Mamma Mia!
Anna stares.
Her mouth drops open, but she closes it quickly before he looks down.
His dark hair tumbles over a strong forehead to frame heart-melting brown eyes and the longest lashes Anna has seen on a man.
Scruff hides his chin, but she knows his jaw is square.
She has seen photos.
Of course she has.
His face has dominated billboards across the world.
His eyes lower.
He sees her watching and his face changes.
He grins.
It is practised, easy.
Like he knows the effect he has on others – just like Anna knows when her smile has worked.
Her heart flutters.
She frowns.
She is a medic.
She knows the normal reasons for a heartbeat to falter: stress, panic, and anxiety.
But none of these apply. She is young and healthy, and someone’s smile should not make her heart flutter, but she has no other way to describe it. In all of her twenty-eight years, she has never felt anything like this sensation.
Anna Mortimer is ill-equipped to deal with a crush because she has never practised.
As a teenager, her classmates and colleagues melted and swooned and sighed in love around her, often choosing the most unsuitable candidate upon which to bestow their adoration.
Anna watched them all, perplexed.
It was plain to her eyes that these juvenile heartthrobs were destined to seduce and, shortly thereafter, dump their conquests.
And it was a mystery to her how the intended victims were so blind and so willing.
She was often rather proud of never having succumbed to a hint of the same emotion.
A crush seemed to make fools of even the most intelligent.
But then her elder sister, Eleanor, had made the most extraordinary match in a blaze of passion, and Anna had been forced to reconsider whether a crush could last.
Three years later, Eleanor and her husband, Jacob, still seem to be marvellously in love.
Despite more than a decade of rampaging hormones and a plethora of suitors, Anna has never yet fallen in love.
She understands lust – the need to be touched, the desire to be filled.
The tingling of nerve-endings and the heady excitement of expectation.
But she has never mistaken lust for love.
The feelings of arousal are easily slaked and have always been clearly distinct in her mind from love – that want to care for someone, to make them happy, to put their needs before yours.
Some people are incapable of romantic love, and after a decade of waiting to be smitten, Anna firmly believes she is one of those.
She views it as a blessing.
As a junior doctor during the pandemic, she saw how loss took its toll on families and loved ones.
The stress of their jobs compounded by the fear that they could inadvertently kill those they loved most.
She has personally witnessed that stress break good doctors and she intends not just to be good, but to be one of the best.
Long ago, Anna decided love was a complication she could very much do without.
Now, as unknown sensations drown her rational mind, she is struggling to identify her emotions.
She tries to unpick the strands.
She recognises good old regular lust easily enough.
But there is also a sense of familiarity and a deep, deep feeling of longing she cannot explain.
Someone more practised in falling in love might spot the first signs of infatuation.
But Anna’s belief in her imperviousness to romance is so strong; she puts these emotions down to a psychological confusion – the inability to distinguish between fictional characters and their real alter egos.
Or the effect of a very charismatic man.
It does not matter which it is.
The fact is, she concludes, these feelings are not real.
“Hi,”
the stranger starts to introduce himself. “I’m—”
Anna doubts there is a woman in the Western world who would not recognise his face.
“I know who you are,”
she interrupts him.
“Even with the …”
She drags one finger around her own chin.
“In fact, I doubt you would be incognito anywhere.”
“I don’t think I’m that famous,”
he scoffs.
But his eyes twinkle and, for a moment, Anna recognises that familiar spark of interest she has seen in so many male gazes.
Then it is gone.
Like he has turned it off.
She breathes a sigh.
Given who he is and who she is, any interest on his side would be extraordinarily troublesome.
While it is a relief, it is also, strangely, a disappointment.
She tells herself her pride should not be wounded.
This man has access to some of the most beautiful women in the world.
In London, Anna might score a ten but in Los Angeles, a lodestone for every aspiring actress drawn by the lure of Hollywood, maybe she only rates an eight.
She reiterates to herself, It is a good thing .
They will be bunkmates for the entire journey.
It would be better if they could get along without any awkwardness.
And her fan-girling over him will be awkward enough.
“I’m Anna,”
she offers.
Normally, at this point, she would put in her earphones, pull out her Kindle, and ignore her seat-mate.
Apart from the cordial necessities of passing over food and drink and any adjustments to facilitate his trips to the facilities, they could happily co-exist in mutual silence.
But the new feelings coursing through her want to keep his attention.
She lets them have a few moments; she can always cut them off later.
“You were cutting it fine,”
she remarks, as a video runs through the safety demo, entirely ignored by the seasoned business travellers.
She is pleased to hear her voice sounds natural.
“You almost missed the flight,”
she continues.
As if to emphasise her point, the plane starts moving slowly backwards.
Another of those heart-fluttery grins and a slight shrug.
“They bring me on at the last minute.
They don’t want the disruption of my hanging around the gate any more than I do.”
Anna waits for the whine of the flaps raising and lowering and the roar of the engine check to subside.
“That bad, huh? All those hordes of women wanting selfies with you?”
