by Andi Osho
Simi slumped back down.
‘Come, Simi. You don’t want Jem seeing you like this.’
‘Jemima’s in LA,’ Simi exhaled.
‘No, babes. I texted her when I left Todd’s earlier. She’ll be home tomorrow,’ Meagan said, cupping Simi’s face in her hands.
‘For me?’
‘Who else would she cut short her escape-break for?’
‘You?’
‘Apart from me,’ Meagan laughed.
‘Can I have a shower in my pyjamas?’
Meagan tutted then pulled Simi close.
‘Fine. Keep them on – for now. I’m gonna make up the spare bed.’
‘You’re staying?’ said Simi blinking away her tears.
‘It’s a big day tomorrow. We’re gonna wash that man out of your hair… literally. Then we’ll pack you up and get you out of here. I know it hurts now but this is gonna be good for you.’ Meagan smiled.
Simi hugged Meagan as tears fell but they were grateful tears. Meagan was here and soon Jemima would be too. Natural order would be restored and they’d once again be a three.
Chapter 4
Jemima
Jemima glanced along her empty row and grinned. Takeoff was in less than twenty minutes and the two seats beside her were still empty. It wasn’t that she didn’t like people, well it was a bit but really she just loved space. She felt pangs of jealousy for Robinson Crusoe. Imagine, a whole island to yourself.
As she contemplated that solitary existence, the plane’s PA system crackled to life. ‘Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, I’m Captain Ted Striker!’ the announcement began, followed by a warm chuckle. ‘A little cockpit humour there. No, I’m Captain Brett Lambert and on behalf of my crew, thank you for choosing Wow-Oui Air… not many people do. Anyway, I’m delighted to welcome you aboard this 19.20 flight from Los Angeles to Brussels.’
A panicked murmur spread throughout the cabin.
‘Only joking. We are, of course, heading to London… Ontario. Kidding. London, England.’
Good God, thought Jemima, now wishing she had paid the extortionate last-minute premium to fly with a normal airline.
‘We’re just awaiting one last connecting passenger and we’ll be on our way. Until then, I’ll leave you in the capable hands of our cabin crew led today by Ms Susan Burke. If you ask nicely, she’ll give you a massage. Joking. But I can guarantee a happy ending when we land in London at approximately one p.m. GMT. Ice and a slice in mine.’
Jemima grimaced and began arranging her blankets and pillows on the vacant seats beside her. She barely noticed the last straggler making his way down the opposite aisle apologising as he bashed people with his hefty rucksack. Finally, she looked over. What was it with some people and time management? she tutted. And that bag was definitely over the size allowance. ‘Selfish,’ she murmured as the straggler began checking row numbers. Keep moving, keep moving, she silently chanted, as she watched him search for space in the overhead bins, stopping briefly to wipe his curly brown hair out of his eyes.
‘Please, no,’ Jemima muttered to the gods of seat allocation as he started rearranging bags in the bin above her row.
As he reached up his T-shirt lifted revealing a taut, sun-kissed tummy. Vain, Jemima thought, as she observed him charmingly involve other passengers in the bag reshuffle. Vain and late she decreed noticing his muscular arms. Just then the straggler caught Jemima’s eye. She snatched up a tattered duty-free magazine and leafed through it. A blur of spy equipment and pink lipsticks flashed before her. She wished that just once, duty-free would stock cosmetics vaguely suited to her ebony skin tones. That, however, was a battle for another day. Right now, her sights were on The Straggler – the worst of all Batman’s nemeses.
His annoyingly jovial bag palaver finally over, he took his seat – on Jemima’s row!
Nooooooooooooo, she wailed inside as she watched him get comfortable in what had been occupied territory. Well, he’d better not talk to me, she ruled.
‘Hey. Chance,’ he said, reaching across the two empty seats to shake hands.
‘Chance?’ said Jemima with zero warmth.
‘Yeah, you know like the Abba song. Take A—’
‘Yeah, yeah. I’ve heard the word “chance” before,’ said Jemima, observing his Australian accent, with unnecessary disdain.
‘You reading that upside down on my account?’ he quipped. Jemima looked down and realised she was indeed holding the magazine the wrong way up.
