Perfect Strangers

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Perfect Strangers Page 1

by Dani Atkins




  To my dad, Bert Harris,

  whose life was a tale of adventures

  Day One

  The first time we actually spoke was at 30,000 feet when the plane was already plummeting out of control towards the snow-capped Canadian mountains. But there had been three other occasions earlier that day when our paths had almost crossed.

  I’d first seen him when I was climbing out of my taxi at the airport. He too had just arrived by cab, and as I was counting out dollar bills into my driver’s outstretched hand, I noticed him striding across the road, effortlessly manoeuvring a large, expensive-looking case between the continual stream of vehicles pulling into the rank. By the time I had struggled to get my own case up onto the pavement – or sidewalk as they call it out here – he had already disappeared through the terminal doors.

  You probably couldn’t count that as a proper meeting though, because I’d really only seen the back of his head and a gleam of thick chestnut-coloured hair that was covered with a soft sprinkling of snow. As indeed was my own, but it didn’t show up nearly so well on my shoulder-length pale blonde hair. I think the thing that I initially noticed about him was his height. He had to be well over six foot three or four, and being tall myself (five foot eleven, without heels) I had developed a kind of inbuilt radar that sought out men who were taller than me. Of course, I didn’t need to look any more. Not now I had William. Or did I? This whole trip was meant to have crystallised that answer for me. But now, five weeks after my tearful arrival in Canada, I still didn’t know the answer.

  ‘I wish you didn’t have to go back. I wish I’d been more help. I wish I didn’t have this bloody cold and could have driven you to the airport myself.’

  ‘That’s three wishes, Mommy,’ declared my totally adorable four-year-old niece, who I was seriously contemplating kidnapping and taking back with me to England. ‘I’ll be a genius and make them come true.’

  ‘I think you mean a genie, honey,’ corrected her mother.

  It was very hard not to laugh at the solemn blue-eyed little girl, who looked just like her mother had done when we were children, running around our farmhouse in rural England. I bent down and kissed the mop of white blonde candy-floss curls, and felt a lump rising in my throat as her small chubby arms wrapped themselves around my jean clad legs. ‘Thank you, Lily, I think a genius is exactly what I need right now,’ I whispered with perhaps a little more wistfulness than I’d intended.

  ‘Just tell him you need more time,’ Kate said, through a wad of tissues, and a decidedly blocked nose. ‘He’s the one who caused the problem, not you. You take as long as you need, don’t let him rush you.’ She paused, and I knew some of her more earthy advice was being sacrificed due to the presence of her daughter, who had a tendency to pick up the most colourful vocabulary and share it with all her kindergarten friends. ‘You know what I think, Hannah, he’s been a total . . . you know . . . and he doesn’t deserve you. You need someone better than that. Someone who’ll treat you properly.’

  Her words had stayed with me on the forty-minute cab drive to the airport. It was easy for my happily married sister to give such decisive and sensible advice, but it was much harder to act on it. Kate was one of the lucky ones: she’d met and fallen in love with Stephen her Canadian husband right after university. During an eight-month whirlwind, they had married and were booking their one-way flight tickets back to Stephen’s homeland almost before the wedding confetti had hit the ground. That was nearly ten years ago, and there wasn’t a single week that passed when I didn’t miss her. And never more so than when my life was in crisis. Which, to be fair, was a fairly regular occurrence. Hence this latest unscheduled transatlantic dash for comfort, advice and some much needed distance from my cheating boyfriend.

  The terminal was warm and brightly lit, and surprisingly busy. I reluctantly moved away from the curtain of hot air blasting down from the overhead vents and dragged my case away from the revolving doors. Even then, it was impossible not to be mown down by the constant thoroughfare of luggage trolleys and dragged suitcases as I scanned the terminal for signs to my airline’s check-in desk.

