“We have to survive this flight first.”
I took hold of her hand in mine and squeezed it tightly. “We’ll be fine. You want the statistics?”
She shook her head. “No. I looked them up already.”
“Then you know we’ll be fine. In nine hours we’ll be in Harare.”
She tried to smile and I took that.
The last couple of days had seen us in meetings about the production, some set scenes that would be almost staged, but also the times when we’d be properly working which is what we were out there to do, that and raise awareness of the animals and conservation projects that were going on. The presenter, Jaime Lewis, was someone I’d already met a couple of times, one of London’s golden girls. I was semi-sure she’d slept with Seph and I was pretty sure she knew I knew that.
“You’re really not bothered about flying, are you?” Wren’s words were quiet, as if she could hardly believe them.
“No. If my time’s up, it’s up.”
She shook her head, clutching my hand. The ice between us had thawed in Dubai while we’d hammered out the finer details of the first ten days. We were on the same page, line even, when it came to actually working out there. She’d done her research and was keen to visit a small sanctuary in the Gonarezhou National Park that specialised in big cats, including the king cheetah. It would be a rough trip as there would be nowhere to get supplies once we were there, but the producers were keen on the idea, so it looked as if Wren, as usual, would get her way.
“You’re not right in the head, Callum Callaghan.” Her head rested on my shoulder and for a moment I fell back eleven years when this touch between us had been normal. Until it wasn’t.
Jaime caught my eye from across the aisle of the plane and raised her eyebrows, smirking. I knew the producers would like nothing more than some on-set romance. I shook my head.
“What’s up?” Wren still had a death grip on my hand.
“Jaime’s hoping we’ll help raise the media interest.” I glanced at our hands.
“Fuck them.”
That was Wren. That and the million other facets to her personality.
“Why don’t we get a bottle of champagne?” I wasn’t massively keen on the stuff, but it felt like we should be celebrating, although I didn’t know what. The morning just had that feel to it.
“If we are alive in the next ten minutes, I think that’ll be a good idea.” She had pressed her forehead into my shoulder and I knew without looking that she had her eyes squeezed tightly shut. I may be on her list of non-favourite people, but that was irrelevant when she was on a plane.
I chuckled.
“How can you laugh when we’re about to die?”
I laughed again. “We’re not about to die.”
“You don’t know that.”
I felt dampness against my arm. She was crying. In the years we were friends, I’d only ever seen Wren cry once, and that was when she and Jonah broke up. I twisted between us and moved up the arm that separated our two seats, then pulled her into my chest.
“It’s a nine-hour flight, Callum. Nine hours spent in a tin can with wings that should only belong on a bird or a bat. And I can’t get out.”
Claustrophobia.
Wren had OCD. When we first found out, we teased her mercilessly. Checking she’d locked the door four times, checking each plug was off four times, counting to four before opening an important piece of mail or results from an exam. I’d caught her a couple of times having very private meltdowns or scrubbing the living daylights out of something and she’d died a little with embarrassment. That was when I stopped teasing her, told the others not to.
When she was with Jonah, she was better. She wanted to be for him and he gave her a place of safety which meant that the compulsions she had dwindled even if they never stopped. She started struggling with small spaces – again – when we were locked in an examination room one Friday afternoon. It was something she’d had counselling for, but would never go away.
“If there is a problem with the plane – which there won’t be – we’ll have a crash landing and we’ll be able to get out.” Her body was tense, too tense. I wondered why the fuck she hadn’t been prescribed something to help with the anxiety of flying.
“You’re lying. It’ll explode and we’ll be blown up.”
I decided that not responding and just holding was the safest option. If the pattern on the flight out to Dubai was repeated then as soon as we were flying at the right altitude, she would relax and hopefully not ignore me for six hours.
We hadn’t talked about what happened years ago since that first night. We’d been too busy and other than a couple of awkward moments in the elevator, we hadn’t been on our own. I inhaled and caught the scent of her hair, clean and soft, like I remembered.
