by Mandy Baggot
‘Today it will be forty degrees,’ he added.
‘What?! Forty!’ She hoped Corfu wasn’t going to be quite that warm.
He nodded. ‘You did not know this?’
‘I…’ She couldn’t admit she didn’t know the temperature of somewhere she was supposed to be staying. Because she wasn’t staying. The only bit of Athens she was going to see was the airport floor as she went running to another gate. ‘I… checked the weather last night and it was saying somewhere in the region of thirty-five, thirty-six.’ Did that sound plausible?
‘Sunscreen,’ he told her with a nod. ‘And definitely something to cover your head.’
Becky winced as her brain fed her images of him somehow suffocating her with a sick bag from the seat pocket. This was ridiculous. She needed to blot out everything Hazel and Shelley had told her before she left… except the bit about being carefully vague… or was it vaguely careful?
‘Boarding complete,’ a cabin crew member announced.
Finally. Becky fastened her seat belt and side-eyed the empty seat next to her. It looked like it was going to be just the two of them.
Eight
There was free wine on this flight. Hazel and Shelley hadn’t mentioned that as a possibility when Becky had told them she’d booked the ticket. At first, she’d considered opting for something soft – tea or a Coke – but then she saw the free wine was in little bottles with a screw cap. A screw cap was much easier to reattach, do up tight and slip into her bag if she wanted to use the toilet. Not that she was thinking back to the mad warnings of drink-spiking from her crazy colleagues…
She cast an eye away from her notebook and glanced at her companion. He had put up the armrest between his seat and 18E as soon as they had received the all clear to undo their seatbelts an hour ago. And now he was spread. One leg crossed over the other – how in this confined area defied the space-time continuum – knee hanging over the spare seat, a laptop on the tray table. Yes, slightly before the spreading out, had come the asking her to get back up so he could retrieve the leather bag. Becky had almost broken her ankle because she’d finally managed to loop Hazel’s bag straps around her foot and had forgotten about it. Whatever he was working on he had been engrossed for almost the whole sixty minutes they had been in the air, apart from when the cabin crew had come round with the trolley service. He’d ordered a black coffee. No alcohol for him. Well, he had said he visited Athens for work…
Becky looked back to her notepad. She had written the word ‘Spam’ three times. As unconventional as it sounded, Spam was going to be at the centre of her menu pitch for the nursing home. And she meant the meat product, not the messages from Wayfair and Wish you got ten thousand times a day because you once clicked on a Facebook advert…
What would go with Spam in a light finger roll? Something not obvious. Something to signify VE celebrations. Bringing back memories had been all important in helping her dad try to recover from his stroke. She and her mum had used photos of family holidays and Christmases past, music he enjoyed, cricket commentary, anything to provoke a reaction that they had hoped would lead to more interaction. Except it wasn’t to be and Megan had mostly stayed away. That was still something Becky failed to understand.
Was Spam and pickle too obvious? How about a mustard and chive mayonnaise? She had already decided she was going to do some kind of dessert featuring peaches, as Dolly, one of the more talkative residents, always spoke endlessly about the sweet tinned peaches the Americans had brought over with them in wartime. Here on the plane, with time to let her imagination and ideas flow, Becky didn’t care that Megan didn’t want the event. She wanted the job and she had already decided she was going to pitch for it whether it went through It’s A Wrap or not.
‘Are you OK?’
The question from her right startled her and Becky dropped her pen to the tiny table, quickly stopping it from rolling off onto the floor.
‘Yes,’ she answered. ‘Why? Do you need me to get up again?’
‘No,’ the man replied. ‘It is just… you have drawn a pig… I think… with another pig over the top and… you have put a hole in your paper.’
Becky looked at her pad. He was right. Why had she done that? How had she done it without even noticing? ‘Well,’ she said, flustered, ‘you’re… not wearing shoes.’
