40
The glamour of the limousine and the suite had evaporated in less than twenty-four hours. Now we were crammed into three economy seats, with the constant drone of the engine and the faint smell of tuna sandwich wafting from the passenger behind us.
Tess sat in the middle, legs crossed, staring straight ahead like a queen in exile. I had the window seat, forehead pressed to the glass, while Bernie occupied the aisle: head lolling, mouth half open, and a hotel scarf—probably stolen—draped over him like a blanket.
“Couldn’t we have flown back on the jet?” I asked.
“Only figurines stay on pedestals,” Tess said. “Muses… vanish. And besides, I don’t like the idea of being chauffeured around in his jet, as if I somehow depended on him. I want him to see that I’m mysterious, unpredictable, independent.”
“And now?” I mumbled, my voice thick with exhaustion.
“Now we wait again. Seduction is a game of waiting, if you haven’t figured that out yet…”
Bernie let out a grunt and dropped an empty gin mini-bottle, which rolled down the aisle until it stopped at the flight attendant’s feet.
Unfazed, Tess went on: “The one who wins is the one willing to lose everything… the one less involved… the one who stays silent the longest…”
“And the one who snores loudest?” I whispered, glancing at Bernie as he launched into a full nasal symphony in three movements.
Tess allowed herself the faintest smile. “He already won from the start.”