Chapter 8
Airports – a transitional place, a waiting room as you head from A to B.
How you’re feeling can very much shape how you see a place.
To some, airports are fun places. You can drink, relax, buy yourself a giant Toblerone while you wait to take off.
Or… it’s limbo. A place that suspends you in time while you wait anxiously to get your long-haul flight over with.
I’m not usually an anxious flyer – I’ve done this one a bunch of times now – but it’s not the flight I’m worried about, it’s the company. Plans were in place before Lockie showed me his true colours, so I was happy for the two of us to sit together. Speaking of being stuck in no man’s land…
I’m just waiting. Sitting underneath a flickering fluorescent light that seems to follow me wherever I go.
I’ve been through security, had a few coffees, made sure my devices are charged up for the flight ahead.
Because when you’re feeling anxious, if all else fails, you can always bury your face in your phone, right?
I feel scruffy and tired already, like the cost of travelling is being stripped of your dignity. Well, you get searched, treated like a potential criminal, made to wait, you get tired and scruffy and sweaty dragging your stuff around.
And yet – of bloody course – I’ve just spotted Lockie and he looks like a jacked Ralph Lauren model.
He’s impossible to miss, looking like an England rugby player on his way to an important game.
He’s standing in front of the aftershave counter, spritzing tester bottles on his wrists like he’s in an advert.
Two sales assistants are watching him like he’s the answer to all their prayers.
He tilts his head, offers them a smile, and it’s enough to set them off, giggling like teenagers.
Look, I get it, he’s a good-looking man, and the last thing I need is for him to smell even better, but knowing what a creep he is goes a long way to dampening the initial attraction I had to him.
Even when I realised he was my work rival, I still had that attraction to him, but now, ugh, now he turns my stomach.
I duck behind a display of sunglasses, hoping he won’t catch me staring, but I knock a pair to the floor and it makes just enough noise to grab his attention – because of course it does.
He doesn’t wave, doesn’t call out. He just smirks at me – amused to have caught me peeping at him.
We don’t speak but we’re barely more than a few metres apart as we go through the motions, eventually arriving at the gate, ready to board.
Just look at him, leaning against the pillar near our boarding gate like he’s secretly posing for the paparazzi, but trying to look like he isn’t.
He’s got his shirt collar open, giving him a sort of considered but casual vibe, his jacket is slung over his shoulder, and he’s got one hand sitting just inside his pocket.
And of course his sunglasses are hooked on the neck of his shirt – frankly, I’m astonished he doesn’t have them on, if he thinks he’s sooo cool.
Two women in the queue glance his way, whispering to each other. I don’t have to lip-read to know it’s probably something about his jawline or his broad shoulders or how perfect his hair is.
Meanwhile, I feel like a toad. Hair scraped into a bun that’s already coming undone, mascara smudged because I rubbed my tired eyes, and I realised my hoodie had a mark on the sleeve just too late to do anything about it.
Isn’t this just setting the tone? He looks so good, and so happy and chill, and I’m a mess and I’m stressing and… and… and it’s going to be such a long few weeks together.
And now we’re boarding, so I have no choice but to stand next to him. Lucky really, that I can’t do anything that will put me on a no-fly list, or he might be in trouble.
‘Hi, Cleo,’ he says casually. ‘Ready to rock?’
‘I guess so,’ I say with a heavy sigh.
Boarding is chaos, as always. The narrow aisle is clogged with impatient people, everyone fighting for overhead bin space.
Toddlers are crying – and there’s already a businessman ranting under his breath about it.
The air smells lovely, but just a little too much, like everyone hit up the duty-free samples, and it’s overpowering the space.
Just what you need, when you’re trapped in a box.
I’m clutching the book I’ve been reading like it’s a parachute.
Reading romance novels feels almost sarcastic at the moment, but it feels like an exercise for my brain, a way to keep working out my love muscle for when I need it.
Once again, none of those words seemed like they were going to sound so dodgy until my brain put them in that unfortunate order.
