by Britney King
I hadn’t planned to return to work as a flight attendant after Sophie was born. At least, not until the recession hit, and the project list at Michael’s architecture firm went from having a waitlist to drying up completely. I’d thought I might try my hand at writing a novel, or a screenplay, something frivolous. In the end, there was no sense in having two unemployed parents, and so back to the skies I went.
The silver lining was the fact that I’d been offered a sweet little gig with a private charter company. This meant no more commercial flights. More importantly, the charter company paid better. I wouldn’t have to make as many bids. I wouldn’t have to spend so much time away.
I had been back at work for about three weeks when I met Henry on a flight from Bergstrom to Teterboro. We had been transporting a dignitary, I think. Or something of the sort. It’s odd to me that this is the aspect of the job that interests most people. I’ve never really cared. Not even back then. A trip is a trip is a trip. Which is to say, pretty much, they’re all the same.
It wasn’t until our third flight together that I really got the chance to know Henry. We boarded a big plane that day—the more important the passenger, the bigger the jet—but that much probably goes without saying. The crew consisted of the pilot, copilot, and two cabin attendants: Henry and me.
We were in charge of a single passenger, a graying, dark-skinned man with overbearing features and impeccable style. Italian, if I had to guess. This meant there wasn’t a lot to do on the first leg of the flight. Even though I didn’t know much about Henry, I had surmised he wasn’t one for small talk, which I found to be a relief. God knows there is enough of that embedded in the job.
I remember feeling glad I’d thought to bring along a book. I’ve heard it said that nothing is more important than an unread library. I believe it. I counted the minutes until we reached cruising altitude and I could slide that true crime novel from my bag and immerse myself.
Later, as I read, I felt Henry’s eyes on me, more curious than anything. Still, a decision was made. If he interrupted my reading, not only could we not be cordial any longer, I knew I’d spend the rest of the flight plotting his demise.
We were mid-flight, and I was somewhere around page 180 when Henry stood from his seat and made his way up the cabin. Back then I was still fairly green when it came to being a waitress in the sky on private flights, and I recall thinking there must have been something I’d missed. Although Henry and I had agreed to work in shifts, and the first leg was his, there was something in his gait that struck me as odd.
My eyes followed his feet.
By the time they stopped moving, I could hear what that thing was. A slight gurgling sound—heavy coughing, followed by unmistakable chest rattling. I craned my neck, trying to get a better look. With Henry’s torso blocking the view, ultimately I was forced to stand and make my way up the aisle, where Henry stood looming over our passenger. When I reached him, Henry’s head was slightly cocked. His hands rested on his hips. The Italian appeared to be trying to speak while alternately gripping his throat and pleading with his hands. His face was a perfect cherry red, making it clear what the problem was. Still, Henry peered down at him as though perplexed. I remember thinking it was one of the strangest and most beautiful things I’d ever seen.
I asked Henry what he was doing as I simultaneously shoved him aside. “He’s choking,” I said. “We’re trained for this.”
“Precisely,” he answered, one corner of his lip turned upward. Henry was not then, and still isn’t now, the smiling kind.
I shook my head and went in for the kill, wrapping my arms around the Italian. Pressing my stomach to his back, I gave the Heimlich my best shot. It was a struggle. The man was larger than I’d anticipated, and I found it difficult to get my arms around him. “Henry!”
“Let it be,” Henry said.
“It’s not working,” I grunted. “I can’t—”
He watched me, wordless, as the Italian’s face turned an indigo blue.
“Work with me,” I begged the passenger, reaching, heaving, praying for a bit of give but finding nothing of the sort. He flailed about haplessly, like a fish out of water, while also purring like a cat, which sounds funny, but that’s the sensation I felt with my body pressed against his. A white foamy substance dribbled from his mouth onto my wrist. He lurched forward, fighting me, as he struggled for air. It was impossible to dislodge whatever was blocking his airway if he refused to let me get my arms around him. Nonetheless, the milky foam kept falling from his lips. My arms were coated in it. It smelled like old cheese, and it was warm—the kind of thing you don’t forget. Like a smile out of Henry, if you’re ever lucky enough to squeeze one out.
