So, what's the problem?" he asked, peering at me closely. "I guess . . . I don't know. I guess I just thought it would be more exciting." I shrugged. "Hailey, he's a pilot. How much excitement do you think you're gonna get?" "But he's not like the others!" I insisted. "He lives in Manhattan, not some tax-free zone in Florida! He doesn't starch his jeans, doesn't wear white tennis shoes with dress pants. And he's taking me to Babbo tonight for my birthday, where I know he'll leave a very generous tip, thank you very much." I climbed into the van. "Okay, so he's a metrosexual pilot." Clay shrugged. "But let me just say, you'd be a lot more sure of your answer if you'd just looked inside that Tiffany's box." Copyright © 2006 by Alyson Noël. All rights reserved.

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