by Mandy Baggot
‘It’s too late notice. We don’t know when Shelley is going to be back. It’s a no.’
And then Megan turned her back on her, pretending to look through an A4 file that Becky knew was only full of food magazines. Her sister had always been good at trying to shut off conversations she found uncomfortable. Well, if Becky was going to be strong enough to get on a plane on her own and stay in a villa in Greece on her own, then she had to be able to make her sister listen and bag this time off. What was the alternative? She gave in her notice? Got fired? Lost her job? Megan wouldn’t be that stupid, would she? Plus, Becky hadn’t ever had any time off apart from the odd week here and there and her trips to Blackpool…
‘Shelley’s going to be back tomorrow,’ Becky reminded her. ‘I’m not going until next week. It’s only for two weeks. I’ll be back in plenty of time before you go away and the army contract begins.’ Because even though it was late notice, her spur-of-the-moment decision still wouldn’t impact too much on It’s A Wrap. Megan didn’t reply. She closed the magazine file and got down another one. This one Becky knew contained purchase invoices from 2018 – because it said so on the label.
‘Megan,’ Becky began again. ‘I’m going. No matter what you say.’ She put the holiday form on her sister’s desk.
‘You can’t!’ Megan said, whipping around and facing her finally. ‘You can’t go unless I sign that form. Because if I don’t sign that form, and you go on holiday, then you’re… in breach of your employment contract.’
‘Megan!’ Becky gasped. ‘I’ve never asked for anything like this before.’
‘Well,’ Megan said, unable to meet Becky’s eyes, her jaw rigid, ‘if I start making allowances for you then I will have to make allowances for everyone else and that isn’t the way to run a modern-day business.’
‘Megan,’ Becky said, trying to maintain calm, ‘you do make allowances for everyone else. You let Hazel go at late notice to her country music week last year. And Shelley’s always forgetting when the triplets school events are and dropping those in at the last minute.’
‘Oh, so, now you’re saying I’ve not been running this business right for a while?’
Becky shook her head. ‘No, I was just saying—’
‘I thought we’d had this conversation the other day, Becky,’ Megan said. ‘About how I run the business and you just make the sandwiches.’
Just make the sandwiches. There it was again. Proof that everything Becky put into the business was unappreciated. It was the reason Becky knew, this time she had to put her foot down.
‘I’m going away,’ Becky said firmly. ‘Next Wednesday. For two weeks. And I am going whether you sign that form or not.’ There had been nothing left to say.
Thinking about that disappointment with Megan, Becky made a grab for her book but missed.
‘Ooo,’ another man cooed, snatching the paperback from his friend. ‘Let’s read a bit.’ He began thumbing the pages. It was then Becky realised this group were all wearing matching clothes… like overgrown Scouts.
‘Thank you for picking it up for me. Can I have that back now?’ Becky asked the man now holding the novel.
‘Smutty, is it?’ he asked, running his tongue over his bottom lip and fixing eyes with dilated pupils on her.
Becky smiled, matching his gaze. She might be an inexperienced traveller, a woman on her own, but she wasn’t about to let a half-drunk guy get the upper hand before she’d reached the boarding gate. She had signed up for being bold, independent and unafraid. Plus she’d re-watched one of her favourite chick-flicks at the weekend, Bridesmaids, and she was ready to channel Annie Walker.
‘It’s deeply, slightly darkly, erotic,’ she answered, her expression set to serious. ‘It’s about a twenty-five-year-old woman caught at a crossroads in her life.’
‘Oh, really,’ the man answered, leaning in a little.
‘Yes,’ Becky continued. ‘She’s been waiting so long for a really big, big change. Because nothing so far in her life has come close to pushing any of her buttons.’ She sighed. ‘And that’s what she wants more than anything. All her buttons pushed, in all the right ways.’
‘Is that so?’
‘Yes,’ Becky carried on as the man leaned closer still. ‘So, it’s about one more-than-ready woman… a whole gang of gorgeous leading men…’
‘Are you hearing this, lads?’ the now-obvious-member of a stag party called. Becky hoped he wasn’t going to dribble over her book… or her. She could almost grab it again now.
She waited a beat, then looked up at him. ‘One long, long, unadulterated weekend…’ She shook out her hair and sighed, a hand at her chest. ‘With her TV… and Sky boxsets.’
