“Give me your hand.”
“I’d rather not. It’s kind of clammy.”
Mia put her hand on Paul’s wrist.
“What did you make for the dinner I missed?”
“Hmph. I guess you’ll never know.”
“You’re not even going to ask why I’m here?”
“Nope. I will take some satisfaction from the fact that your ticket must have cost you the moon. Is that normal, that noise?”
“It’s the engines.”
“And so it’s normal they’re making so much noise?”
“If we intend to take off, then yes.”
“Okay. So are they makingenoughnoise?”
“They’re making exactly as much noise as they’re supposed to.”
“What’s that constantboom-boom-boomI’m hearing?”
“That . . . would be your heart.”
The airplane soared into the air. Shortly after takeoff, it hit a patch of turbulence. Paul gritted his teeth. Sweat streamed down his forehead.
“Relax. There’s no reason to be afraid,” Mia soothed him.
“Fear doesn’t need a reason,” Paul replied.
He regretted not having tried the little gift that Cristoneli had offered him on the way to the airport: a homemade concoction that would, according to the editor, relieve him of all worries for several hours. Paul, who was such a hypochondriac that he was reluctant to take aspirin for headaches out of fear it would cause a brain hemorrhage, had decided not to give himself another reason to be anxious.
The plane reached cruising altitude and the cabin crew began moving through the aisles.
“Okay, now the flight attendants are up—that’s a good sign. If they’re moving around, everything must be fine, don’t you think?”
“Everything has been fine since takeoff and everything will be fine until we land. But Paul? If you keep gripping the armrest that tightly for the next eleven hours, we might have to use pliers to pry you free.”
Paul looked down at his white-knuckle grip and carefully relaxed his fingers.
A stewardess arrived with the drink cart. To Mia’s surprise, Paul asked only for a glass of water.
“I’ve heard that alcohol and high altitude don’t mix.”
Mia went for a double shot of gin.
“Maybe there’s an exception for the English,” Paul remarked, watching her down her glass.
Mia closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Paul observed her in silence.
“I thought we had agreed not to talk,” she said, eyes still closed.
Paul began reading his magazine again. “I’ve been working quite a bit for the last couple of nights. My opera singer has been through some exciting adventures. Her ex resurfaced, for one thing. And naturally enough, she dove right back in. I have to figure out—does that count or does it not count?” he asked, casually turning the page. “Not that I need to know—none of my business. I just thought I’d ask. In any event, it seems that’s done now, so let’s talk about something else.”
“What in the world could’ve inspired that plot twist?”
