North Hangar Avenue (The Sisters of Larkford Hall #3)

Now Voyager

Despite her many more impressive qualifications, the first thing people notice about Anna Mortimer is that she is beautiful.

There are downsides to beauty, but on the whole, Anna feels blessed.

From her experience, she has only to smile as she asks for help and people hurry to make her wishes come true.

It works as well with women as it does men.

Though beauty has been a constant in her life, it took her some time to become aware of it, to identify it as a specific effect.

That others choose to put their trust in the beautiful, to believe them kinder or more honest than their plainer counterparts is too big an advantage to throw away.

And Anna is quite happy to embrace her good fortune.

Some women come to beauty later in life – the fabled ugly ducklings.

They form their sense of their own worth during their plainer days, which leaves them vulnerable to predatory partners.

But Anna had been a beautiful baby whose big, dark eyes in a face of small symmetrical features could capture an adult heart in an instant.

She had grown tall and lithe, gracious in her gestures.

Even in puberty, Anna was favoured, blessed with smooth, blemish-free skin, and she grew into womanhood with no scars, mental or physical.

Anna is aware beauty is transient.

One day, she will smile at someone and they will ignore her.

Age will have taken its toll and she will be relegated to live life as the vast majority of women, relying on politeness, endearment, or mutual exchange.

But awareness and understanding are different.

So, until that day – hopefully far in the future – Anna is content to take advantage of people’s propensity to like her, to trust her and to want her.

But she is careful not to be defined by it.

She has worked hard to qualify as a registrar in anaesthesia and she intends to become one of the best medics in the world.

Anna, the second of the five daughters of Baron Larkford and his exquisite wife, takes the time to double check she has correctly locked her apartment door.

The timer lights are set, the alarm is armed, and the hot water is turned off.

Dropping her keys into the capacious handbag that holds her laptop, Anna takes a firm grip on her suitcase and begins a cautious descent of the stairs.

Unfortunately, English Heritage’s listing of buildings makes it difficult, though not impossible, to install a lift.

But difficult is often sufficient discouragement to a landlord, even if he is your father.

Being young and energetic, Anna seldom feels the lack of a lift, despite living on the top floor, but today she could see the benefit as she manhandles her awkward suitcase down the steep, narrow steps from her attic to the broader, grander staircase.

It often makes her smile that the family now live in the old servants’ quarters.

When she finally makes it to the roadside, blinking in the Sunday afternoon sunshine, she sees the taxi driver waiting for his customer’s arrival.

He’s tapping his fingers with impatience, but the moment he sees her, he transforms from annoyed to obliging.

Hauling his substantial girth out of the seat, he is around the vehicle with an ingratiating smile plastered on his face and a “Let me take that for you”, as he pops the boot.

In a display of machismo that his own wife has probably not seen for many a year, he hefts the heavy case over the tailgate, his face puce with the required effort.

In Anna’s qualified opinion, he is risking a hernia if not a heart attack, but it doesn’t stop him.

She rewards him with a bright smile and a gracious thank you before she slides into the back seat.

She makes sure to exaggerate her actions as she fits her earphones – a clear signal she will not be available for small talk – and they begin the uncertain journey through traffic towards London’s biggest airport.

On arrival at their destination, with another rare show of gallantry, the driver hops out of his seat despite being ignored for the entire journey.

He hauls her case out of the rear of his vehicle before hitching his jeans back up over his buttocks until the waist button hits the underside of his belly.

He slips a card from his pocket into her hand.

The card is slightly damp from sweat, moulded to the curve of his backside.

“In case you need a return pickup,”

he says and then, with a last flick of his eyes over her body and a lick of his lips, he slides back behind the wheel and drives off.

Anna pulls her case to the terminal, drops the driver’s card into the nearest bin, and searches for a screen to check her flight.

Traffic was lighter than expected, so she is early and her flight has no gate information.

It gives her time.

She makes her way to the airline desk, where three businessmen are already queueing in front of her.

A woman with two children joins the queue behind her.

The mother is trying to make a call while juggling the baby on her hip, two large cases and an errant toddler.

Anna can’t help but overhear.

“I’m at the airline desk now.”