*
‘You do not like to fly?’ Elias asked her. He had been completely aware of her over the past hour for a couple of reasons. The first was that she was the complete opposite of relaxed, as well as not showing any of the hallmark signs of being excited for an upcoming holiday. The second thing was she had alternated between writing notes then staring into space drawing – or rather stabbing – random objects on the page. Usually he was seated next to a businessman like himself, with only the twin-tapping of their keyboards to accompany the roar of the Airbus. She was therefore a bit of a mystery and he couldn’t help but be intrigued. Who was she? What exactly was she planning to do with a book entitled How to Find the Love of Your Life or Die Trying? Perhaps he ought to give her his business card as a way of warding off any cluelessness when it came to finding love for life…
‘I don’t fly very often,’ she admitted. ‘I’ve actually only flown three times. Once to Scotland because it was cheaper to fly there and onward to Blackpool than it was to go direct. Then I went to Germany to pick up some acai palm seeds I bought because it was cheaper to go there in person than it was to pay the postage. And the other time was a glider lesson my sister bought me as a present. I’ve no idea why. I’ve never wanted to be a pilot and I hated it. I mean, gliders have no engines.’
‘I think that is why they are called “gliders”,’ he answered with a smile.
‘I understand the concept of gliding,’ she replied. ‘I just didn’t think, in this day, with all the health and safety rules they have now, that putting someone inexperienced in a vehicle with no engine when the only way is down, was going to be… you know… an actual thing. I really wished she’d just got me a gift card for Byron.’
She was cute. All large brown eyes and caramel-coloured hair that touched her shoulders. Had he just thought the word ‘cute’? Perhaps he should have had something alcoholic from the in-flight service. Too much coffee wasn’t good for him and he was about to be experiencing the deepest, darkest, strongest Greek coffee of all when he dropped in to see his parents while he was on Corfu.
‘I didn’t mean to sound rude,’ he told her. ‘About the gliders. I’ve never been in one myself.’ He held out his hand. ‘Elias Mardas.’
‘Oh… Becky.’ She picked up her notebook then put it down again and finally took his hand in hers. ‘Just Becky.’
She had a firm shake for someone with hands that got a little lost in his. Neat fingernails. No fake tips or French polish. He cleared his throat and withdrew his hand, picking up his stylus and poking it at his laptop screen.
‘What work do you do?’ she asked him, turning a little in her seat.
‘I am…’ You are a divorce lawyer. A highly regarded one. Tell her that and she will probably be both appalled and impressed. ‘Why don’t you guess?’ He turned in his seat now. ‘What do you think I do for a job?’
‘Not a gliding instructor,’ Becky said quickly.
‘Amusing.’
‘Not something that involves getting your hands dirty.’
‘Hmm.’
‘Your suit says banker or… international playboy but…’
‘Wow. I do not know whether I should be insulted or flattered.’
And her cheeks were flushed now. Like she wanted to retract her last sentence. She was cute. Too cute for him to try and give her his number and work for a casual hook-up some time. He didn’t know why he had thought that. Casual hook-ups weren’t that satisfying to him anymore.
‘I’m a—’
‘Doctor?’ Becky interrupted.
He shook his head.
‘Vet?’
‘You think I look like I cou
ld fix people.’ Well, she was kind of on the right lines.
‘People or pets.’
‘I don’t cut things open.’
‘Thank God… serial killer was my next guess.’ A relieved breath left her and he wondered for a second if she was serious.
‘I’m going to put you out of your misery,’ he said, leaning a little into the seat space between them.
‘I thought you said you weren’t a serial killer.’
‘I am an… estate agent.’
God. He had lied. Why had he lied? And why had he said he was an estate agent? Of all the occupations he could have picked! Estate agents weren’t generally liked by anyone. But, then again, he didn’t need to be liked. It was just a conversation on a plane. Something to while away the flight time and distract him from working on Chad’s divorce for an hour or so.
‘International, I’m guessing,’ Becky answered. ‘So, I suppose you get to walk around luxury villas all day long. Wow.’
‘Well…’ He was in a hole now and he had no idea how he was going to dig himself out. But… who cared? Not him. He could be an estate agent for an hour. It wasn’t too far away from all that property law he had studied. And it might be refreshing. ‘It’s not always about the villas. I deal with all kinds of properties. From luxury penthouses to… tiny one-bedroom boltholes no one even knows are there.’