She snapped it shut, flustered.
‘Is this your stuff?’ Chance said pointing at Jemima’s detritus.
‘Sorry,’ she said, indignantly. ‘I thought the row was empty.’
She collected up her things and stuffed them under the seat in front.
‘My bad. Bloke on my last flight had a heart attack and I had to do CPR. Cracked his rib but at least he’s alive, eh?’
‘Lucky you were there,’ Jemima replied. Show off!
‘Cabin crew, arm doors and cross-check and if you left the iron on, I hope your house doesn’t burn down. Joshing! I hope it’s razed to the ground and you get a mighty insurance payout. Right, here we go!’ the captain hooted.
Chance leaned across the seats, ‘This guy’s a laugh.’
His sarcastic aside at least, was one thing Jemima could agree on. She nodded ungenerously then clamped her headphones on and scrolled through the music selection. She needed calm, soothing tones to help her drift away from row twenty-eight, from this chatterbox and from their ‘comical’ captain. Finally she found what she was looking for, Bach’s Cello Suites. At school, she’d made a few half-baked attempts to learn this and in adulthood it was her go-to when she needed tranquillity. As they taxied for takeoff, Jemima caught one last inappropriate cockpit broadcast about using breast milk in the tea, before the cellos whisked her away.
Halfway through Suite No. 5 Jemima felt a tug on her headphone cord and turned to see Chance waving at her. With a quiet sigh, she lifted one ear pad.
‘Wanna chat?’ said Chance.
‘No,’ said Jemima in an alternative reality where she freely spoke her mind.
However, in this reality where she was steeped in British awkwardness, she slipped her headphones off and with a pinched smile said, ‘Sure.’
Instinctively, she scoped the cabin again for exits. Even at 36,000 feet Jemima was always looking for a way out.
‘So you a big fan of old Johann Sebastian?’ Chance asked, ‘I could hear it through your headphones, the music from that bank commercial, right?’
‘Sorry. I can turn it down if it’s too loud. It’s my favourite piece of music. Helps me to… block out the drone of the plane,’ she said.
‘Oh, if that’s what you need I’ve got something much better,’ Chance said as he surreptitiously looked around the cabin before handing Jemima a slender hip flask, ‘100mls of liquid gold.’
‘Oh, no, thank you,’ said Jemima raising a hand.
Chance thrust the flask into it.
‘Come on. It’s a long flight,’ he nudged.
‘I know,’ Jemima replied looking down at the thin flask.
Cautiously, she put it to her lips as though it were a vial of anthrax. The syrupy alcohol slipped down her throat. She had to concede, it was good.
‘Tequila.’ Chance grinned. ‘Picked up some good shit in Mexico.’
Jemima took another micro-swig. The airline pillows were too small to put over Chance’s face so mild inebriation might be the only antidote to ten hours next to him.
‘So, what takes you to London?’ Chance asked scooching over one seat.
Jemima withered. Was this a chat or a talk show interview?
‘It’s home,’ she said.
But the words caught as they came out. Yes, she loved her little flat and was looking forward to its familiar solitude but thoughts of LA just weren’t going away. Beaches, beautiful skies and a clean slate awaited. Her mother would have no objections. Jemima relocating would give he
r another part of the world to visit. It was Simi and Meagan who would need convincing. But as Jemima considered the reality of putting such a distance between her and her two best friends, it made her heart ache.
‘What about you?’ she said redirecting the conversation. ‘What takes you to LA? Surfing?’
Chance laughed looking down at his scruffy T-shirt and jeans.
‘Right. You are looking at Australia’s best, worst surfer. Honestly, I suck at it. In your face, stereotypes,’ he said winking at Jemima.
‘Sorry,’ she said, quickly.
As a black woman, she knew how grating even positive prejudices were, yet here she was laying one on this guy with a trowel.
‘So, what do you do?’ she asked turning back to Chance who, if he were offended by her presumptions, was being kind enough not to show it.
‘Occupational therapist. I help people recover from injuries and stuff. Got a little practice in Stokey,’ he said, taking another sip of tequila.
Jemima froze.
‘Stokey?’ she quizzed, her voice ascending half an octave.
Stokey was what the locals called Stoke Newington and was where she lived!
