‘I thought we were?—’
‘Well, you thought wrong,’ I say, shutting him down.
I try to ignore him as best I can. I attempt to distract myself with the in-flight entertainment. Flicking through endless thumbnails of movies I’ve already seen or have no desire to watch. When I finally settle on something, I feel his gaze.
‘What?’ I snap.
‘You’re really going to watch that?’ He nods at the screen.
‘What’s wrong with romcoms?’ I check – not that I’m all that interested in his opinion.
‘Well, from a storytelling point of view, they’re sort of boring,’ he replies. ‘Everyone knows how they’re going to end.’
‘But that’s the beauty of it,’ I tell him. ‘They uplift you, give you hope. By the end everything is perfect, everyone is happy. It’s a good message to take with you.’
‘I’d go for something with action – high stakes, explosions…’
‘Yes, just what we need when we’re on a plane, fab idea,’ I say sarcastically.
He starts lightly drumming his fingertips on the table in front of him, just to annoy me, I’ll bet. It’s sort of working. I just need to do my best to ignore him.
The cabin dims, some people try to sleep, others keep themselves to themselves quietly. But I can’t relax. I can’t ignore that he’s right next to me, and that I’m so annoyed with him. His elbow keeps brushing mine, or I feel him moving in his seat, or just… ugh, hearing him breathe. Why does he have to keep doing that?
At one point, as I tug my own blanket tighter, his hand accidentally catches mine. The contact lasts less than a second – but it’s enough to feel it. To feel like I’m connecting with him, like there’s still a little something between us. But it’s nothing magical, it’s just two hands knocking, exchanging energy, then separating again.
I think the thing that is rattling me the most is facing up to the fact that no matter how many times I remind myself that the flight is well on the way, that it will be over soon, it’s the realisation that when we land we’ll be sharing a boat together. I don’t care how big it is, it could be a cruise liner, it just feels like there’s no escaping him.
The first jolt of turbulence rattles me in more ways than one.
Lockie doesn’t even blink. He leans back, calm as ever, as if the plane shaking is to create a massage chair, just for him, whereas I can’t help but squeeze my blanket until my knuckles turn white.
‘Are you scared?’ he asks, his voice low so that only I can hear.
‘No,’ I lie.
Another jolt, harder this time. My hand shoots out before I can stop myself, clutching the armrest – and his hand, which happens to be there.
He glances down, then up at me. No smirk this time, no snide comment. Like he’s going to let me have this one.
I quickly drop his hand.
‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to do that,’ I insist.
‘Sure,’ he replies, turning back to the window.
Maybe I did, maybe I didn’t. Either way, I kind of wish I hadn’t let go.
9
I don’t know what I was expecting when it came to the boat we’ll be running the show from. Something modest, probably. Practical. I had a sort of fishing boat in my mind, with peeling paint and nets still dangling off the sides.
What I wasn’t expecting was this. A yacht – it might even be a superyacht, although not quite a mega-yacht. Let’s not get carried away.
It’s pristinely white and squeaky clean, multi-tiered, the kind of vessel you see billionaires hanging out on for a holiday. It’s honestly absurd and I kind of love it.
‘Now this is a production budget well spent,’ Simon says, clapping Lockie on the back as we board.
‘Is it?’ I ask, dragging my suitcase up the gangway. ‘Is it a good look, us living it up on a yacht, leaving the contestants on the island alone?’