‘It sounds exciting,’ Becky said. ‘Every day a new property to look at. It’s very different to what I do.’
‘And what do you do?’ he asked her.
‘I am…’
She wasn’t immediately answering and that piqued his interest even more. She had secrets. But, then again, so did he.
‘I’m… in the army.’
She had whispered the reply and looked over her shoulder. Except, given their location, the only thing her eyes connected with was the back of her own seat. He had not seen that occupation coming, which was perhaps a little judgemental of him. But seeing how she had handled her suitcase and a carry-on in departures he wasn’t convinced she would be able to deal with swinging an automatic weapon. Then again, first impressions could definitely be misleading. He could vouch wholeheartedly for that.
‘It’s… not something I’m really supposed to talk about,’ she whispered again. ‘I’ve… you know… signed the Official Secrets Act.’
‘And you’re going to Athens on official business?’ He had lowered his voice too now, moved his head a little closer. ‘Greece has a military issue no one knows about?’
‘Oh… no,’ she said quickly, wetting her lips with her tongue. ‘I’m going to Greece on holiday. Well, a working holiday.’ She paused for a second. ‘Sort of.’
‘Where are you staying?’ he asked. ‘Or is that a secret too?’
She tapped her nose with her finger as if that was all the answer he needed.
‘I was going to suggest some good restaurants for you to try, that is all.’
‘Oh, well, that’s very kind of you but…’
They were interrupted by an announcement that the pilot had turned on the fasten seatbelts sign. Now, his companion looked even more flustered.
‘I hope there isn’t going to be turbulence,’ she said, a nervous laugh falling from her lips.
‘Don’t worry,’ Elias told her. ‘I have flown this route many, many times.’
With that said, the plane bumped violently upwards and the little bottle of wine on Becky’s tray table fell down to the cabin floor.
Nine
It felt like hours before the rocking and swaying and up and downing came to an end. In reality, it was only around twenty minutes, but Becky stayed seated for another hour before she dared leave the apparent safety of her seat to use the on-board toilet. Lance Corporal Becky Rose and her unknown anxiety over turbulence… Why, oh why had she told Elias the estate agent that she was in the army? Actually, she knew exactly why. Because Hazel and Shelley’s warnings about giving information about herself had come cheerleading into her mind – with pompoms and batons – and she knew she had already slipped up and told him her real name. Between trying to think of something a little like catering but not catering, Becky had thought about Megan’s win with the army contract and there it was… her new fake occupation. One she knew exactly nothing about. Still, she had kept up the pretence that she was only going as far as Athens, so no harm done. It wasn’t like the gorgeous Greek was going to follow her to her next gate…
There was a queue for the toilet, but it was good to stretch your legs on these planes, wasn’t it? Hazel had tried to lend her some stockings to prevent a DVT. But Becky had been put off because Hazel had said she’d worn them in hospital when she’d had her gallbladder removed. When she pulled them out of her handbag Becky was quite convinced they hadn’t been washed since…
‘God! Hurry up, man in the checked shirt! He’s been in there three whole minutes. You know what that means, don’t you?’
The girl ahead of Becky in the queue turned around and faced her, as if expecting a response. She was possibly eighteen, maybe less and had her blonde hair in two neater-than-neat plaits, properly pleated from her very scalp and not a strand out of place. She was pretty and wearing skinny jeans and a T-shirt that said ‘Nobody’s Foo’.
‘I…’ Becky began.
‘Number two,’ the girl answered. ‘Who even does that on a plane?’
Becky opened her mouth to reply but the girl carried on.
‘The guy in the checked shirt. That’s who.’ She sighed and checked her watch. Becky noticed her arm was covered with multi-coloured wristbands. One said ‘Bang Cock’ and another ‘Thighland’. Becky knew she hadn’t had that much wine for her eyes to misinterpret the spellings.
‘If this pilot doesn’t put his foot down, I’m going to miss my onward flight.’