  There were three desks open for duty, and about ten that were unmanned. I wasn’t much of a traveller, but as I joined the shortest of the two economy ticket queues, I wondered when – if ever – they were all fully staffed. I looked over longingly at the much shorter queue on the far right. Business Class. There were just three people standing in line and one of them was the man who I had seen at the cab drop-off point. Again it was his height that I noticed first. He was easily visible over the heads of the snaking line of passengers waiting to check in for the evening flight. Almost as though he had sensed he was being watched, he suddenly turned and looked over in my direction. He couldn’t possibly have known who – if anyone – had been studying him; it could have been anyone waiting to check in their luggage, but his eyes went straight to mine. Too late to look away and pretend I hadn’t been caught staring, I gave a small polite smile, one stranger to another. I was rewarded with a much more genuine one in return. It lit up his face, turning the perfectly pleasant quite good-looking features into something which made my stomach do that weird little thing that normally only happens when I’m in a lift.

  Momentarily distracted, I didn’t notice the small shuffle forward by my surrounding passengers and was suddenly rammed in the back by an over-laden trolley stacked high with bulging suitcases, being pushed by the uninterested young teenager behind me. His harassed mother offered a cursory apology and a very light chastisement. The tall man in the Business Class line gave me a look of much greater sympathy and even managed an eloquent facial expression which I translated as, ‘Are you okay?’ I gave a nod and a small shrug, which was meant to say, ‘I’m fine. These things happen.’ Our brief non-verbal exchange came to an abrupt halt when the passenger ahead of him strode away from the counter, pocketing his boarding pass, and the courteous guy with the chestnut hair and the twinkling green eyes was called up to the desk.

  There were at least fifteen people ahead of me, and it took me a great deal longer before the twisting slalom line brought me to the check-in desk.

  ‘Miss Truman,’ said the slightly weary-looking airline employee. ‘Are you travelling alone today?’

  I nodded in reply, sliding my passport across the desk. Travelling alone, sleeping alone, maybe even living alone now. I hadn’t quite figured out the answer to that one yet. The future suddenly looked as bleak as the lowering grey Canadian skies outside the airport. ‘Yes,’ I replied, knowing the woman had little or no interest in the sad and sorry details of my private life. ‘Yes, I’m alone,’ I confirmed, realising how my hastily planned trip to stay with Kate had been the first I had undertaken without William beside me in almost three years. Perhaps travelling alone was yet another adjustment I was just going to have to get used to.

  ‘I’m sorry, could you repeat that?’ I asked distractedly, realising I had totally missed whatever information the woman had been relaying. There was just a trace of martyred impatience in her sigh. Sorry, I mentally apologised. Ever since I found out my boyfriend had been cheating on me with a pretty young intern, I have had the attention span of a goldfish. Dreadfully sorry. Perhaps some of the sadness of my discovery still lingered on my face, for she sounded much kinder as she gamely repeated everything she had just said.

  ‘Please keep a close eye on the departure board. There is a possibility some of our flights might be delayed due to the oncoming storm. If that happens we’ll have to reschedule your connecting flight to London.’ I took back my passport and boarding pass. I guess it didn’t really matter if I was delayed. I hadn’t told William I was flying home today; in fact I hadn’t told anyone. No one waiting at the gate with a s
mile and a hug for me. I tried to ignore the stupid self-pitying prickle of tears as I joined yet another queue to enter the no-man’s land of airport security.

  Twenty-five minutes later, I was hastily shoving the entire contents of my carry-on luggage back into its case. I could still feel the heat of a harassed blush staining my cheeks, as I thrust my belongings haphazardly away. It really hadn’t helped that I hadn’t been able to identify the small carton at the base of my bag, the one my niece must have secretly hidden there, filled with three bars of her favourite type of candy. I’d flushed like a criminal when the security officer had fixed me with a very distrustful gaze, and asked yet again, ‘You did say you packed this bag yourself, didn’t you, ma’am?’

  I’m not sure if I sounded guilty or just plain stupid when I lied, ‘Oh yes. I’m sorry, I forgot about those chocolate bars. How silly of me.’

