Still, she couldn’t help comparing her face to her twenty-year-old self and the face that landed her first roles. She had definitely been pretty as numerous casting directors and cast members had remarked. But she had worn the prettiness lightly, she never let it define her, and she knew she hadn’t possessed the looks that would have been mainstream romantic lead. As she matured, she was cast as the love interest’s best friend or rival. She was the mistress not the wife, but she had her fair share of romantic and sexy characters. Life reflected art, for she had had her fair share of real-life romance and drama as well. She stepped back from the mirror and smoothed her sweater down and over her hips. She had moved on to character driven supporting parts, accepting the arc of the actor’s life with good grace. She was still in good shape but, she thought, there would be no more underwear or nude scenes. At least on film. She refreshed her lipstick, dabbed a smidge of her scent, Floris No 89, behind her ears and smiled to herself in the mirror.
Back in the cabin, Tom was mortified. Idiot. Lovely, pretty. It sounded like he was either trying to pick her up or damning with faint praise. Either way, he sounded like he was thirteen. And where the hell had the “you’d rock” phrase come from? He’d never used it before and probably never would again. He looked towards the closed toilet door. Was he trying to pick her up? He didn’t really know. He felt something. He couldn’t tell whether his pupils had dilated or whether his heart rate and respiration were elevated or whether he had had too much wine. But the strange look she had given him when excusing herself to go to the toilet had involuntarily worried him. His stomach had hollowed.
Nia returned and quietly sat down and buckled her seat belt. Tom watched her in silence, aware of the ambient engine noise for the first time in hours. She leaned over their seat dividers, she found his hand and held it tightly. She had decided to move this, whatever it was, forward.
“I like it that you think I’d… rock a uniform,” she said. “You flatter this girl from the valleys, for you, sir, have a fine line in sophisticated patter.”
“Well, yes. I am, after all, nothing if not considered urbane,” Tom said and added a shy smile. “Sorry, it’s been some time.”
Nia laughed, “That’s hard to believe.”
Tom had experienced a few relationships with women since leaving the army, but most had been one- or two-night stands. Intense, sweaty tumbles where both parties didn’t confuse momentarily passion or lust for any deep emotional coupling. There had been a longer relationship with the woman his sister now called Marina Girl, but that had been a disaster. It wasn’t that he couldn’t have a deep relationship, it was that he’d just convinced himself that he wasn’t ready for one.
They talked quietly; simply sitting next to each other, holding hands, they were both surprised how natural and how comfortable this connection felt. Nia squeezed Tom’s hand as the jet wobbled through some turbulence. He liked the physical connection to this amazing woman. Tom tried to ignore the change in the pitch of the Boeing’s engine noise, but it morphed into an all too vivid a memory.
Chapter Three
Afghanistan, Five Years Earlier
The big RAF Chinook’s engines screamed loudly as it swooped into the valley, flying low and fast. It was a dangerous night to be out. Intelligence had reported an uptick in Taliban activity and the night was cloudless and a half-moon provided enough light to read by. The helicopter’s veteran crew were nervously scanning the valley sides stretching above them for the tell-tale flashes of assault rifle fire or worse, the fiery streak of an RPG. The Chinook’s passengers were a mixed bunch; wiry, tanned men sporting large, grizzled beards that usually meant special forces, most of whom slept, a group of wide-eyed female nurses, looking small under their helmets, and a platoon of regular army guys rotating out from a Forward Operating Base. Major Tom Price MC couldn’t help catching the eye of the nurse who sat opposite. He had already been captivated by her large brown eyes, the wisps of red hair that snuck out from under her helmet, and her shy smile when they had chatted briefly at the FOB. She had been apprehensive about the helicopter flight; he had tried to assuage her fear even though he, too, hated helicopters. He had made sure he sat opposite her. They nodded to each other across the Chinook’s cabin as it was too loud to talk, and they exchanged smiles. He quickly took in her uniform again; fresh and reasonably clean, her name on her chest, Roberts, the single pip of a second lieutenant. He knew that she was at the fresh-faced start of her career while he was in the tired twilight of his.
The Chinook reached the head of the valley and swung hard to port. Suddenly, there was a change in the pitch of the helicopter’s engines. All the special forces guys were now awake and alert. Through the cabin noise, they all heard a shearing sound followed by a deafening crack and then the Chinook began to rotate at sickening speed. Price shut his eyes. The helicopter spiralled violently until it crashed into the valley side.
Price came to and vomited, then he felt someone grabbing his webbing and pulling. His body screamed in pain. He screamed in pain. His vision cleared and he could see one of the special forces troopers was pulling him away from part of what had been the Chinook.
“No worries mate,” the trooper said. “You’re good. You’re going to get through this.”