At least we know my dirty mind is still working.
And here he is, Lockie, ready to invade my personal space.
He’s in the seat next to mine, because of course he is.
We booked these seats before, when we were working well together, thinking we could do some planning on the plane.
We may be in the premium economy seats, or whatever they call the ones that are not the cheap seats, but they are still just seats, side by side, with no escape.
The seats are decent – plush leather, decent legroom, and champagne is already being handed out. Lockie is what’s making it feel claustrophobic.
‘Don’t look so disappointed,’ Lockie says as he slides into the window seat, making himself at home. ‘I promise not to hog the armrest.’
The last thing I’m worried about is elbow room.
He knows something is up, he must, because I’ve gone ice-cold with him.
The thing is, I don’t think he thinks he deserves it, I don’t think he believes he did anything wrong, so he’s just going with it.
Letting me be frosty, being insufferable back.
Either starving me of attention or annoying me with it.
I don’t know which I want. He can’t win, of course he can’t, because I’m just so mad that I almost let myself trust him, and so relieved nothing went further than it did.
We don’t really speak at all while we take off. It seems like it takes ages to get to altitude, to get to a point where we can relax (sort of) and get this show on the road.
A flight attendant appears almost right away. She’s tall, blonde, looking fantastic in her perfectly pressed uniform. I have a lot of time for the fashion. Her smile is professional, but when it lands on Lockie, it lingers. Just a fraction too long.
‘Hello,’ she greets him – or maybe it’s both of us, I’m not sure. Her voice is velvet. ‘You’re with the TV show, aren’t you? They said we were transporting a large TV crew today.’
The crew all fly together, on public flights (we’re on a budget these days), but the contestants travel there individually, to avoid them seeing each other. No one taking part gets to meet anyone else who is going to be on the island until they’re actually there and the cameras are rolling.
Lockie’s grin switches on instantly, like the light above our heads when anyone calls for assistance.
‘That’s us,’ he replies. ‘I’m the brains behind the casting team.’
Ha!
‘Could I have a bottle of water, please?’ I ask her.
She nods subtly as she leans over to take out empty champagne glasses.
‘That’s impressive,’ she tells Lockie. ‘I’ll bet it takes a lot of skill.’
He shrugs modestly.
‘It pays the bills,’ he says with a smile.
As soon as she’s gone I scoff.
‘What?’ Lockie asks.
‘I was just wondering when the dictionary changed the definition of brains,’ I point out.
Before Lockie can reply, the flight attendant returns with a bottle of water. She hands it to Lockie, not to me. Then she leaves.
‘Wait, I—’
‘You can have mine if you want,’ Lockie offers, holding out the bottle just enough to make me have to reach for it.
‘Thanks,’ I say, reaching out to take it.
He pulls it away, playfully, before eventually handing it over.
Another flight attendant appears with two more glasses of champagne – presumably one for me, rather than two for Lockie.
‘Here’s to a long, fun, relaxing flight,’ he says, dimples forming in his cheeks because he’s clearly taking the piss.
I don’t rise to it, I just clink glasses with him.
The engine hums beneath us, that low, constant vibration that means you just can’t quite forget that you’re in a metal box drifting through the sky.
‘You couldn’t make this up,’ I say, mostly to myself.
Lockie doesn’t miss a beat.
‘I could make it up,’ he says proudly.
‘And I suppose you’re proud of that,’ I reply.
‘Well… yeah. What’s wrong with that?’
‘Erm, it’s unethical, for one thing. Pitching something as reality TV, all the while it’s just you coming up with storylines.’
‘You do the same job as me, I’m just more open about it,’ he replies.
‘I don’t script them!’
‘You do in a way,’ he replies. ‘You put the right people in the right place – or the wrong people in the wrong place – to make drama. You mix the chemicals to create a reaction and then watch things blow up. That’s the same.’
‘That’s not the same,’ I clap back. ‘I’m not feeding them lines.’
