“Of course not,” he replies. “The only thing I’m scared of is small talk. There doesn’t seem to be any escaping it, though.”
He looks pointedly at his phone again, and I turn away, tears stinging the back of my eyes.
I get that he’s obviously going through something, but does he have to be somean?
I grip the armrests tightly as the pilot’s voice comes over the intercom, telling us we’re about to ‘push back,’ and inviting us to watch the short security video on the overhead screens.
“I never bother watchin’ them things,” says Rita, opening her handbag and pulling out the vodka miniatures she bought in duty free. (They were out of tequila, apparently.) “It’s like my Fred used to say, “If the plane’s goin’ down, Rita, we’re all goin’ down with it. Ain’t no stoppin’ it. Ain’t no use puttin’ on them oxygen masks and what have you. No, you’re best just hoping it happens quick enough that you don’t know what hit you. Not like them poor folks what had to eat each other to survive. My Fred, he always said—”
“I don’t think this is helpful, somehow,” Alex interrupts, seeing me reaching frantically for the sick bag that’s poking out of the seat in front of me. “Air travel is perfectly safe. It’s the safest waytotravel, in fact. We’re not going to have to eat each other.”
“That’s a shame, that is,” grins Rita, giving him a wink. “Isn’t it Summer? I’d quite fancy a bite of Alexander here. Wouldn’t you?”
I’m saved the indignity of having to answer this by Alex himself, who suddenly lets out a yelp of pain.
“Ouch! What are you doing?”
I follow the direction of his gaze, all the way down to my own hand, which, completely without my knowledge, has reached out and grabbed onto the closest thing it could find: which just so happens to be Alex’s knee.
“Sorry,” I gasp, pulling it quickly away. But then the plane lurches backwards, and I watch helplessly as the hand darts forward again, the knuckles white with terror as they grab at him again.
I really need to get off this plane. And also to cut my own hand off before it can do anything else to embarrass me. This trip was supposed to be a second-chance. A do-over. But I already feel like I need a second chance at my second chance. A do-over on my do-over. I need to find a way to change my lifewithouthaving to face my fears; and ideally without having to face Mr. Alexander Fox, and his superiority complex either.
But it’s too late.
We’re on the move; the plane rumbling and bumping its way to the end of the runway, where the engines rev excitedly, as if it’s desperate to be on its way.
“‘Ere we go,” says Rita excitedly, as it starts to gather speed. “Tenerife, ‘ere we come!”
There’s a moment when everyone in the cabin seems to collectively hold their breath, then I feel the earth drop away from beneath us, and we’re up, sailing effortlessly — if slightly bumpily — through the clouds.
I’ve done it.
I’ve taken flight.
Well, okay, theplanehas taken flight. But I’monit. I didn’t run away. I didn’t try to get off. Well, nottoohard, anyway. Whatever happens now — and I really hope it won’t be that whole ‘cannibalism’ scenario that Rita’s put right at the front of my mind — I can at least say I got on a plane and faced my fear of flying.
I should probably also admit that I couldn’t have done it without the help of Alex.
“Can I have my hand back now?” he says sulkily.
“Oh. Yeah. Sorry.” I reluctantly let it go, and he reaches up to massage it with his other hand, wincing ostentatiously with what I’d bet good money is a completely exaggerated level of pain.
“Come on, I wasn’t holding itthathard,” I say guiltily.
“There are finger marks on it,” he points out, holding it up to show me.
“Sorry.” I feel my cheeks turn red. “And, well, thanks. For making me get on. I don’t think I’d have been able to do it if you hadn’t been there.”
As apologies go, it’s not a great one, but Alex shrugs it off anyway.
“You’re welcome,” he says, turning back to his phone, which he’s still fixated on, even though I saw him comply with the instruction to put it into flight mode a few minutes ago.
I guess he’s not going to be a very chatty seat mate, then. Fortunately — or unfortunately, as the case may be — I have Rita on my other side, who’s more than willing to make up for it.
“Come on then,” she says, opening one of her vodka bottles and spilling half of it down her front. “Tell us all about this Jamie, then.”
“Oh! That reminds me!” I say, reaching to unbuckle my seat belt. “The diary! I need to check off item 2 on my list!”