Price wasn’t convinced. His tunic was covered in vomit and blood and something that looked like Chinook bulkhead was sticking out of his right thigh. Every movement was agony. He moved gingerly against the valley side forcing himself into a sitting position, grimacing and sweating with the pain. Sitting up, he observed the scene around him. A couple of the special forces’ lads had taken up defensive positions constantly scanning the valley sides above and around them. The Chinook had broken in two on impact. The front of the chopper lay out its side and was ablaze. The rear, containing the passenger and cargo compartment, had apparently burst on impact. The trooper who had freed Price from the wreckage had been joined by one of Price’s own men and a nurse as they sorted through the human wreckage. There were several broken bodies. Another soldier was carried and laid next to Price. He recognised the brown eyes. They were impossibly large with fear. Roberts was in a bad way. Silent and pale in shock. She had been placed on her left side and faced him.
One of the nurses knelt in front of Price and began to apply a field dressing around his thigh wound.
“Work on her,” Price ordered through gritted teeth and nodded towards Roberts.
The nurse almost imperceptibly shook her head. Price noticed the tears running down her dirty, blood smeared cheeks.
To his right, Roberts reached out a bloody hand and Price held it while the other nurse continued to work on him. Waves of nausea and darkness began to break over him like surf. He turned to face Roberts through the descending haze. Price watched a single tear leave her eye, follow the contour of her cheekbone and down her face before falling onto the rough sand. He stared deeply at her and squeezed her hand as the light appeared to fade from her eyes.
“Roberts,” he shouted. “Fight it. Stay with me kiddo.”
He felt her grip on his hand loosen, he tried to hold on, but her hand slipped out of his and she slipped away. Her eyes remained open, but he knew that she was gone. Then, a wave of nausea spread over him, his vision clouded and then he felt or saw nothing more.
***
Present. Mid-Atlantic. November 21st
Tom held Nia’s hand as she drifted off into a shallow airplane sleep. He watched as she snoozed. He wondered just who this exciting woman lying next to him was? He felt he had connected more with her in four hours than he had with his wife across their four years together. To be fair, he recalled, he had spent most of their relationship bouncing from trouble spot to war zone to army base and back again. But, also to be fair, she did sleep with his best friend and his best friend’s best friend. She had really wanted to marry an officer, any officer. He had heard she was now on her third. He felt that he never did really know her.
Tom released Nia’s h
and gently. He carefully manouvered out of his seat pod and made his way to the toilet. There, he washed his face in the tiny sink. He was tired, he recognised it in the corners of the blue grey eyes that looked back from the mirror. He still wore some of the familiar fatigue from the years of taking and giving orders, of mentoring young men with hopes and fears he no longer shared, of dealing with civilians who barely concealed their contempt for his uniform, of making life and death decisions. It was the tiredness that had come with being around so much death and killing. He had done quite a bit of it in his time but now he was done with it. Tom had retreated to his narrowboat still burdened by emotional hurt, not to punish himself, but to ensure that he remained constantly aware of those that were lost. He brushed his teeth with his finger and smiled in the mirror to check his teeth. It was a strong and surprisingly gentle face that smiled back.
He returned to the seat pod. Nia stirred in hers as he sat. She opened her eyes and smiled. Tom smiled back. It felt both odd yet natural. Nia shut her eyes again. Tom watched her for a moment, knowing he was smitten and thinking how truly lovely she was, then, with his free hand he pulled out his phone, popped in his air pods, opened the screen, found Kate Bush’s Babooshka and hit play. Nia stirred again next to him and opened her eyes.
“What are you listening to?” she asked.
He gave her one of his air pods and she put it in her left ear.
“Oh, I like this,” she said and closed her eyes again.
After the song was over, she opened her eyes and asked him about his music. She remembered that he was wearing air pods when she first saw him at the gate. They talked about their favourite music, favourite bands. Although they were of similar ages, they had different tastes. Tom had eclectic tastes but was anchored by eighties’ music. “Inherited from my sister,” he explained.
Nia’s tastes were 1990s’ Britpop: Oasis, Blur, and Pulp. She didn’t feel the time was right to mention she had partied with most of the bands. She quickly mentioned that she had also grown fond of musical theatre and had had roles in several productions. Tom had only seen one musical, Evita, and that was only because a college girlfriend had dragged him to the theatre to see it.
“Next time I’m in one, I’ll send you a ticket,” Nia joked, and Tom quite liked the idea of them remaining in some kind of touch after the flight’s end. They continued to talk, occasionally awkwardly, but mostly engagingly for the remainder of the flight.
It was a still and dark dawn as the big jet crossed the English coastline. Nia pointed to the twinkling lights of little villages, the orange glow of streetlamps, tiny traffic alive with the shining of miniature head and taillights, she wondered aloud where they were all going so early in the morning. The enveloping soft glow of dawn spread across the patchwork landscape exposing towns and roads that Nia recognised from her numerous approaches to Heathrow. She was happy to be approaching home but, as she turned to Tom, she was struck by the sudden reality that whatever they had shared over the last seven hours was about to end. Tom felt it too and he wanted to say something to her, but he struggled to find the words. They were suddenly quiet. Nia, who made her living with and through words, found herself suddenly at a loss for them.
***
Heathrow. That Morning
The landing was smooth. The bump and jolt of the heavy jet’s landing gear touching the runway at one hundred and sixty miles per hour was barely perceptible.
“Good pilot,” Tom exclaimed really to himself and Nia nodded in agreement.