She snatched the paperback out of his hands. ‘Thank you!’ Then turning her back on the group, she began hastily moving away, pushing her case in front of her. Her insides were wriggling like worms on the end of a fishing line. Where had that confidence come from? Was this because she had finally stood up to her sister? She should be congratulating herself. This was important. This little interaction with annoying passengers was a turning point en route to travelling outside of the country, not to mention outside of her comfort zone. She closed her eyes and exhaled… seconds before she caught her foot on one of the wheels of her case and crashed to the ground.
‘Are you OK?’
Becky didn’t want to look up. If this was one of the stag party, they were definitely going to get their fill of laughing at her expense. She got to her feet, pride dented but thankfully none of her bones. Whoever it was, she would act nonchalant. She could do nonchalant. It’s what she did with the prawn man when he had a so-called amazing special offer she’d have to tell Megan about.
‘I’m fine,’ she breathed, picking up her bag and swinging it over her shoulder. Now she took in the concerned individual.
Wow. Forget the actors from the TV boxsets she’d just been talking about, this man was definitely worth pressing the pause button for. Tall, blue suit that looked made-to-measure, a pale blue shirt underneath, olive skin, clean-shaven, thick, dark hair – shorter at the sides than on top, where it waved casually backwards in a way only those with Mediterranean heritage seemed to be able to achieve. He had the brightest blue-green eyes – unusual for a man with such dark colouring, Becky thought – distinct under heavy black-framed glasses that were sitting on his not-unattractive Roman nose. God, she was doing way too much looking and not enough getting on with finding somewhere to sit down before her gate was called. Oh no, it was her case she’d got her foot caught up with, wasn’t it? Or had she instead driven it into him? Her gaze went to his tan brogues looking for signs of scuffing. Thankfully, none.
‘Do you need to sit down?’ the stranger asked her. ‘It was quite a fall.’
From three inches of pleather espadrille. Cursed Blackpool bargains. She should have worn her trainers.
‘I’m fine,’ Becky said again. Then: ‘I didn’t roll into you, did I?’ Clarify, Becky! ‘I mean, did my case hit you?’
The man shook his head. ‘No.’
‘Oh, good,’ Becky answered. What else was there to say?
‘I saw you drop your bag and you did not notice but… this fell out too.’
He held something out to her. Oh God! It was Hazel’s book. The one she had gone on about! Hazel had mentioned it, Becky had ignored her, but then she’d found it when she was packing, tucked into the too-big travel bag. Why hadn’t she taken it out and left it behind? She reached out and took it, stuffing it down into the bag quickly.
‘How to Find the Love of Your Life or Die Trying,’ the man said.
Becky inwardly cringed and sent a silent message to the weather gods to send Hazel stormy seas once she set sail on her cruise. How embarrassing was this? The gorgeous man speaking the book title out loud – with a bit of a European accent thrown in – made Becky’s face flame faster than a child dropping their face into birthday candles.
‘It’s not mine,’ she said fast. Not fa
st enough. He was already smiling. A self-satisfied kind of smile that said, looking like he did, he had either already found the love of his life or could, quite possibly, walk into any life scenario and snap her (or him) up quicker than you could allegedly catch the Coronavirus.
‘Really,’ Becky said again. ‘It’s not mine. It belongs to…’
‘A friend,’ the man said, nodding.
‘Yes,’ Becky answered.
‘Have a safe flight,’ the man told her, turning away.
‘It really isn’t mine,’ Becky affirmed. Why was she affirming anything to a stranger? Why did she care? She might read the love guide once she had finished reading about lemon groves and romance on the beach. And why shouldn’t she? She was single. It might contain something of interest… It couldn’t only be about snagging a widower between backgammon and black forest gateaux. It might have vital chapters about finding a mate through an astrology app like Tara had…
She watched Mr Hotness navigate his way back to a table for two in the airport restaurant. Coffee. She definitely needed coffee, to stabilise her nerve and keep her awake after the early start. But she couldn’t now order one here. Not with Mr Judgemental analysing her holiday reading material. She’d find another place. One that also didn’t include stag parties.
