5
‘I’m proud of you, A,’ Sara says over the banquet she’s cooked for us to mark our last dinner in New York before I leave.
I’m not exactly sure she should be: I am, after all, mostly going out of spite. But I haven’t exactly been explicit with her on that, so I smile, pretending to bask in her approval of my journey of self-discovery. As far as she knows, I am as zen as a Tibetan monk, ready to achieve peace with myself and the situation. In reality, it’s going to take every bone in my body not to deliberately sabotage every single event I have to attend with Jack, or accidentally-on-purpose push him off a cliff. I feel a twinge of guilt at that last thought. Alright, perhaps attempted murder is a bit far.
I pile some more tabbouleh onto my plate and try not to think about how much I’ll miss this. It’s only a month, but I’m going to hate being so far away from Sara. On top of my less-than-ideal travelling companion, when I get to London I’ll be back in Hampstead, surrounded by memories of my dad. It will be all I can do to get through it in one piece.
As if she can see what I’m thinking, Sara says ‘You’ll be fine. I know it. We’ll text the whole time.’
I must look unsure, because she reaches for my hand and says ‘Remember when that guy grabbed my bum in the student union, and you kicked him in the shin?’
I laugh. ‘Yes. He deserved it.’
‘From what you’ve told me so far, you’ve given Jack a hard enough time that he’s probably feeling a lot worse than you at the prospect of this trip.’
I imagine myself giving Jack a good kick in the shins with my largest platform Doc Martens, and smile to myself. Sara, yet again, reads my mind. ‘I’m not suggesting that you kick him, just that if he says or does anything … unexpected, you’ll be able to handle yourself.’
I think about the dressing down I gave him a week ago, his nervousness around me, the look on his face every time I say something cutting. It’s pretty obvious that Jack is terrified of me, so far. Perhaps, if I can keep this up, the trip won’t be a complete disaster.
The sound of someone swearing loudly in frustration in the next room cuts through our conversation, and we both turn instinctively to the door. Sara’s boyfriend, James, is working in their spare bedroom. Her face tells me that this isn’t an uncommon occurrence.
‘What’s that about?’ I whisper, feeling momentarily guilty that I have been so focused on what’s happening in my own life that I’ve barely asked about hers.
‘They’re pushing him so hard at work. I barely see him at the moment, and when I do he’s horribly stressed, on edge all the time.’ She looks downcast for a second, then looks up and smiles. ‘Not as fun a flatmate as you.’
I smile back, even as my heart sinks. A few weeks ago, on our last night in the flat before Sara moved out, I had a few too many glasses of wine and said some things I didn’t mean about her leaving to live with James. I was feeling lonely and sad, and I didn’t think through my words properly. I felt awful and apologised the next day, but it’s still a little shaky between us when the subject of her relationship comes up. Right now, I can see that even as she’s trying to make light of the situation, she’s worried. James is usually so calm, so carefree – the human equivalent of a golden retriever. I want to console her, but I don’t know how.
‘Can he quit?’ I say, but as soon as the words leave my mouth I realise how naive they sound. This seems grown up and difficult, a problem not easily solved. She shakes her head, tight-lipped, and I squeeze her hand. Clearly, the just-moved-in-together bliss I’ve been imagining for them isn’t as idyllic as I thought.
A few seconds later, there are footsteps in the corridor and I watch Sara tense up as the door opens and James enters the room. Immediately, the atmosphere changes. He looks awful: his hair is sticking up in different directions from where he’s been running his hand through it, and his shirt looks like he’s been sleeping in it. Even from this glimpse, I can see what Sara means: his stress is palpable.
He stares for a few moments as if he’s confused by my presence, then seems to remember himself.
‘Hi, Andie,’ he says, some warmth returning to his features.
‘Hi, James,’ I say. He smiles, and turns to Sara, who is regarding him with concern, getting ready to speak.
‘Don’t,’ he says. ‘Please. I’m just getting water, then I need to get back.’
‘Babe—’ she says, getting up out of her chair as he moves over to the sink, but then she cuts herself off, glancing at me. I get the sense that she doesn’t want to say too much, to risk having an argument in front of me. He finishes filling his glass and moves past Sara, touching her tenderly on the shoulder as he does so.