‘No,’ he says, ‘but you’re feeding them the ingredients for them.’
‘We’re never going to agree on this,’ I point out. ‘Or anything.’
‘I think we’re both doing the same job, we want the same results, we’re working on the same show,’ he reminds me. ‘We’d do well to get on the same page.’
‘Of the same script?’ I reply. ‘Never.’
He leans back in his seat, turning his head so he’s looking at me.
‘What would you have done without me this season?’ he asks.
‘Oh, yeah, right – I don’t know how I would have survived,’ I say in my best damsel-in-distress voice.
‘No, I’m actually asking,’ he says. ‘What do you wish we’d done differently?’
‘I wanted real people—’
‘We’re not using robots,’ he says with a laugh. ‘These are real people. Okay, they’ve been on TV before, and I get why you have a problem with Elle, and I’m sorry—’
‘Can we just leave it?’ I say – it’s my turn to interrupt him. ‘We’re here now and I don’t care. I just want to get this over with.’
‘And I just want to make it the best season yet,’ he replies. ‘That’s all.’
‘By trying to script every single part of it?’ I check, sarcasm in my tone.
‘Not every part,’ he replies. ‘Or I would have made you much easier to work with.’
‘Everyone else loves working with me,’ I point out.
‘I thought we were—’
‘Well, you thought wrong,’ I say, shutting him down.
I try to ignore him as best I can. I attempt to distract myself with the in-flight entertainment. Flicking through endless thumbnails of movies I’ve already seen or have no desire to watch. When I finally settle on something, I feel his gaze.
‘What?’ I snap.
‘You’re really going to watch that?’ He nods at the screen.
‘What’s wrong with romcoms?’ I check – not that I’m all that interested in his opinion.
‘Well, from a storytelling point of view, they’re sort of boring,’ he replies. ‘Everyone knows how they’re going to end.’
‘But that’s the beauty of it,’ I tell him. ‘They uplift you, give you hope. By the end everything is perfect, everyone is happy. It’s a good message to take with you.’
‘I’d go for something with action – high stakes, explosions…’
‘Yes, just what we need when we’re on a plane, fab idea,’ I say sarcastically.
He starts lightly drumming his fingertips on the table in front of him, just to annoy me, I’ll bet. It’s sort of working. I just need to do my best to ignore him.
The cabin dims, some people try to sleep, others keep themselves to themselves quietly.
But I can’t relax. I can’t ignore that he’s right next to me, and that I’m so annoyed with him.
His elbow keeps brushing mine, or I feel him moving in his seat, or just…
ugh, hearing him breathe. Why does he have to keep doing that?
At one point, as I tug my own blanket tighter, his hand accidentally catches mine.
The contact lasts less than a second – but it’s enough to feel it.
To feel like I’m connecting with him, like there’s still a little something between us.
But it’s nothing magical, it’s just two hands knocking, exchanging energy, then separating again.
I think the thing that is rattling me the most is facing up to the fact that no matter how many times I remind myself that the flight is well on the way, that it will be over soon, it’s the realisation that when we land we’ll be sharing a boat together.
I don’t care how big it is, it could be a cruise liner, it just feels like there’s no escaping him.
The first jolt of turbulence rattles me in more ways than one.
Lockie doesn’t even blink. He leans back, calm as ever, as if the plane shaking is to create a massage chair, just for him, whereas I can’t help but squeeze my blanket until my knuckles turn white.
‘Are you scared?’ he asks, his voice low so that only I can hear.
‘No,’ I lie.
Another jolt, harder this time. My hand shoots out before I can stop myself, clutching the armrest – and his hand, which happens to be there.
He glances down, then up at me. No smirk this time, no snide comment. Like he’s going to let me have this one.
I quickly drop his hand.
‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to do that,’ I insist.
‘Sure,’ he replies, turning back to the window.
Maybe I did, maybe I didn’t. Either way, I kind of wish I hadn’t let go.