‘Oh,’ Becky said. ‘Where are you going after Athens?’
‘Corfu,’ the girl replied. ‘Supposed to be getting the flight with Olympic Air but unless they’re going to hold the plane, there’s a fat chance of that happening.’ She sighed, smiled and stuck out a hand. ‘I’m Petra, by the way.’
‘Becky,’ Becky answered, taking her hand and shaking it. Shit, she’d told someone else her real name! She steadied herself against a seat back as the plane dipped a little. ‘Do you really think we’re going to be that late? I’m meant to be getting that flight too.’ It was OK to say that to this girl, wasn’t it? She was in the same boat… or plane… whatever. Single girl camaraderie. Except she didn’t know the girl was single. No one in Becky’s orbit seemed to be single at the moment. Except Hazel. But she did have plans for debonair denture-wearers on her P&O break…
‘Well, during my grand tour I’ve missed more planes than I’ve caught them so, going on that…’
‘What do you do… you know… when you miss a plane and… it’s not your fault?’ Petra obviously had experience on this subject. It was always better to be forewarned about these things. If she really was going to miss the connection, Becky needed to find somewhere to stay before everyone else missing onward flights started thinking along the same lines. And she should email Ms O’Neill. Or phone her. Did she have her number? Whatever the form of communication, she should let her know about the delay. Except she couldn’t do any of those things mid-flight.
‘It very much depends on the airline and the length of the delay. Most of them will try and give you the bare minimum. The bare minimum in Indonesia seemed to be a bowl of beansprouts and a free T-shirt.’ Petra took the top she was wearing between her forefingers and widened it out. ‘But I quite like it. And I did quite like the food at Nobody’s Foo. The beer was good too.’
Great. So, the chances were there was going to be a further cost to Becky if she missed the flight and wanted a bed that wasn’t the airport floor. She had obviously brought some euros with her but that small nest-egg, having been sat there untouched for ages, was being pecked away at like a chick breaching its shell prior to birth. Too many cracks and Becky wo
uld have nothing for that rainy day she was always worrying about. Particularly if Megan decided to fire her…
‘Oh, thank God. I thought I was going to have to fashion a makeshift Shewee.’ Petra stepped forward as the man in the checked shirt appeared from the toilets. She smiled back at Becky. ‘I won’t be long. Just a number one. Unlike some.’ She sent a glare to Mr Checked Shirt who seemed thankfully oblivious. Petra seemed completely unconcerned with revealing her name and travel plans as well as what she was going to do in the toilet. Perhaps Becky should be less Hazel and Shelley, and be a bit more Petra…
*
Elias put two fingers to the bridge of his nose and pressed hard. He was getting a headache and he knew it was over the email Chad had sent through last night that he had ignored in favour of another beer and writing his own strategy. Chad was concerned Kristina was still buying things with joint funds, frittering away money that should be his. If they couldn’t be sensible about things it was going to make this case even harder. Elias sighed. This was what his life was – dealing with rich people who argued more over who kept the money than they did about who kept the children. He could of course bow out. Right now. Or at least tell Chad he was going to. Scare him a little. Except, he needed this case. Not for the money. But because it gave him an excuse to go back to Corfu.
Clicking on his laptop, he brought up the document he had prepared last night when he should have been emailing Chad back. It was a pro/con list in two sections. One section was headed ‘Mitera ke Pateras’ (Mother and Father) and the other was headed ‘Hestia’. Elias picked up his water bottle and took a swig as his eyes roved over the page. He sucked warm air from the bottle. Empty! He checked his watch. Were they going to come round with another drink before landing? They were still running behind schedule. If this kept up there was a chance he would miss his connecting flight. And now he had made the decision to return he just wanted to get there. Was that why he had suggested the option with the Corfu property to Chad? Because it fitted with his own agenda? Elias shook his head and focused on the screen. He couldn’t let his home island and everything connected to it take over. Business first. Of course this was about Chad’s divorce. The fact that it allowed him to check in was fortunate coincidence, nothing more.