She saw him too, and hoped to hell the dishevelled, drunk-looking slob in the crumpled tan suit wasn’t heading for her row, then focused back on her crime novel. She smelled the fumes of alcohol before she heard his voice.
‘S’cuse me, you’re in my seat!’
She held up her ticket stub, barely glancing at him. ‘14A,’ she said, and turned back to her novel.
He squinted at his own ticket. ‘Mea culpa!’ he said. ‘I’m 14B. Next to you!’
He tugged open the overhead locker, and saw the large pink carrier bag. ‘Is that yours?’ he asked her.
She nodded, barely looking up from her book.
‘I’ll be careful not to crush it.’ He lifted it out, hefted his bag in first, then held up the large, almost weightless carrier. On the outside was printed Agent Provocateur.
‘Sexy underwear, is it?’ he said, squeezing his bulky frame into the seat beside her. She smelled fragrant. He reeked of booze and stale smoke.
‘You could sit in the aisle seat — it would give us more space,’ she said.
‘Nah, this is cosier!’ He gave her a wink. ‘Good book?’
Yes, it’s about a drunken dickhead on a plane, she nearly said. Instead she smiled pleasantly and said, ‘I’ll tell you when I’ve finished it.’
‘I’m Don,’ he said. ‘Been in Manchester at a business fair — I flog aircraft components. But don’t worry, none on this plane are mine — so we won’t crash, ha, ha!’
‘Good.’ She pulled her book closer to her face.
He pointed upwards. ‘That sexy underwear — going to wear it for your boyfriend, are you?’
He drank three Bloody Marys on the short flight — or four including the one he spilt down the front of his jacket. As the plane began its descent, he whispered, ‘You haven’t told me your name.’
‘Roxanna,’ she said, as politely as she could, and began rereading the same page yet again, waiting for his next bloody interruption.
‘Posh,’ he said. ‘I like it! Tell you what, Roxanna,’ he lowered his voice. ‘Why don’t you and I meet sometime in London — you know? A couple of drinks, a nice little dinner?’
She looked down at his wedding ring, and said pointedly, ‘Would your wife be joining us?’
‘Nah, that’s over. Well, it’s on the rocks. She doesn’t understand me, you see.’
After the engines had been switched off, he stood up unsteadily and lifted her carrier bag and her small case down for her, then slipped her his business card. ‘I’d like to see you again,’ he said. ‘I’d like to see you wearing what’s in that bag — know what I mean? We could have a bit of fun.’
‘Oh, I will have fun, trust me.’
He held back the queue of passengers so she could go in front of him, but she insisted he went first. ‘Hope to see you sometime soon,’ he slurred.
Not if I see you first, she thought.
The kids were asleep, and Susie had prepared a candlelit dinner and opened a bottle of wine to welcome him home, as she always did. He held her in his arms and kissed her tenderly.
‘So, tell me about the trip? How was the fair?’ she asked over the avocado and prawns. ‘Tell me about the hotel — was it nice? And why did you have to stay on an extra couple of days?’ she quizzed as he carved into his steak.
After draining the bottle, he staggered upstairs, and threw his clothes on the floor as usual. Susie picked up his jacket, studying the tomato juice stain. ‘I’ll take that to the cleaner’s first thing,’ she said.
‘Yrrrrr,’ he groaned, almost asleep already.
As she began checking the pockets, she pulled out a folded square of paper from the right-hand one and opened it out. It was a receipt for Fifi briefs and a Fifi bra in black silk from Agent Provocateur.
On the back was written: Don, thanks for your wonderful generosity on this trip, as ever. And for making me a member of the mile high club on the flight back! I never knew an airplane toilet could be such fun! Roxy xxxxxxxxxxxx
The Knock
‘Who was that at the door?’
‘Some undertakers with a hearse.’
‘No one’s dead.’
‘They said they can wait.’
Dream Holiday
This was inspired by the true story that gave me the idea for my novel Dreamer
One of the things Annie liked best about going on holiday was deciding what she was going to wear in the evenings. She’d always had a passion for designer shoes, and of course, in her stylish opinion, if you bought new shoes, then a matching handbag was a must. Much to her husband’s dismay she regularly maxed her cards out on new outfits; she argued that it was her money, and he had to agree. And, to be fair, Nigel told her he was always extremely proud of how lovely she looked. Once he’d admitted to her, with that wry smile of his, that he got a secret kick out of seeing the envy on other men’s faces when they looked at her.
She was particularly excited about this holiday because it was the first time that the two of them were going away alone, without the kids. Thank you, Aged Ps, as Nigel called his mum and dad-in-law! They weren’t actually that elderly at all, and were relishing taking care of Chloe, who was four, and Zak, who was going through his terrible twos. Zak had turned from an angelic baby into, at times, a demon out of a horror movie, with frequent tantrums, often involving hurling his food around the room. Although she would miss the children, the thought of having a week free of Zak was deeply enticing.
At least he liked attending the day nursery, and she was grateful for the respite that it gave her. She was able to continue her business as a hairdresser from home for three days a week without constant interruptions from him and it enabled her to afford to pay for her luxuries herself.
They were going to Montreux, a beautiful lakeside town on a sheltered bay, with fairy-tale views across the placid water of Switzerland’s Lake Geneva — or Lac Léman, its Swiss name that Nigel liked to call it by — to the Alps. The hotel, a magnificent building in grand Belle Époque style, had once been a palace, and all the guests dressed for evening cocktails on the terrace. Dinner, in the majestic dining room with its starched linen and fine-crystal glasses, where the waiters wore black tailcoats and white gloves, was a magical experience.
It was there, after a particularly fine dinner, that Nigel had proposed to her. It had taken him two years to get round to it, although, he had confessed to her shyly, he knew he wanted to marry her the moment he had first set eyes on her.
Nigel was an analyst for a stockbroking firm in the City, and was incapable of acting spontaneously. Analyst stood for anal, she sometimes chided him. He scrutinized everything, always thought through every single detail with the greatest care. Sometimes that drove her to distraction. He could spend hours online, poring over restaurant menus and wine lists, before deciding on where they would go to eat. He had already planned every minute of their holiday. And probably every second.
Their recent purchase of a new car had been a nightmare odyssey through websites and dealerships, weighing up the safety features for their precious children, all elaborately detailed by Nigel on a spreadsheet. They’d settled on a big Volvo off-roader, which ticked the most boxes, but then they had argued about the colour. Nigel wanted white, and Annie was dismayed. She told him that according to an article in a woman’s magazine, white was the colour people chose when they couldn’t decide on a colour! She wanted black or silver, or even navy blue.
‘But, darling,’ he had insisted, showing her a computer printout. ‘Read this. Yellow and white are the safest colours statistically. You are least likely to be involved in “a passive accident” in a yellow or white car. But I don’t think we want yellow, do we?’