“Probably a fish bone,” Henry noted, nodding at the man’s half-eaten lunch. Antipasti, lake trout, fresh figs, and Vernaccia wine. Not exactly the kind of food you get flying commercial.
“Are you going to help?” I said to Henry, as I stuck two fingers down the man’s throat, swabbing side to side. “Or should I summon the pilot?”
“It won’t be long now,” he answered, glancing at his watch. A vintage Rolex—I noticed it the first time we met. Over the last few weeks, it had become more and more apparent that not only did Henry have a watch fetish, he had quite the collection. “Just hold on.”
I gave him a sideways look. At first glance, Henry had appeared ordinary enough. Hardworking, intelligent, and possibly gay, given his quietly expensive taste. In his late twenties, I presumed, with the kind of face you instantly forget. But there was something more, an unblinking watchfulness about him, one that no doubt made him good at the job that was not so ordinary.
Henry glanced at his watch again.
I relaxed my arms, and the Italian slumped forward.
“This is very unfortunate,” Henry said, checking the man’s pulse. “He’s breathing. Faintly.”
“What the fuck—” My mouth hung open, only closing long enough to suck in air, which eventually allowed me to complete my question. “What are we going to do?”
Henry’s brow furrowed momentarily and then his eyes widened in surprise. “Damn.”
“What?”
“It wasn’t a fish bone.”
I frowned. I didn’t follow.
“You put the peanut glaze on his salad, didn’t you?”
“I don’t know.” I shrugged. “Maybe.”
Henry watched me for a second, taking note of my condition, of the breathlessness, of my incessant panting. He commented that I could use some fitness training. Considering the day I was having, I didn’t entirely disagree. He waited for a response before realizing I wasn’t going to offer one. Eventually, he made a clucking sound with his tongue. “Says on this profile he’s allergic to nuts.”
I felt everything drain out of me at once. This situation was going to require a lot of paperwork, and if I were really and truly unlucky, possibly jail time. Definitely a lengthy court case when the charter company was sued. No doubt I’d have to testify, and I hate an audience. “Fuck.”
“Missed that, huh?”
My throat was too dry for me to speak. Another shrug was all I could offer.
“You managed to read a novel, but not his profile?”
I cocked one eyebrow. I imagined myself leaning forward and, despite my lack of fitness, snapping Henry’s neck. It wouldn’t save my job, but it might make me feel better about the impending loss of it.
Henry considered me carefully. “Okay,” he said, handing over the salad plate. “Here’s what we’re going to do.” He scanned the cabin and motioned toward the plate in my hand. “Take that and get rid of the evidence.”
I nodded, feeling relieved he was so good at making himself useful. The last thing I needed was more blood on my hands.
“In a few minutes,” he told me with a heavy sigh, “I’ll alert the pilot that we need to make an emergency landing.”
“He’ll be dead by then.”
“Likely, yes.” There was a hint of impat
ience in his reply.
“What are we going to say?”
“The truth,” Henry replied. “That he choked.”
I told him I didn’t understand, even though I kind of did.
“In time you will.”
I felt pins and needles in my stomach. “Shouldn’t we just tell the actual truth?”
“What’s the point? He’s going to die either way.”
“But it’s my fault.”
“Hardly,” Henry scoffed. “He had a weakness. You were just doing your job.”
I narrowed my eyes, trying to comprehend what he was saying and, more importantly, what he wasn’t.
“It’s just a white lie,” Henry said with a shrug. “A simple omission.”
“A simple omission,” I repeated, feeling slightly calmer.
Henry walked over to where I stood. When he spoke, he did so slowly and calmly, like he was speaking to a child. “I think this is something you could be really good at.”