  I was still shaking my head at Lily’s sweet and thoughtful gesture, even if her surprise going-away gift had almost got me detained by security, as I trundled my small bag into the lift to travel up to the main concourse. Several people got in after me, effectively pressing me firmly against the rear wall of the compartment. I shifted to one side to get someone’s large fluffy scarf out of my face and saw the tall man from the Business Class line heading for the lifts. He spotted me, squashed like a sardine in a can, and a friendly smile of recognition lit up his face as he strode towards the bank of elevators. I felt a strange tingle of anticipation and absolutely refused to listen to the small voice which kept trying to whisper William’s name into my memory. Just in case I’d forgotten that I wasn’t a free woman any more. Or was I now? Either way, I wasn’t doing anything wrong here; I was simply indulging in an innocent smiling flirtation. Just to see if I remembered how to do it. It wasn’t like I was sneaking off and having secret dinners and booking hotel rooms by the hour with someone fifteen years younger than me. That was him, not me. And he hadn’t even been smart enough not to leave his credit card statement lying around, where his stupid and trusting girlfriend would come across it. That was me.

  The man was still several metres away from the lift when an androgynous tinny voice sounded from within the cubicle walls: ‘Elevator doors closing.’

  ‘Sorry, could you hold the doors open, please?’ I exclaimed suddenly, surprising myself almost as much as my fellow lift travellers. As one, they turned around with a look Oliver might have recognised after he asked for a second helping, or were they simply worried I was going to make them all get out, so I could leave? Nevertheless someone jabbed the ‘Open Doors’ button and the glass doors slid apart once again. The man, still making his way towards the lift met my eyes, and it was astonishing how much I thought I could read from just one look. I grinned. He grinned back.

  And then, before I could meet the person destined to change my life, a young woman with a baby in her arms crossed his path, pushing a trolley piled high with luggage and a folded pushchair. I heard a painful smacking sound as a second child, obscured from view, tripped and fell onto the unforgiving surface of the tiled floor. The air was instantly filled with their noisy and indignant cries of distress. The young mother spun around to rescue her child, and as she did so the poorly balanced luggage and stroller tumbled from the trolley, skittering across the highly polished floor, like a handful of dice at a gaming table. He could have side-stepped the obstacles and still caught the lift. He could have left the stressed young woman to cope alone. But if he’d done either of those things, he probably wouldn’t have been the type of man I would have ever wanted to meet. Even if that meeting was destined only to be a brief flirtatious encounter in a busy airport.

  He threw a regretful and apologetic look in my direction and then bent down and began to pick up the young family’s belongings.

  ‘Am I still holding these doors for you, ma’am?’ asked an elderly gentleman standing at the front of the lift.

  ‘No. That’s okay. We can go now,’ I replied, with just a twinge of regret.

  I saw the man with the chestnut hair look up just once as the lift doors slid to a close with a small ping. I think I might have seen his eyes follow the glass enclosure as it travelled up the shaft and disappeared on its journey to the main concourse.

  I was surprised at just how crowded the terminal was. I had to ease through a small crowd just to get away from the elevator bank. When I glanced up at the departure board, I could see that even though the predicted storm had yet to hit, quite a few flights were already showing the dreaded ‘Delayed’ status. I hesitated for a few moments on the small piece of floor space I had claimed. Should I stay and wait to see if the smiling Business Class man arrived, or was that too weird? Not to mention desperate, said a small voice in the back of my head. Admittedly, my confidence had taken a crippling blow when William had turned to someone younger, perkier and – for all I knew – probably even prettier than me. But was this really the best way to rebuild it? Tit for tat? That wasn’t what I was looking for.

  I sighed and walked away with renewed determination towards a row of designer shops straight ahead of me. Retail therapy was probably a far better way to go. Still, when I heard the ping announcing the arrival of the next lift carriage, I couldn’t help myself, I turned and looked over my shoulder as the passengers tumbled out onto this level. He wasn’t among them.

  One large pure wool scarf which I could neither resist nor afford later, I walked among the rows of regimented airport seats, trying to find a vacant place to sit and wait for my gate number to be revealed. I positioned myself within easy sight of the departure board and was pleased to see that thankfully it looked as though, storm or no storm, we would be leaving on time. I texted Kate to let her know I had got there in one piece, hopefully settling the niggling concerns she’d voiced as she hugged me goodbye earlier that day. ‘Perhaps you should just reschedule,’ she had suggested, throwing her glance skywards at the gathering and threatening clouds. ‘This isn’t really the weather to travel.’

