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The Flight Attendant

A Novel

A NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLER
A WALL STREET JOURNAL BESTSELLER
A USA TODAY BESTSELLER
A NATIONAL INDIEBOUND BESTSELLER

From the author of The Guest Room, a powerful story about the ways an entire life can change in one night: A flight attendant wakes up in the wrong hotel, in the wrong bed, with a dead man - and no idea what happened.


Cassandra Bowden is no stranger to hungover mornings. She's a binge drinker, her job with the airline making it easy to find adventure, and the occasional blackouts seem to be inevitable. She lives with them, and the accompanying self-loathing. When she awakes in a Dubai hotel room, she tries to piece the previous night back together, counting the minutes until she has to catch her crew shuttle to the airport. She quietly slides out of bed, careful not to aggravate her already pounding head, and looks at the man she spent the night with. She sees his dark hair. His utter stillness. And blood, a slick, still wet pool on the crisp white sheets. Afraid to call the police - she's a single woman alone in a hotel room far from home - Cassie begins to lie. She lies as she joins the other flight attendants and pilots in the van. She lies on the way to Paris as she works the first class cabin. She lies to the FBI agents in New York who meet her at the gate. Soon it's too late to come clean-or face the truth about what really happened back in Dubai. Could she have killed him? If not, who did?

Set amid the captivating world of those whose lives unfold at forty thousand feet, The Flight Attendant unveils a spellbinding story of memory, of the giddy pleasures of alcohol and the devastating consequences of addiction, and of murder far from home.
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"Filled with turbulence and sudden plunges in altitude, The Flight Attendant is a very rare thriller whose penultimate chapter made me think to myself, 'I didn't see that coming.' The novel-Bohjalian's 20th- is also enhanced by his deftness in sketching out vivid characters and locales and by his obvious research into the realities of airline work." -Maureen Corrigan, The Washington Post

"An expertly turned thriller... An assured novel about reckoning not just with some ruthless bad guys, but private sadness as well... [Bohjalian]'s developed a graceful hand at thriller mechanics, smoothly shifting from Cassie's private paranoia to the intricacies of spycraft and mercenaries to the public tabloid sensation she's become. He's back-loaded the story with twists, from ones that were hinted at early to left-field surprises. And the brisk and busy ending is a fireworks show of redemption, revelation and old-fashioned gunplay." -Mark Athitakis, USA Today

"Flight attendant Cassie Bowden: a self-destructive alcoholic who favors one-night stands, a gifted liar, a petty thief. But she's also someone we can relate to: a soul damaged during childhood, terribly alone, and desperate for love... Readers who enjoyed the imperfect heroine in Paula Hawkins's The Girl on the Train and the anxiety-ridden paranoia of Fyodor Dostoyevsky's Crime and Punishment will be hooked by this murder mystery." -Library Journal (Starred Review)

"Bohjalian is an unfaltering storyteller who crosses genres with fluidity, from historical fiction to literary thrillers...a read-in-one-sitting escapade that is as intellectually satisfying as it is emotionally entertaining."-Booklist (Starred Review)

"The stakes couldn't be higher (literally)as Cassandra pieces together a mystery while working 40,000 feet above ground in Chris Bohjalian's gripping The Flight Attendant. Read it before Kaley Cuoco stars in the upcoming series!" -Cosmopolitan

"Bohjalian twists the tension tight and keeps the surprises startling." -Tom Nolan, The Wall Street Journal

"[Bohjalian's] 20th novel...combines popular tropes with a serious examination of social issues. Binge-drinking flight attendant Cassandra Bowden wakes up with another bad hangover in a Dubai hotel room and finds the man she spent the night with lying dead beside her... What really happened? And what are the consequences of addiction, deception, and denial? Fans are lining up." -Barbara Hoffert, Library Journal

"A magnificent book...sleek and gorgeous...This is a Master Class in fiction."
-Augusten Burroughs

"The author provides enough twists for a roller coaster fan... The beauty of the book is that, along with the politics of the plot, Cassie's humanity comes through...the last 100 pages turn tense as you try to follow the unexpected but believable surprises Bohjalian has in store and answers whether Cassie can find salvation." -Amanda St. Amand, St. Louis Post-Dispatch