And then, in a very testy voice: “I don’t know because I’m not prescient!”

The harassed mother disconnects the call in time to intercept her toddler, who’s about to pull one of the retractable barrier posts down on his head.

She returns to her position behind Anna, toddler firmly gripped in one hand.

She looks hot, sweaty and very unhappy.

So does the baby.

It is grizzling.

Anna reckons it won’t be long before the child is outright bawling.

As the queue shuffles forward, Anna catches the woman’s eye and nods her ahead.

“Really?”

The relief is clear, as is the gratitude.

Anna steps to the side and lets the little family pass.

She takes hold of the woman’s suitcases for her and pulls them forwards.

She waits for the two remaining businessmen to do the same, but they studiously ignore the family, suddenly extremely focused on their phones.

Anna has never felt maternal.

She has no wish for children.

She doesn’t coo at babies or melt at the sight of cute toddlers, but she does understand how hard life can be with infants.

Especially when you are on your own.

She stands behind and slightly to the side of the woman.

“Bad day,”

she prompts.

The woman swings around to reply, bringing the grizzling baby inches from the ear of the man in front.

He turns his head and scowls briefly but turns back towards the airline desk.

Anna concludes, as she often has before, that some men are devoid of kindness.

“They’ve cancelled our flight,”

the mother huffs.

As the queue moves forwards, the mother, occupied with finding something for the baby in her tote bag, fails to keep pace.

An elderly man, now directly behind Anna, tuts.

Anna turns and glares at him, and he has the grace to look abashed.

Finally, the airline clerk waves the mother forwards.

Anna says, “Go on.

I’ll look after your bags.”

It takes a while for the little family to be processed, and Anna waits patiently.

When the woman comes to collect her bags, the baby now happily sucking on a dummy, she gives Anna a weary “Thanks”.

Then, calling to the toddler and dragging both bags, she sets off across the airport.

The attendant calls “Next”

and Anna moves forwards.

She flashes her most winning smile as she places her passport on the counter.

“I’m on the LA flight.

I was hoping there might be some seats left in Business Class?”

The attendant looks up, catching the full effect of Anna’s perfect features and naturally aligned teeth.

She smiles back.

“Let me check for you,”

she flicks open the passport, “Ms Mortimer.”

The keyboard clicks and the attendant corrects herself, “Oh, Dr Mortimer … you’re in luck.

One seat left.”

“How much would it be to upgrade?”

Junior doctors in the UK earn a pittance, but unlike others, Anna pays no rent and almost never has to spring for her own entertainment expenses.

Long hours leave little opportunity to fritter cash, so she figures she can treat herself today.

The attendant wrinkles her nose and gives a little dip of her head.

“No charge.

Consider it a courtesy upgrade.

For your services to motherhood.”

“That’s very kind.

Thank you.”

It’s not just her impeccable manners – Anna means it.

Another exchange of smiles occurs as the attendant hands Anna back her passport.

Karma is a fickle friend but sometimes it comes through.

Bag checked, she strides off to security.

She knows of old that the gorgons who man the X-ray machines and scanners are immune to charm, so she doesn’t bother trying.

She has only a laptop bag as a handbag, soft black vegan leather, a surprisingly useful gift from one of her sisters last Christmas.

As she extracts her electronics, the man in the queue behind her, his coat already folded and his shoes removed, remarks on the make.

But Anna has no interest in technology beyond its effectiveness and reliability.

She gives a tight smile and concentrates on sliding her tray forwards until she can step through the scanner.

Except that beauty is never permitted to go unnoticed.

He tries again as she reassembles her belongings, an innocuous comment about late night flights.

With her head down, this time she says, “Not interested.”

Experience has taught her the rebuff needs to be clear, almost brutal, with absolutely no eye contact.

Some women struggle with being continually pursued, but Anna, while she has more empathy than she wants, is not endowed with enough for it to cause her a problem.

She feels no guilt in turning down a suitor or cutting an admirer short.

She has provided no encouragement.

The man could be Paul Rudd for all she knows.

She is still not interested.

An observer might think her churlish, but any other alternative would give him enough hope to follow her through the terminal.

She would love to scream at him, I do not want your attention.