“I don’t understand.” I shook my head. “Why didn’t you help? And why are you covering for me?”
Later Henry would explain everything. Right then, he simply sighed. “The slump of your shoulders tells me you can’t afford to lose your job.”
I straightened my back, but he wasn’t wrong. Henry leaned down and removed the man’s watch from his wrist. He didn’t smile when he held it up, but there was a gleam in his eye that was unmistakable. “It’s a Bvlgari.”
Chapter Five
Charlotte
It’s early afternoon in Fort Lauderdale, the bright winter sun high in the sky. I am seated at an outside table at Estero, a private, members-only club. Hints of wisteria fill the moist air. Even in winter, the club’s flower garden is on full display, if you’re into that sort of thing—but that’s not why I came.
It’s warm out, far warmer than Texas, and sweat beads at my temples where the auburn wig meets my skin. My hand rests lightly on the stem of my glass. I feel a pleasing exhaustion as I raise it to my lips.
The cool liquid goes down smoothly. It’s almost enough to take the edge off. My senses are heightened, as they always are when it comes to work.
Glancing at the time, I know I don’t have long to accomplish what I’ve come for. It’s a short layover, but still, I can’t rush this.
In endeavors where lives are on the line, I remind myself it’s important to wait, to be noticed when the time is right, like the flowers. Taking another slow sip of my vodka martini, I discreetly survey my surroundings. It’s crowded for midweek. Most of the other tables are occupied, but I only have eyes for one.
The conversation there has halted.
The couple seated at the adjacent table—where things seem to have stalled and where my attention is drawn—look bored. He’s in his sixties and has a moneyed, careless way about him. His companion is thirty-five. Maybe. Whatever her age, she’s exquisite, with a feline quality and jagged features to match. They aren’t married, at least not to each other. It’s possible they’re colleagues. Distant cousins, maybe. Lovers is where I’d place my money, if we were betting.
Several minutes go by, and I decide, definitely not cousins. Although I am in Florida, so you never know. Nevertheless, I have my doubts. There’s a certain tension between them, palpable chemistry that’s anything but familial.
Catching my eye, the man raises his glass of red, tilting it in my direction. He murmurs to his companion, who then shifts, pinning me with an icy stare. “Care to join us?”
Her offer is every bit as much a challenge as it is an invitation, and lucky for us both, it’s one I’ve been waiting for. I run my eyes over the length of her, a cool breeze rustling the scented air.
“No obligations,” the man says, his upbeat tone at odds with his downturned mouth. “Just an invitation.”
His offer is precisely the kind I’d hoped for, which is why I scoot from my table, grab my glass, and resettle myself in a chair between them. My eyes dart back and forth toward the entrance. They burn, both from sleepiness and from irritation of the contacts I use to conceal my natural eye color. “I’m waiting on a colleague,” I confess. “But she must have gotten held up.”
“I’m Richard.” He offers his hand, then with a swift sweep of his head, he says, “And this is Janine.”
You don’t say. “Olivia.”
Once introductions have been made, the conversation unfolds easily. I learn Richard is an inventor (retired) and Janine a model (also retired). They are not colleagues nor do they offer the vibe of being lovers upon closer inspection. Nevertheless, there are erotic undertones in their involvement, evident in the way they seem pleased to have drawn me in.
“So, tell me, Olivia,” Janine smiles. “What are you into?”
“Real estate, mostly,” I answer, my face fresh and hungry. Overly eager. I’m sorry I killed your father. What was he like? Did he tell you about me? Is this my fault? Do you have daddy issues? This is more along the lines of the type of Q&A I came for, but of course, that’s not what I say. “For the most part, I work with buyers.” I pause just long enough to sip my drink. Dropping my chin, I raise my gaze, allowing my mouth to linger on the rim. “But on occasion, sellers too.”
It takes a second, given the way the information is delivered, but inevitably their eyes glaze over. The moment a person thinks you’re trying to sell them, is the moment the conversation is over.