"A high-octane thriller that will have you holding your breath with every page...As if ripped from today's headlines, Bohjalian paints a vivid portrait of death and despair on a canvas of Russian espionage." -Nicholas Addison Thomas, Fredericksburg Free Lane-Star
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    She was aware first of the scent of the hotel shampoo, a Middle Eastern aroma reminiscent of anise, and then-when she opened her eyes-the way the light from the window was different from the light in the rooms in the hotel where the crew usually stayed. The morning sun was oozing through one slender line from the ceiling to the floor where the drapes, plush as they were, didn't quite meet and blanching a strip of carpet. She blinked, not against the light but against the thumping spikes of pain behind her eyes. She needed water, but it would take a tsunami to avert the hangover that awaited. She needed Advil, but she feared the red pills that she popped like M&M's at moments like this were distant. They were in the medicine bag in her own hotel room. In her own hotel.

    And this definitely wasn't her hotel. It was his. Had she come back here? Apparently she had. She was sure she had left. She thought she had returned to the airline's considerably more modest accommodations. At least that had been her plan. After all, she had a plane to catch this morning.

    Her mind slowly began to tackle the questions she would need to answer when she rolled over, the principal one being the most prosaic: what time was it? It seemed that the clock was on his side of the bed, because it wasn't on hers. On her nightstand was the phone and a china tray with date and sugar cookies and three perfectly cubed Turkish delight candies, each skewered with a toothpick-sized silver spear. Time mattered, because she had to be in the lobby of the correct hotel-her hotel-with the rest of the crew by eleven fifteen, to climb with them all into the shuttle to the airport and then the flight to Paris. Everything else, including how she was going to find the courage inside her to swing her legs over the side of the bed and sit up-a task that, given how she felt, would demand the fearlessness of an Olympic gymnast-was secondary. She breathed in slowly and deeply through her nose, the noise a soft whistle, this time inhaling a smell more pronounced than the anise: sex. Yes, the room was rich with the unmistakable scent of a luxury hotel shampoo, but she could also smell herself and she could smell him, the evidential secretions from the night before. He was still there, an absolutely silent sleeper, and she would see him once she rolled over. Once she sat up.

    God, if only she'd brought him back to her room. But at dinner he had slipped her a room key, telling her he would be back by nine and to please be waiting for him there. She had. His room was a suite. It was massive, impeccably decorated and bigger than her apartment in Manhattan. The coffee table in the living room was inlaid with mother-of-pearl, the wood polished to the point that it reflected the light like a full moon. There was a bottle of Scotch in the bar-this was a real bar, not a minibar or campus fridge with a couple cans of Coke Zero on the lone shelf-that might cost more than the monthly maintenance on her apartment back in New York.

    She closed her eyes against the shame, the disgust. She tried to remind herself that this was just who she was-how she was-and to ratchet down at least a little bit the self-loathing. Hadn't they had fun last night? Of course they had. At least she presumed they had. When she had first opened her eyes, she had hoped for a moment that she had only been passed-out drunk, but no, it was clear that she had been blackout drunk. Again. The difference was not semantics. She experienced both. Passed-out drunk was more humiliating when it happened: she was the woman with her face half buried in the throw pillows on the couch, oblivious to the party moving on without her. Blackout drunk was more embarrassing the next morning, when she woke up in strange beds with strange men, and not a clue how she'd gotten there. She could recall this hotel room and this man, and that was a good sign, but clearly there were chasm-li
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Beschreibung

Produktdetails

Einband Taschenbuch
Seitenzahl 368
Erscheinungsdatum 08.01.2019
Sprache Englisch
ISBN 978-0-525-43268-5
Reihe Vintage Contemporaries
Verlag Random House LCC US
Maße (L/B/H) 20/13/2.7 cm
Gewicht 263 g
Verkaufsrang 11084
Buch (Taschenbuch, Englisch)
Buch (Taschenbuch, Englisch)
Fr. 16.90
Fr. 16.90
inkl. gesetzl. MwSt.
inkl. gesetzl. MwSt.
zzgl. Versandkosten
Versandfertig innert 1 - 2 Werktagen,  Kostenlose Lieferung ab Fr.  30 i
Versandfertig innert 1 - 2 Werktagen
Kostenlose Lieferung ab Fr.  30 i
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