‘Yeah, above the coffee shop on Apone Parade.’
‘Azi and Rania’s place… Nostromo…?’ Jemima spluttered.
‘That’s the one! You know it?’
‘Not really,’ Jemima lied.
Know it? Not only was it minutes from her flat but she’d written two and a half of her three books there. Why had she never spotted him?
‘Err how did you get into occupational therapy?’ she quizzed.
As she once again shepherded the conversation, Jemima noticed his warm smile wane and in its place something deeper appear – was it pain, regret? She couldn’t tell but clearly, this wasn’t just a job to him. Chance picked at his flask, for a moment taken by his thoughts.
‘My brother lost his leg in Afghanistan. I felt helpless, like I wanted to do something but I didn’t know what so I trained as an OT. And I wanted to support people in the same boat as Pete so I started my charity, Man Up. We give OT to wounded vets. See,’ Chance pulled his faded T-shirt tight showing her the Man Up logo.
Jemima nodded earnestly but inside she was squirming. She’d been so mean when his only crime was to sit next to a snide, seat-hogging misery-guts. She took a hit of tequila and handed the flask back, ‘So what took you to Mexico apart from the search for really good tequila?’
Chance laughed, his infectious smile, returned. ‘Only the best wedding ever.’
Jemima listened as Chance described Pete’s journey to recovery, how it had begun in their parent’s home in Adelaide and continued with a trip to Los Cabos where he’d fallen in love. Chance explained how at first he’d been worried when his brother had left but the minute he’d seen Pete and Lula together, he’d known they were destined for each other. Jemima smiled though something was bothering her. Yes, it was a gorgeous story but it was also oddly familiar.
‘Sometimes you can just feel it, when two people fit. Don’t you think?’ said Chance, handing the flask over.
As their fingers brushed against each other Jemima felt her breath falter. She looked up at Chance, noticing for the first time that his eyes were different colours, one green and the other hazel or was it brown…?
‘I do,’ she said.
‘Huh?’ said Chance.
‘What?’
‘You said, you do.’
‘Do I? I mean, did I?’ said Jemima, ruffled.
Her eyes darted around the cabin, ‘Did they turn the air conditioning off? It feels like the air is… can you feel that?’
‘Feel what…?’ asked Chance.
‘Like, hot. Feels like a heat. A hot heat,’ Jemima gabbled, looking behind her to see if the bathroom was empty.
You’re not going anywhere, the red occupied light glowered back.
‘So you were saying, Peter got married?’ she stuttered trying to look at him without looking at his eyes which were… hypnotic – purely in a freak-of-nature kind of way.
He did. ‘I love a good wedding, but this one… Blubbed like a little girl,’ said Chance.
‘Or boy,’ Jemima said.
She groaned at herself. Halfway through a story about Chance’s disabled brother’s life-affirming wedding was probably not the time to thrust her equality politics on him.
‘Eh?’ said Chance.
‘Nothing.’
‘I could barely get through my speech,’ he continued, smiling at the memory. ‘Pete was determined to walk down the aisle despite everyone telling him he wasn’t ready. Even I had my doubts. The whole chapel held their breath as he got out of his wheelchair and onto his crutches. But with each step, the applause and cheers got louder and louder. I swear people in the street must have thought we were watching the footie.’
Chance paused, as though struck by an idea. He reached into his carry-on bag, pulled out a hardback book and passed it to Jemima. Pete Dasos: A Walk on The Mild Side, the cover read. Jemima turned it over in her hands. She had seen it before. She flipped the book over to see who the publisher was. Shit. Hudson Hicks Books – the same publisher as her! She hurriedly handed it back.
‘No, no. Have it,’ he said pushing the book towards her. ‘He decided to write his life story and what do you know, he got published. Look inside.’
Jemima opened the well-thumbed book and Chance leaned across, leafing through to the foreword.
‘He wrote me a frigging dedication. I mean, in my top ten best things ever it’s like number five, four, three, two and one. When I saw it, I cried like a… like a little boy,’ said Chance winking.