I did not ask for it.

Do not give it .

But that would be regarded as beyond rude.

It is a source of frequent irritation to Anna that she should have to care about his ego and his feelings when he cares nothing for hers.

She issues her calm but clear rejection, while keeping her inner bitch chained, and walks away.

Anna is looking forward to the perks of her upgrade as she peels away from Security and heads for the Business Class lounge.

The hubbub of the airport disappears as she pushes through the heavy glass doors.

A quiet background murmur broken by the occasional bro laugh greets her.

She checks in with the attendant, then drops her coat on a chair and heads for food.

“Anna!”

There is no mistaking the joy in the word.

A sandy-haired young man stands from a group of lads, all wearing a uniform of blue jeans and black T-shirt, each with a slogan or witticism.

The uniform of the tech bro.

Anna turns.

He looks familiar, but she cannot immediately place him.

She can easily read the happiness in his face at seeing her, his eagerness to close the distance between them.

Her mind is sorting and cataloguing.

She doesn’t think he is one of her friends, but it’s difficult to be sure.

Since kindergarten, she has always been surrounded by her coterie – all the other children keen to be her friend, from infants to seniors through sixth form and eventually, university.

She is not yet thirty, but already dozens of friends have been relegated to no more contact than an occasional ‘like’ on a social media post.

It is simply not possible to keep up with everyone.

But if he’s not one of her friends, maybe he belongs to one of her sisters? Or a fellow med student from years back? A patient? She scratches the last.

A patient would address her as “Doctor”.

By the time he reaches her side, she is still clueless, but until she knows who he is, she cannot decide how to react.

Men remember beautiful women far more often than women remember unremarkable men.

If he is a fellow student, she can mostly ignore him.

She has kept in touch with all those she wants to know, whether for pleasure or business.

But a friend of the family needs more careful handling.

Her lack of recognition must show on her face.

She is normally quicker than this, but in her defence, she is hungry and so very close to food.

“We met at Charlie’s?” he says.

This doesn’t uniquely identify him.

She knows at least a dozen Charlies/Charles/Chazzes.

The English middle-class are remarkably unimaginative in naming their children and royal names like William, Henry, Charles, and George abound.

“At the festival?” he adds.

Ah! Charlie Fairfax and the Fairfaxes’ annual festival on their estate is generally a certainty for fun, but it is a few years since Anna has attended.

Before the pandemic, definitely.

Which probably explains her lack of recognition.

Her eyes flick over him once more.

“Ah! Yes,”

she lies, no closer to his identity.

Internally, she prays they are not on the same flight.

“Are you going to Seattle?” he asks.

“No, LA.”

She kicks herself as the words leave her mouth.

Never give out more information than you have to, especially to men who show every sign of excessive attention.

“Do you want to join us?”

Hope drips from his lips as he gestures towards his group.

His kudos would increase from knowing her.

One of them leans back, speculation in his eyes.

He’s clearly the boss, the little group centred around him.

And he knows his worth.

He is much more her type – strong, confident, his heart not easily broken.

He catches her eye, the smallest, briefest nod of his head towards the restrooms and the slightest curl of his lips in invitation.

A brief fantasy flicks through her mind: sex in the restroom before they each board their flight, her back against the tiles, legs wrapped around him.

A tongue of lust licks through her.

But she is wiser than that.

This is a power play and a cruel one at that.

The boss seducing her would leave his underling humiliated.

Anna has no interest in being a pawn in a sadistic game.

“Sorry,”

she says.

“I’ve got a ton of work to do.”

She shrugs to emphasise her helplessness.

“Oh! Well, if you change your mind …”

He leaves the invitation open but hovers beside her.

Anna grabs a plate, piles it with food from the nearest buffet tray, reaches for a fork and heads to a seat far away from others.

“Maybe next time,”

she tosses over her shoulder with the barest of smiles – enough to placate, not enough to encourage.

Her instinct is always to sit with her back to a wall facing the room.

She settles in her chair, opens her laptop and, unbeknownst to her admirer, opens her Kindle app.

She would generally read on her phone, but that wouldn’t look like she is working.

She browses through the options she pre-loaded for her trip.