“Men too,”
he says as he steps around her and slides into his seat.
Conveniently, the screen between the two seats has been left down for take-off.
She can see him quite clearly as he fastens his safety belt.
See his deltoids bulge and relax as he moves.
See the width of his shoulders under the lightweight beige sweater.
It looks soft.
Cashmere, perhaps? Strokable, definitely.
She clears her throat.
He’s not interested in her.
And she cannot be interested in him.
Those are the facts.
She can be friendly without it being misconstrued.
So be friendly.
“How come you’re slumming it in Business?”
she asks as the plane starts moving again, bumping gently along on the way to the runway.
Occupied by checking his phone, he barely looks up as he says, “I booked the flight at short notice.
It was all they had left.
First Class was full.”
“Tragedy.”
Anna’s words are delivered deadpan.
He can take them how he will, but she intends them to be slightly mocking.
There is only so much fawning she is equipped to do.
His head comes up and his eyes flick to her face.
“Not really.
I would have missed out on having such a charming companion for the journey.”
The sugary words are accompanied by a genuine smile and Anna can’t help feeling even further beguiled.
And surprised.
He is kinder to her than she would have been to him if the tables were reversed.
But maybe that is the difference between being over six foot, well-muscled, and male.
Even though she is tall for a woman, she is far smaller than the vast majority of men.
And all women are of aware of the risk of physical harm from rejected men.
It is safer not to give them the slightest encouragement in the first place.
“Why not take a private jet?”
Anna is genuinely curious.
“Doesn’t every star and influencer have one of those these days?”
He raises his hand to scratch at the side of his head.
“I always fly commercial if I can.
It’s far safer.
Sometimes it can’t be helped and I have to take a private jet or a helicopter because of time constraints.
But in general, I use the major airlines.”
He shrugs, like it is obvious.
“Unless it’s some dodgy carrier in some backwater.
But they don’t tend to operate out of Heathrow.”
The engines pick up, the plane accelerates, and passengers sit back in their seats.
Anna laughs.
“Lucky Air flying out of Good Hope Airport?”
she says.
“I might have been on one or two of those flights.
It takes the combined prayers of all the passengers to make it off the ground and a fervent hymn before we land.”
One small part of her notes the surge as the plane’s wheels lift off the tarmac, but she is enjoying her companion’s attention too much to spare much thought for what is normally her favourite moment of a flight.
His eyes are fixed on her.
He’s frowning and looking at her like she might be nuts.
“Why on earth would you ever get on a plane like that?”
“My old boss would do a fortnight a year for Operation Smile.
He took me along the last couple of times.
The whole point is to get to places with little healthcare, so the transport can be a quite basic.”
Comprehension dawns.
His eyes crinkle, and Anna reflects that he really is very handsome.
“Operation Smile?”
he says.
“I think I’ve heard of them.
Aren’t they the charity that fixes cleft palates?”
“That’s them.”
She nods for extra emphasis.
“Are you a surgeon?”
His head tilts as he considers her, reassessing in the light of new information.
“Anaesthetist,”
she corrects.
“What Americans call an anaesthesiologist,”
she adds.
She has been taken for a nurse before in the US.
While it wouldn’t usually bother her with strangers, she still has a perverse desire to amuse and impress this man.
Although he was born British, he has been Stateside for a few years.
It works.
He is clearly impressed. “Wow,”
he says.
“Difficult job.
You work for the NHS?”
The dull jolt of the wheels retracting accompanies her reply, “Yes.
I’m based in one of the London hospitals.”
“Ah.
Long hours? High stress?”
He nods as if in understanding as he asks each question.
“And low pay.
You’ve got it.”
And then, as if she needs to defend her presence in Business Class, she adds, “I got upgraded.”
“I never even considered a career in medicine,”
he says, graciously ignoring her reference to a disparity in income – a truly middle-class British trait.
“I’m not great with gore.”
“Well, I think no one can argue with your decision.”
Anna pauses to swallow, adjusting the pressure in her ears.
“You are much better suited to being the Sexiest Man Alive.”
“Ah, that.”
He looks slightly embarrassed, although Anna cannot understand why.
She isn’t self-conscious about being beautiful.
And most men she knows are far too fond of their own wonderfulness, even when their supposed magnificence is definitely over-stated.
At that moment, a flight attendant arrives.
Thrusting her ample bosom forward, she leans around Anna to have a whispered confab with the Sexiest Man Alive.
And Anna recollects herself.
This man is off-limits.
He must also be sick of women flirting with him.
She reaches for her Kindle.
Time to ignore him for the rest of the flight.
If she can.
When the attendant leaves, Anna signals her disinterest by leaning forwards and pulling up the divider between their two seats.
Or she tries to.
It doesn’t budge.
Rather than make a fool of herself by pushing harder, she gives up with a shrug.
But he’s seen her struggle and steps in.
She sees his muscles bulge as he tries to force it, but eventually he stops, probably fearful he will break it.