But despite his delight, Jemima could see he was welling up. She went back to the book to give him some space. As her hand glided over its glossy sleeve she couldn’t help feel a twinge of jealousy. Hudson Hicks Books often sent her new releases. Jemima always loved a freebie, however, she didn’t appreciate how often Eve Lim, her passively pushy editor would enclose notes pointedly detailing how well each book was doing and how much romance said books contained. It irritated Jemima specifically because romantic storylines had been the source of an ongoing battle between her and Eve since Jemima’s second book a year ago.
And that’s where she recognised Pete’s story and his book from. Eve had sent his autobiography with a note declaring it a veritable love fest which only the stone-hearted would be able to resist. The book had sat unread somewhere in Jemima’s flat since she’d received it. She pushed Chance’s copy into her bag.
‘Honestly, you read that and I promise, you will fall in love.’ said Chance.
Jemima looked up at him, her cheeks suddenly burning.
‘With Pete and Lula…’ said Chance. ‘Anyway, enough about all that. What do you do to keep the wolf from the door?’
Oh brilliant, thought Jemima, her least favourite question. Writer was one of those professions, like actor, where if people hadn’t heard of you they’d silently categorise you a pointless failure and a glassy-eyed indifference would descend. Jemima had even tried lying but that hadn’t worked out.
‘A goat herder? Wow and what do you produce?’
‘Yoghurt and… cheese. Yoghurt cheese.’
‘Would I have heard of your brand?’
‘No.’
Glassy-eyed indifference.
And now there was the added complication of Jemima sharing the same publisher as Chance’s brother. This plane was too small to contain his potential excitement if that information grenade was tossed in.
‘I write novels about a woman who investigates insurance fraud. I used to be a junior investigator. Anyway, you’ve probably never heard of them unless you buy your books from charity shops but I was number nineteen in What Insurance? magazine’s top twenty insurance-based novels, so…’
Confession over, Jemima braced herself for the judgemental axe of Chance’s glassy-eyed indifference.
‘Wait, you wrote those Beverly Blake books?’ he said clic
king his fingers to spur his memory. ‘You’re Jemima Abeson? I frigging love them! What do you mean “charity shops”? Your first book was on The Times bestseller list. Tell me there’s gonna be a third one. The way Mysteries ended I was like, come on!’
Jemima tentatively dipped her toe in the pool of adoration. The water was warm. It was a rare treat to meet a fan who was a real-world normal person and not an insurance investigator eager to correct her factual inaccuracies. It’s a made-up story, she always wanted to bellow at them.
‘I’m close to finishing the third one.’ She smiled.
‘Mate, that’s awesome!’ said Chance. ‘And will Beverly find out what’s in lock-up 639? Actually, I don’t want to know. Man, this is intense!’
Wow, he really did know the books, thought Jemima.
‘I won’t spoil it but let’s just say, it picks up with her heading to Swindon,’ she teased.
‘God, I’ve got so many questions!’
And he really did. Through the drinks service and evening meal, Chance interrogated Jemima on every detail of her novels. And as the cabin lights dimmed, Jemima realised his voice, rather than grating, was actually pretty sexy – from an objective point of view, she clarified to herself for no reason. And his eyes, the hazel, green and brown seemed to almost glimmer in the subdued light. But it wasn’t so much his eyes, more the way he looked at her. And she’d clearly had more drinks than she’d thought because she was starting to feel flirty. That hadn’t happened for a very, very long time. Jemima breathed Chance in. He smelled like… running. Not in a bad way. It was the aroma of hard work and life and skin. He smelt like earth, like a forest. Jemima bit her lip. Given they were random strangers, would a mini-flirt be such a dreadful thing? She ran her fingers through her bob, twirling a finger around a stray strand.
‘Look, I’ve gotta ask,’ Chance said leaning in, ‘why doesn’t Beverly have a special someone?’
Jemima’s smile flickered and Chance immediately back-pedalled, ‘I’m being nosy. You’ve got to keep some stuff under wraps. I get it.’
Jemima turned to him tugging her finger from a tangled knot of hair.
‘It’s my publisher,’ she sighed, ‘they’re not happy with Beverly’s love life which is obviously ridiculous. Eve, my editor, loved the will-they-won’t-they between Beverly and her boss in the first book and she wanted me to take it further in the second book, Mysteries.’