‘How are we doing this?’ he asks, smiling down at me. His teeth are white and porcelained. Veneers. They cost a lot of money. Imagine going around with thousands of quid in your mouth.
The pair of us are just standing there.
‘I’ll ask the lady to let us out, to let us in?’
The woman on the aisle seat is still asleep. I’m sure I saw her down a pill before take-off.
‘Excuse me,’ I say to the woman. ‘Excuse me, could you move so we could swap?’ but the woman doesn’t wake. Even when I tap her gently. Even when I tap her slightly harder.
‘This lady’s out,’ I say, turning to him again. ‘Should I slide in? Or you slide in?’
I don’t mean to be flirtatious but I know what it sounds like. His eyes glitter a little.
The fasten seatbelts sign illuminates overhead with a collective ping. I look up at the sign and blush for no reason. I blush deeper when I realize I’m blushing.
The air host who sold the scratch cards stops on the aisle and flags us. ‘Fasten seatbelts,’ he says and points at the sign. His fake tan is subtle except near his hairline and ears, which are clearly a much whiter colour.
I say, ‘Yeah, sure, we’re—’
‘Sit down and fasten your seatbelts,’ he repeats and rolls his hands in a hurry-up gesture. ‘The seatbelt sign is lit.’
‘I know, but we’re—’
‘Now.’ He moves his manicured hands to his hips. ‘Please, sir and madam. Now.’
My seat mate’s face crumples one side, suppressing a smile. He sits, clicks his seatbelt on. I chuckle as I sit.
The air host makes a ‘Puh’ sound and fumes off.
‘Well, there goes that idea,’ I say. ‘Thanks for the offer.’
I put my books at my feet again.
‘We can still swap. Is he gone?’ the man says.
I giggle and check. ‘But the seatbelt sign is lit!’ I mimic the air host.
‘I’ll climb behind you and you shimmy in, in front of me. We’re gonna have to be very quick. Okay? Deal?’
‘Let’s go.’
He climbs, I shimmy. We vaguely touch but not really. Not any more than when we were standing beside each other. He readjusts his long legs into the seat, squished more because of my travel pillow and books and handbag hogging the space underneath.
We’ve our seatbelts on when the air host passes again. He eyes us briefly, moves up the aisle then turns back to look at us, puzzled.
‘He knows,’ the man says covertly without moving his lips much. He’s looking down at his feet.
I snigger. I look out the window to avoid eye contact with the air host. ‘I don’t think he likes us.’
‘He just doesn’t know us yet,’ the man says. ‘I’m Julian by the way.’
He puts his hand out.
‘Natalie.’
I ignore the tiny trembling dancing love feeling in the bottom of my stomach. Take it easy, Natalie.
The ocean of cloud is hypnotic. The plane descends through the white mist, slicing it, until the actual sea is below, navy and unassuming. It reminds me of a geography exam. X marks the North Sea, Y is an industrial fishing ship, Z are oil rigs.
‘Look, Julian, a windmill,’ I say. ‘We’re in Holland now.’
The spokes of the mill turn.
‘That’s a wind turbine,’ Julian says.
‘The windmill?’
‘Yeah, the windmill. It’s a wind turbine.’
My neck flushes. ‘Oh yeah, god, it is a wind turbine. Did you ever make something something else because that’s what you were expecting?’
‘I don’t think I follow.’
‘You wanted to see something so you saw it in its likeness.’
‘Life can be like that sometimes,’ he says.
The neat Dutch fields follow, along with many more wind turbines. There are little hunks of ships in the sea. As we draw closer to land, smaller boats and tiny people are visible on the shore. Are they sunbathing? I tried to predict the weather, it said mid-twenties but looking at this cloud cover, this greyness, I wonder if I’ve packed properly. I’ll be in Amsterdam for three nights and brought only summer clothes in my hand luggage. Will I regret not bringing a rain jacket?
‘So, business or pleasure?’ I ask Julian, then realize that it’s maybe not the sort of question to ask an attractive man on a flight to Amsterdam. He smiles again. Those rich kid teeth.
‘Pardon?’
‘Your trip? Too risky to answer?’
‘Hey,’ he laughs. ‘Business. And pleasure. Both. Or neither. I’m the keynote speaker at a conference on Friday. Hoping to check out the sights while I’m here though. It’s a beautiful city, I hear. You? Business or pleasure?’
‘I got a cheap flight. City break.’
We’re silent again as the plane increases its descent. I hold onto the arm rests tightly, so tight my hands blanch. I don’t mind flying but I hate landing. That awful thud when the wheels touch the ground. The drama of that huge change, being airborne to on land.
The plane whacks the runway like an unexpected kiss and I let a deep breath out as it slows.
An announcement celebrates the safety and punctuality of the flight. It reminds us to book with the same company again. The pilot thanks us; his accent has a silky European inflection.
Phones switch on around the plane and they jangle greetings. Julian turns his on. His screensaver is a group photo. He’s studious as he swipes and thumbs at the screen. He pushes his glasses further up the bridge of his nose, and from side-on he’s a lot like Jamie Foxx, that smooth angle to his nose, the clear dark skin, intelligent eyes. Stop checking him out, I shake myself. Stop admiring him. If he catches me.
He catches me.
I smile. ‘Could I get my bag, at your feet?’
‘Yes, of course.’ He hands my stuff over carefully. ‘Can I have my bag? At your feet?’
I didn’t notice the slick flat leather satchel on the ground. ‘I nearly stood on that. Never saw it. Sorry.’
‘My tablet and books are in there.’
‘There’s books in this, it’s tiny,’ I say and pass it to him.
He opens the zip and pulls out two books. One on economics and one on Zen philosophy. I glimpse into the bag and see a hardbound business notebook and a clear plastic bag with tablets and creams.
‘God, how did all of those fit into there?’ I ask, stunned.
‘Sometimes life’s like that.’
The woman asleep on the aisle seat is now alert. She leans back and looks at me as Julian concentrates on his phone again.
‘I study auras,’ she says.
‘Oh,’ I say.
‘When you got on, yours was greenish and his was purple. Your auras have both changed colour. Merged. They’re both orange now, orange and what’s the word?’ She looks off to the left. ‘Shuddering.’
I redden again and hope he hasn’t heard her. But he gives me a side-glance that shows me he has.
‘I took two Valiums when I got on,’ the woman says. ‘Haven’t done a bloody thing for me.’
‘You were fast asleep when I asked you to let us out?’ I say. ‘Were you not?’ I feel tricked somehow, and my instinct is to check Julian’s left hand. Long lean fingers, no ring.
The woman winks at me.
The passengers stand, shuffle, move off the flight with a stop-start momentum.
It’s our turn to get out of our seats and Julian asks if I want him to lift my luggage down.
‘I can manage. I don’t have much in it. Thanks though.’
He moves out of the way to let me into the aisle in front of him. I take my backpack from the stowaway overhead, notice his chrome luggage case, the tag with his name ‘JULIAN GRAHAM’ and a contact email address.