“Nice to be on the ground,” she said.
Tom nodded, “I don’t mind flying in these big jets, but I bloody hate helicopters. I’d be happy if I never set foot in another helicopter again. It’s always nice to be back on the ground.”
“Yes, always nice to be home,” Nia said again with just a hint of wistfulness.
Both were wondering how they could transition into something that would serve as a bridge to an ongoing connection, something more than what could so easily become the transient connection of two passengers thrown together for the duration of a flight. The seat belt light was extinguished with a ding and the big jet filled with the sounds of hundreds of passengers standing, opening baggage bins, and removing bags and sundry items. Both Nia and Tom stood and retrieved their various personal items. They both looked at each other willing the other to say something. Neither did.
Tom wrestled for the right words to say and the right way to say them. Nia struggled with the desire to connect and her imperative to remain detached. They were shepherded out of the aircraft by still smiling flight attendants. Tom shouldered one of Nia’s bags. They talked about the London weather. Through the terminal’s glass sides, a cold London winter waited. Passport control was mercifully smooth and quick. Nia waited for Tom to emerge from the border force booth and together they proceeded to move to the next stage of airport experience. Tom hesitated as they approached the signs for baggage claim.
“Don’t you have any bags to pick up?” Nia asked looking at the small cabin bag he carried with a sense of incredulity.
“No, I travel light,” Tom answered patting the bag. The phrase, ‘travel light, travel alone’, came to mind. “Occupational hazard of army life and then from living on a narrowboat,” he smiled.
“Will you wait for me to get my bags?” Nia asked.
“Of course,” Tom replied gallantly. “I’ll help if you’d like.”
Tom retrieved Nia’s bags noting that she did not travel light and loaded them onto a trolley. Together, they emerged through the frosted glass doors that formed the barrier between passport control, baggage collection, and the rest of the airport. The overhead lights appeared to diffuse the area in an unnatural harsh yellow light. Nia quickly wrapped her scarf up and over her chin and slipped a bobble hat on her head, tucking a lot of her hair up and under it. She also appeared to shrink as she changed her gait. She was a different character.
There was a small crowd as the glass doors hissed open and out on to the concourse. Family members and loved ones were waiting for the return of their dear ones, business associates mingled, and there was a handful of drivers, some liveried, some in jeans and heavy coats.
“Is anyone meeting you?” Nia asked, hoping Tom’s answer would be in the negative. She had suddenly realised that neither she nor Tom had asked whether there were significant others in the picture. She got a strong sense that Tom didn’t have one. She hadn’t had a significant relationship for a long time.
“No, not here,” Tom replied. “I’m catching a train up north, to Chester, my sister is picking me up there.”
Good, single, she thought.
“Look,” she said directly. “I have a car service. I can get the driver to drop you off at a Tube station if you’d like.”
“Yes,” Tom said. “I would like that.”
He appreciated the offer as it would mean more time with Nia. Tom noticed a driver was holding a home-made sign that simply stated ‘Nia.’ Tom pointed to the sign.
“I know it’s a relatively rare name,” Tom said. “But the one name thing. It’s a bit Cher isn’t it?”
Nia laughed. “It’s more like a habit now, but I still need to be a little protective of some privacy, of some personal space.”
“Are you really paparazzi famous?” asked Tom.
“No, not really any more,” she answered without any hint of regret. “I never really was, consistently, but I did have my moments.”
He was intrigued, “Moments?”
She stopped walking and turned to him, “So you don’t know who I am at all? And I don’t mean that in a pompous arseholey kind of way.”
“Err, no. I’m sorry,” he responded, and she felt his honesty and a little of a shared embarrassment. “I got out of the habit of theatre and TV when I was in the army. Should I know who you are?”
“No, but I still occasionally bounce into people who still see me as some kind of public property or think I’m actually one of the characters I’
ve played. The press were, at one time, brutal. It has made me a little wary, a little defensive.”
They paused in front of the already tired looking driver. They both wanted to say something, the same thing.
“Look, do you have time for a coffee?” Tom asked.
“Yes. I’m sure the driver could find a cafe close to a Tube station for you.” She didn’t want to break the connection. She turned to the driver, “An extra fifty do it?”
The driver nodded. Tom felt his heart beat a little faster with genuine excitement.
***
London
The cafe was one of those nondescript, shopfront, neighbourhood affairs loved by retired locals and hipsters alike. Nia and Tom both ordered flat whites and took a small table by the steamed-up windows. It was raining outside. The heavy tiredness of the long travel night came over them both.
Nia smiled at Tom over the rim of her mug. He felt a part of him melt. He knew that he had lived so deeply inside his head for the last five years that the feelings he was now experiencing were both rare and liberating. Everything seemed to have a new resonance; the coffee tasted richer, the steam hiss from the latte machine sounded fuller, the winter light appeared softer. He felt as if he was breaking a swimming pool’s surface after a deep, lung bursting dive. Nia looked lovelier in what natural light was available than she had under the airport’s harsh fluorescents or in the jet’s semi dark cabin.
Fit For Purpose Page 3