He gives a wry grin, a lift and drop of an eyebrow, and sits back.
Too bad.
Now she will just have to stare at his beautiful face all the way across the Atlantic.
A little fillip in her belly gives her pause.
She reminds herself: she is not interested in this man.
She is distracted by the cabin crew moving around, bringing pre-ordered drinks.
She glances up at her bunkmate as he accepts a coffee.
She can smell it from her seat.
She raises her glass of sparkling water, tipping it slightly in his direction and says, “Santé!”
He smiles.
Another little ectopic heartbeat.
“Your health.”
He inclines his head in her direction.
“Not drinking?” he asks.
“I could do with a good sleep,”
she replies. “You?”
“I’m in training,”
he answers.
Anna has heard the same words from enough of the fitness nuts she works with to venture any further, for fear of being treated to a list of personal bests and health goals.
But he continues, “I normally try to limit my caffeine intake too, but I’ve got some work I need to get through.”
He lifts a wad of paper, bulldog clipped at the corner, before dropping it back to his lap.
Anna doesn’t return the gesture.
She feels no need to compete.
She works hard enough.
This flight will be her first opportunity to relax properly all week.
No patient notes to review, nor operations to plan for.
She scheduled it that way, especially as she had been expecting the rigours of Economy Class.
“Unlucky you,”
she says in a wry tone, leaning back in her seat and stretching her legs out fully.
“I endure.”
The dry humour is a surprise.
Her eyes flick back to him and the innocuous look on his face.
She smothers her smile.
It will not do to appear too amused.
“I’ll let you get on with it.”
She drops her eyes back to her Kindle and schools herself not to look up.
The story is fast-paced.
It should be engaging enough, but Anna has to work to keep her eyes on the page.
It’s almost a relief when the flight attendants reappear, spreading a white cloth on the fold-down table and placing a tray on top.
The soup looks good, a pile of croutons stacked in the middle.
It smells tasty too.
She hazards a glance at her bunkmate.
“Snap,” she says.
“It’s always a safe choice,”
he says in the voice of a seasoned traveller, and she wonders how many times he has done this journey.
She watches as he breaks off a corner of his roll and dips it into the soup.
She turns her eyes away as he lifts it to his mouth.
It seems too intimate to watch him eat.
Like a stalker.
But she hears his words.
“It’s good.”
She takes a mouthful of her own.
It is surprisingly good.
Especially for airline food, pre-prepared in a factory, no matter what the tablecloth and service might suggest.
She keeps her eyes down as she eats, more to avoid spilling the lurid orange fluid on herself than appearing overly attentive.
She tells herself it is more because she doesn’t want to endure a long flight, the transit to the hotel and checking in all in stained clothing rather than the humiliation of exhibiting poor table manners in front of the Sexiest Man Alive.
She doesn’t lift her head until she has finished her soup.
She relaxes a little as she turns her attention to the side salad, but her seat mate is concentrating on his paperwork.
Maybe she was doing too good a job of seeming uninterested.
The empty bowls are whipped away and replaced with an oval dish of roast chicken, mash, and vegetables.
Again, they have chosen the same option and Anna looks up to find him looking back with a twinkle in his eye and a twist to his lips.
Theoretically, the odds are nine to one against until you take into account that probably everyone in the cabin is likely to choose the meat option.
Still, it is a tiny, little bond, and it gives Anna a warm, fuzzy feeling.
It also opens up a conversation when her seat mate offers his opinion on his first forkful.
“It’s a little dry.”
Anna wrinkles her nose.
“I’m not a big fan of chicken breast.
Give me a drumstick any day.”
Her meal choices had been driven by “most filling”
and a wish to avoid yet more pasta after her meal in the airport lounge.
But she was used to food from hospital cafés.
This was a feast in comparison.
“Me too,”
he says.
“And I don’t understand the love of turkey either.”
Anna’s eyes widen.
“I thought I was the only one! My family has turkey every Christmas.”
“Mine too.
And living in America, I get double helpings.
Thanksgiving, too.”
They swap food-related comments until dessert arrives.
He declines his.
Anna is in awe of his self-discipline.
“My personal trainer would never forgive me …”
He gives a rueful shrug.
“I’d have eaten yours for you.
Dessert is the reward for eating the main meal, isn’t it?” she says
“I can call them back.
Tell them I changed my mind,”
he offers.
“Oh, no.
Thank you.”
She hadn’t expected his gallantry.
Truth to tell, she is feeling uncomfortably full even as she squeezes in another mouthful of chocolate mousse.
She puts the spoon down half-way through and hopes he doesn’t notice.
Her playful comment now seems like a boast.
But she need not worry.
As soon as he takes possession of another coffee, he turns his attention back to his paperwork.
Anna is relieved.
Being under his spotlight is making her behave atypically.
She is normally smoother, cooler.
She feels odd.
Like she has disappointed someone dear to her.
Perhaps she should keep her mouth shut, read her eBook, and get to the end of the flight without any more gaffes.