‘Later, OK?’ he says, softening. ‘Let’s talk later.’
She nods, but her expression is defeated as she watches him move towards the door. My heart contracts for her. I get the sense that they’ve already had this conversation a few times. Again, I’m moved to try and help, to say something to make her feel better, but I don’t know how. Once he’s left the room and the door is safely closed, I place my hand over hers. ‘Love you,’ I say, because it’s the only think I can think of to say.
She squeezes my hand affectionately. ‘Love you, too.’
A few days later, I meet Jack at the airport at 4 a.m. He looks infuriatingly good for the early start: not a hair is out of place, not an eye bag in sight. I, on the other hand, look atrocious. But then, I don’t really care what he thinks. My focus is on getting through this trip in as professional and detached a manner as I can, and I am absolutely determined not to let him get in the way of that.
The trip through the airport to our terminal is strictly business: checking our bags, grabbing a sandwich for the flight, going through passport control. I am all efficiency and professionalism. I even help him lift his bag onto the conveyor, startling him so much he almost drops it. Good .
We sit three seats apart by the gate – I put my backpack on one and my jacket on another, in case he gets any ideas, but he seems to get the message.
As we board the plane, he places himself a few people behind me in the queue, but I’d have been stupid to hope (I am stupid, I did hope) that Jessica wouldn’t be able to find seats next to each other. I end up boxed in by the window with Jack beside me. Fuck.
It’s OK, I think, I’m prepared for this. And I am: I’ve meticulously chosen the book I’m going to read on the plane. I wanted to read the next instalment in the fantasy series I’ve been enjoying, but Jack’s comment about reading books about dragons in The Lost Bookshop has rendered this dangerous territory: he might take it as an opportunity to bond, and I can’t have that. So instead, I’ve gone for the grisliest thriller I could find. If Jack glances over, it will be all dismemberment and disembodied feet and gore and murder. A fitting message, which will hopefully encourage him to keep his distance for the next seven hours. With other authors, I might spend a flight this long doing some press-prep. But right now, I’d just like some peace.
About two hours into the seven-hour flight, he glances over. ‘L. R. Brown is one of my favourite authors.’ Double fuck.
‘I hate him,’ I say, closing the book.
‘But you’ve been reading—’
‘I said what I said.’ I’m being petty, but in this moment I don’t care. He can’t just talk to me like this, pretending that everything is fine. That’s not how this trip is going to work. I will do my job, but casual conversation is firmly off the table.
He sighs and, though I’m not looking at him, I guess from my peripheral view that he’s pinching the bridge of his nose. ‘Andie, I’m just trying to make conversation.’
‘I don’t want to make conversation, Jack. I’m here to do my job, and that’s it.’ I say, my tone firmer than before.
‘Could you try and be a little less hostile?’ he says, and this sends a spike of irritation up my spine. He has no right to police my tone, even if a small voice in the back of my mind is telling me that perhaps this isn’t the veil of professionalism I was hoping to display on this flight.
‘Could you try and be a little more silent?’ I retort, then open the book again stare at the pages intently to indicate the conversation is over.
A few hours into reading my book, I start to drift off to sleep, and before I know it the pilot is announcing that everyone needs to put their seatbelts on and tray tables up, and telling us that the time in London is 6 p.m. I take more pleasure than I should in elbowing Jack awake, and we both watch as the city appears beneath us. A surge of familiarity hits me all at once: this great, sprawling mass was my home for eighteen years, and I hadn’t realised until now just how much I’ve missed it. Jack catches my expression and opens his mouth to say something, then shuts it again. Good. He’s learning.
I close my eyes as I disembark the plane, the sun hitting my face, the London air refreshingly familiar despite being thick and humid. For a second, I allow myself to forget that Jack is here, instead enjoying my surroundings as we move through the airport: the concentration of British accents, the familiar newsagents we pass on our way out of departures. The overwhelming feeling of belonging that seeps through me, almost without warning. Though somewhere in my mind there’s still worry about Jack, and this trip, I can’t deny that – right now – it feels good to be home.