I can, if necessary, drone on endlessly about real estate, but they don’t care to know. Instead, I describe my recent trip to Africa, a hunting expedition. I’ve never actually been to Africa, but I can picture the trip down to the terrible khaki, the necessity of understanding the bell curve, and the weaponry involved in killing big game. None of which interests them in the least, and that is the point.
My lies flow as effortlessly as the drinks. It’s a perfect story, and deception always offers a pleasant rush. My panties would be wet, if I were wearing any.
“It’s such a pleasure to have met you,” Richard tells me, his voice lower than before. “You resemble someone I used to know.”
“Yes,” his companion purrs. “We love your eyes, and that dress—and my God, Richard, have you seen those heels?”
He has. I know, because not only have I not spared any expense, I’ve positioned myself just so. Laughing the woman off, I imagine her friend moving his hands deftly and possessively over my body. Undoubtedly, my thoughts are reflected in my eyes. He’s not my type, but it helps to keep the feelings real, and to keep the feelings real, it helps to go there. Imagination is everything.
It’s obvious in the way he glares back at me. He views me, I can tell, as something to own, a nice collectible to stick on a shelf and admire when it suits him. He believes he is in control. Most men do.
I look away, the flush of my cheeks evident.
“Is that so hard to imagine?” Janine asks. “That we find you stunning?”
“No,” I reply, somewhat harshly. “It isn’t.”
She looks surprised. It’s not the first time she has registered something may be off. But she isn’t certain and she doesn’t want to disappoint her friend, so when she starts to speak, she thinks better of it, pressing her lips together instead. They’re familiar, in a certain kind of way. I picture myself reaching out and running my finger over them, fake as they may be. I suppose it doesn’t matter, if they taste the same. There’s a part of me that desperately wants to find out.
My phone chimes. Fishing it out of my clutch, I see it instantly. The one word text: BOUNCE.
Apologizing to my new friends, I tell them I’ve gotten the location of the meeting wrong, and without another word, I am in a town car bound for the airport.
Chapter Six
Charlotte
The town car weaves in and out of rush hour traffic. My phone estimates the drive back to the airport will take all of twenty minutes, but looking out the window, I’m not so sure. I should feel relief at the delay, but I don’t. I feel nothing.
My
forehead falls against the cool glass as I arrange the pieces of the puzzle in my mind. There are endless questions that can be asked, answers that can always be found.
I don’t know why Henry followed me; I only know that the past is never through with us.
He taught me that, way back when. Back when Sophie was a baby, and long before Hayley had ever been thought of. Back when I objected to the idea that I would be good at this gig. You have to be kidding, I’d said to him. It just sounds so cliché. Like a joke.
I laughed him off, even as they carried the Italian off the plane in a body bag. Mostly because a part of me thought it was a joke. It seemed I’d earned myself a starring role on a TV show where any minute someone was going to jump out and yell gotcha! But then I realized, who would do such a thing? I don’t have any friends, or at least I didn’t at the time, and Michael’s sense of humor is far too dry to pull that kind of prank, nor does he care about such trivial matters.
“Don’t we have to talk to the police?” I asked. “Write a report?”
This time it was Henry’s turn to laugh. “Why would we? There’s no record of him having been on this plane.”
“I see.”
“I’ve been watching you,” Henry said with conviction. It was the first time I considered that he might actually be serious.
“You’ve only known me a few weeks.”
“That’s what you think.”
“What does that mean?” Who are you?
“You’ve been on our radar.”
“You’re going to have to speak English. Because I don’t understand.”
“We make it a point to look for people like you.”
“You have a thing for new moms?” I said flippantly, instantly regretting it. It was the first time since Sophie’s birth, maybe ever, that I had the sensation of what it might be like to have to— to want to—protect someone else.
“That is unfortunate, the child,” Henry answered solemnly. “But also leverage.”