  ‘I thought you told me all the cabs had snow chains fitted in bad weather?’

  ‘They do,’ she’d conceded reluctantly.

  ‘And the airline aren’t going to take off if the weather is too bad.’

  ‘I suppose not.’ She had still sounded far from happy.

  I squeezed her tighter. It was always this way when we had to say goodbye. One or other of us was always looking for a way of extending the stay and cancelling the travel plans. This time it was her.

  ‘I’ve got to go back and face the music. I have to get this sorted,’ I had whispered into her smartly styled blonde bob. ‘And if it doesn’t work out . . . well, I’ll figure something out.’

  ‘Phone when you make your connection in the States, and then again when you get to London – it doesn’t matter what time it is.’

  ‘I will,’ I promised.

  It was the first promise I’d ever made to my sister that I wouldn’t keep.

  I settled into my seat with the latest bestseller which I’d picked up from a shop on the concourse. I don’t know what made me look up a little while later. The story was quite absorbing, and I had effectively managed to tune out the noisy family I was sitting next to. But suddenly I felt the hairs on the back of my neck prickle inexplicably. I looked up, as though I had just been summoned. For a second I saw nothing except the uncharacteristically busy airport, with its swarm of passengers bustling back and forth like displaced bees in a hive. Then my focus turned to a coffee shop about twenty-five metres away. There were probably a hundred or so people between us, some seated, others just walking around, but somehow my eyes went straight to him. He was walking out of the doorway of the familiar franchise, a large cup of coffee in his hand. He stopped, half in and half out of the entrance and looked straight at me. Too far away to speak to each other, he raised an arm in a salute of greeting. I returned the gesture, smiling and shaking my head slightly at the absurdity of the situation. I felt as though I was hailing an old friend, which was ridiculous as w
e’d never exchanged a single word. I didn’t even know his name.

  Still with his eyes locked on mine, he raised a finger and pointed at me, and then at his cup of coffee. He tilted his head slightly, allowing his gestures and body language to speak for him. No mime artist could have asked more eloquently. I smiled and nodded my reply, snapping shut my book and getting to my feet. I felt his eyes were on me as I began stepping over extended legs and small children to reach the end of the row of seats.

  Then the overhead tannoy gave a small crackle before a voice projected over the babble of a thousand conversations. ‘This is a passenger announcement. Would Mr Logan Carter, passenger on Canadian Airways flight to Chicago please report immediately to the information desk on Level One.’

  The smile on his face slid away. One more gesticulation, this time pointing upwards from where the disembodied voice had come from, just as the announcement was repeated. He pointed once again, at himself, and then gave an apologetic shrug of his shoulders. The page was for him. It looked as though we were destined never to actually meet.

  ‘Sorry,’ his lips soundlessly formed. ‘It’s okay,’ I mouthed back, hoping he could lip-read from that distance. The last I saw of him was his tall figure cleaving through the crowds as he set off in search of the information desk. I sat back down with a small disappointed sigh. At least now I knew his name.

  He never came back. The minutes ticked by, and when thirty of them had clicked away I finally realised he probably wasn’t going to. By then my departure gate was displayed on the overhead board, and with one last regretful look in the direction I had seen him heading, I picked up my hand luggage and set off for the gate.

  I had the world’s worst seat on the plane. I was squeezed between an oversized man who had already claimed the armrest and clearly had no intention of sharing it, and a mother with a fretful toddler. The next three-and-a-half hours were going to be far from pleasant. I clambered across the man to reach my seat and attempted to fold my overlong legs into a space that had clearly been designed with the transportation of hobbits in mind, rather than people over a certain height. My seat was three rows back from the entrance, where the last few passengers were boarding. I had just finished stowing my belongings in the overhead locker when I caught a fleeting glimpse through the curtained partition and saw a tall figure being ushered to the left, towards the Business Class seating. I was pretty certain that person had warm chestnut-coloured hair, and I’d put money on the fact that if he had turned around you’d also have noticed his arresting green eyes.

 

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