Books have always been an important part of her de-stress routine.

She chooses a twisty-turny crime novel instead, the first in a series she has been meaning to read for a while.

The Corfe Castle Murders .

She likes the idea they are set in Dorset.

She had a boyfriend once, years ago before she left school, who lived in Dorset.

She spent most of one summer there with him, and her memories are soaked in sunshine and sea and sex.

The book will be a perfect trundle through her memory bank of sights visited in his soft-top classic MG.

She may even look him up to find out where he is now, when she has finished the book. She takes a forkful of pasta and begins to read.

Her flight is called before the one to Seattle.

As she packs her laptop away, she glances up and finds her devotee and his boss still watching.

She gives a little finger wave in their direction, stands and exits, the incident immediately forgotten.

If she remembers when she returns, she’ll run it past her elder sister.

Eleanor is closest to Charlie Fairfax.

She may know the identity of her fan.

Anna speeds through the airport gate and boards quickly, hardly sparing a glance at the hordes queueing in the economy line.

The chill of the airport tunnel is replaced with the warmth and busy-ness of the airplane as passengers stow belongings or extract books and electronics.

The flight attendant, looking fresh and immaculate, stands by the entry to the flight deck.

Anna walks past, nodding a greeting.

Her path through is blocked by a burka-clad woman, one arm around the toddler on her hip who looks nervous and scared.

The woman is trying to reach up to push something in the overhead storage, but she is short and clearly struggling.

Anna looks around for the child’s father, but there are only two older, portly men in the section, and they are both deeply engrossed in their own conversation.

With a mental condemnation of absent fathers throughout the world, Anna steps up.

She has over six inches on the poor woman.

“Here, let me.”

Anna is not sure if the woman speaks English, but she appears to understand.

Shoving her boarding pass between her teeth, Anna stretches out both hands and gives one hard push.

The baby reaches out, snatches the boarding pass and flings it away.

The woman looks embarrassed, but Anna shakes her head and smiles to show no offence.

It’s a baby, after all.

Instead, she turns around to pick up the ticket, only to find the flight attendant holding it out towards her.

“Here you go, Dr Mortimer.”

The stewardess has obviously read the name on the pass.

Anna would not usually use her title when travelling, but the original ticket was booked by work.

With another exchange of smiles, Anna takes the pass.

She glances past the flight attendant into the first-class cabin.

Excited children dressed in jeans and sweatshirts chatter as more black-clad mothers chivvy them into their seats and hand out electronics from designer tote bags.

Anna wonders if they are all one family group.

She turns back to Business Class.

It is quieter.

There is nothing more than the occasional muted grunt as people heave bags into overhead lockers.

Everything feels muffled, as if this were an excitement-free zone.

Anna supposes it is.

Most of these people will have jobs where the description reads travel required , rather than the less onerous and far more joyous opportunity for travel .

For them, a twelve-hour night flight is something to be endured, not enjoyed.

Anna finds her seat.

One of a pair nestled top to toe on the side of the cabin, just before the toilets.

It is one of the worst seats in the section, but Anna appreciates the prospect of being able to lie flat and sighs in gratitude.

She stashes her coat overhead, then moves the bedding before dropping into her seat.

One of the cabin crew stops by with a glass of champagne but Anna declines it.

She wants to sleep on the flight and would prefer to avoid the extra strain on her heart from the alcohol.

She studies the menu instead, but is quick to select her choices.

As the Economy passengers begin to file in, she keeps an eye out in case some of her colleagues from other hospitals are on the same flight headed to the same conference.

But she doesn’t recognise anyone.

The stream of travellers slows to a trickle, then stops.

Almost everyone is seated and belted in.

The flight attendants are moving about the cabin, making preparations and closing the overhead lockers.

As the pilot begins his announcement and Anna is dutifully switching her phone to flight mode, someone opens the locker above her.

She turns her head to see a perfect package nicely sculpted in black denim.

She raises her eyes as the figure steps back.

And it is in that moment that Anna Mortimer, ice queen extraordinaire, breaker of countless hearts, finds she has the itsy-bitsiest, teeny-tiniest, eensy-weensiest crush on a man.