Page 95 of Queen of Nothing

On the smaller jet, I could lean to the side and reach out my arm, and touch the next chair. But not on this one.

The bar is metres away.

So I can’t just reach out and snatch a drink—not without getting up and being noticed.

The need to be invisible is too strong.

I loosen a weighted breath and chance a look at the spacious lounge.

Father drops onto the chaise-end of the couch, and lets his spine sink into the cushions.

Exhausted, he shuts his eyes and brings his hand to his face. He pinches the bridge of his nose.

Mr Younge sits on the couch opposite, talking with the redheaded stranger, who I think is also a right-hand man. Oliver’s maybe, since James seems to be working for Dray.

James might be working for Dray, but he tucks himself away on the distant corner of the couch, far from the others, and he stays out of that—

Oliver and Dray haven’t taken their seats yet.

In the middle of the lounge, Oliver’s face is stone, his eyes are daggers, and whatever hushed words he delivers to Dray don’t seem at all friendly.

But Dray is unaffected.

His face is unchanging before he says something I can’t hear, then draws away from my brother.

Dray comes down the lounge—right for my little area.

I sit up a bit straighter, a bit stiffer.

Oliver just shakes his head, then drops onto the couch. He falls onto his back, arm draping over his eyes, and that’s it.

Like Father, he just shuts down.

Dray passes me by.

Without even a glance down at me, he pushes through the door and disappears into the back of the plane.

Oliver said the bathroom is through there, but I crane my neck and peer into the gap before the door shuts, and I saw a few other doors.

So maybe another lounge is back there. Or a couple of bedrooms. Or more than one bathroom.

I need a print-out of the floorplan for this plane.

There’s already so much on this level, what could possibly be up the staircase?

I sink deeper into the creamy leather seat. It welcomes me, an embrace.

My lashes shut on the luxury.

Blind, I kick off my flat sneakers, then draw my legs up onto the seat.

The commotion around the jet is a distant, muffled noise. Attendants march up and down the aisle, tending to their last-minute preparations for take-off.

My eyes stay shut.

The jet starts its smooth drive to the runway.

My head falls back as we start to speed up the runway—then the nose tilts upwards.