My dick sat up. He hadn’t forgotten.
“Thank you.” She sat down, having not even cast a glance my way.
If this was how it was going to be for the next four months, I may as well quit now.
“How are you?” I broke the silence between us.
She didn’t turn her head. “Very well. How are you?”
Civil. Cool. No charm being wasted on me.
“Good.” I didn’t know what else to say. There were more pleasantries, the things Marie had taught us to say when she was trying to mould us into something that resembled civilised human children rather than ones who had been brought up by wolves, but they would be wasted.
We both faced forwards. Looked at the screens that were showing what in-flight entertainment would be available. No need to look at each other.
Fuck knows how we’d get through the next few months. We had to be on camera together, discuss animals, probably operate together.
I should’ve said no.
I should’ve said a lot of things.
Instead of trying to talk, I pulled out the itinerary sent to us by Gemma, the production manager. It was already embedded in my memory – I knew how long we were meant to be in each area for and what the purpose was. I knew how long it would be before I landed on London soil again.
The flight we were on would take just over six hours to get to Dubai where we had a three-night stay, before we were back on a plane for a nine-hour flight to Harare, the Zimbabwean capital. We’d spend a night there before heading out to the first of three national parks where we were scheduled to help out with various groups, some general inoculations, a training stint in one place for volunteers in animal first aid and then work with baboons on a project that was linked with a programme at London Zoo. Then we were to fly to Marrakesh to assist with a charity helping the donkeys that were still used to work there.
I loved Africa. I loved the continent, the people, the sense of urgency mixed with the noise and song. I’d disappeared here for three months, four years ago, cutting myself off from anything to do with my family and London and work, volunteering at different reserves or even on humanitarian projects. It had been the first time I’d been grateful for my father’s money and the last time I’d cursed him.
“Have you seen the hotel we’re staying at?”
Wren’s words surprised me. I turned to look at her and remembered not to touch.
“This must be costing them a fortune.”
“Probably why they’ve had to drop the budget for us rather than getting David Attenborough involved.” Although they had: he was an advisor.
“They wanted vets.” She looked at the screen again.
I saw how she clutched onto the arms of her seat and remembered that she’d once told me that she was an anxious flyer. Ten years of working across the planet hadn’t cured her.
“They wanted us.”
“You. They wanted you. Mr Instagram and social media star.” There wasn’t humour in her words. “I’m the token female.”
“You’re the brains. And the eye-candy for the men.” I braced myself for how she would take the compliment, but the plane started to lift into the air, the force pushing us back into our seats.
She made an odd noise and I saw colour drain from her face as I glanced over. Aviophobia. Fear of flying.
“You okay?” I figured it was safe to ask the words.
She shook her head.
“Wren? Hold my hand. Nothing’s going to happen, I promise.” I hoped to fuck I was right.
She grabbed on to my hand, the first physical contact I’d had with her since we were twenty-two and I was even more stupid than I was now. “Sorry. It’s just take-offs and landings.”
“Just use my hand as a stress ball. I’ll get the feeling back before I need to operate, I’m sure.”
She scowled.