Seven
Flight to Athens, Greece
Somehow, for some completely unknown reason, it had taken forty minutes to get from the start of the queue for the boarding gate to actually setting foot on the plane. Becky looked at her watch as she inched herself along the narrow aisle towards Seat 18D. Other passengers seemed to be making a real meal of getting their cabin bags into the overhead lockers. It was all elbows out and thick jackets being rolled into sausage-shapes. Giant bulging backpacks looking like they were holding an extra passenger inside, handbags stuffed with enough items to survive an apocalypse. Becky almost felt her one case and Hazel’s bag wasn’t enough. Her fellow fliers obviously packed for every eventuality and weather condition. Sun hats. Beanies. Sandals. Snow boots – yes, really. Capes, coats and one woman in Scooby Doo cosplay – Velma. And now they were already fifteen minutes past the time they were supposed to be taking off. That wasn’t good. She only had forty minutes between the flight landing in Athens and her next flight taking off for Corfu. She’d felt a little on edge about it when she’d booked it, but there had been no direct flights available unless she wanted to travel up to East Midlands. Forty minutes didn’t seem like enough time to get off a plane, go through security, get to another gate and get on another plane. Before she’d purchased online, she’d phoned customer services and been told that forty minutes was the minimum time they allowed for a transit such as this and it was absolutely fine. Despite the reassurance, Becky was still ready to trot a little if she had to. There was no way she was going to miss the connection and be stranded in Athens with no pre-booked hotel room in the height of summer. Plus, she had promised Ms O’Neill that she would be arriving tonight. She was a bit sad that they wouldn’t actually get to meet, but if Ms O’Neill had been at the property there would be no reason for her to need a housesitter, would there? Right now, Becky just needed to get to her seat, sit back, try to relax and spend the next four hours preparing a knockout menu for the care home party. If she still actually worked for It’s A Wrap. If Megan hadn’t sacked her for going on holiday without a signed holiday form…
The man in front of her finally slipped into his seat and her way was clear. Heaving her case up off the floor she carried it, Hazel’s bag bouncing off arm rests as she moved, up to Row 18. Once there, she found her aisle seat, and lifted her case up into the overhead locker before plumping down and taking a big breath. She was onboard. She was doing this. She was heading to Greece.
‘Excuse me.’
That voice. Becky turned her head and looked straight up into the face of the sexy specimen who had picked Hazel’s book up in departures. What was he doing on her plane? Why was karma crucifying her?
‘Yes?’ Becky asked.
‘It is you,’ the man said, looking almost as surprised as she was. ‘The girl with… your friend’s book.’
‘Can I help you?’ Becky replied. He had taken his jacket off, she noticed, and undone a couple of buttons on his shirt. Was that the beginnings of a tattoo she could see at the edge of his clavicle?
‘My seat,’ he replied. ‘It is there. By the window.’
No. No, this was not happening. What was next? Were the whole stag party who had taken the rise out of her other reading material going to conga down the aisle and take up residence in the rows ahead and behind?
‘This window?’ Becky asked pointlessly. Of course it was this window. That’s why he was standing next to her pointing at the seat two along from where she was sitting.
‘18F,’ he said, waving a boarding pass.
And now she had to stand up again. Pushing Hazel’s bag underneath the seat in front of her with her feet, Becky got up and shimmied out of her position, allowing Mr Handsome access to his seat. Except he didn’t immediately slide down into the row; instead he began the task of putting his things into the locker above them. Becky could do nothing but watch and wait. Up went his suit jacket, rolled into the obligatory sausage shape, next was a leather portfolio bag that looked expensive, then finally his small black case. Each lift up and in provided Becky with a view of the movement of those obliques, defined under the slim-fit shirt tucked into his trousers. What was wrong with her? The first attractive man she’d encountered past the Wiltshire border and she was gawping like she’d never seen one before. Granted, when you were wrist-deep in tuna and lime-pickle chutney – yes, that really worked as a flavour – there weren’t many attractive men to gawp at – make that any – but she shouldn’t need to turn into a raging desperado before she’d even left the country. What star sign might he be though? Tara said most people were compatible with an Aquarius.
‘Thank you,’ the man said, finally shutting the locker door and making his way into the space and towards his seat.
Becky let him sit down before she got herself back into position. The middle seat was still vacant. She would probably be up and out, making way for their other travelling companion soon. So much for thinking an aisle seat would be better. She checked her watch. Another five minutes had gone by. She hoped the pilot would be able to make up some time in the air.
‘So, you are heading to Athens,’ her companion said.
Becky looked across at him. He was taking off his leather shoes! Taking off his shoes! What was going on? You surely didn’t take off your shoes on an aircraft unless you needed to escape down the emergency slide! It was unhygienic. Never mind catching the Coronavirus! Who wanted to catch a verruca? Except hopefully he would leave his socks on…
‘I…’ Becky said. What had he asked her?
‘Athens,’ he repeated. ‘You are on the right plane I take it?’
‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘But I’m actually…’ She stopped herself from saying any more. Both Hazel and Shelley had shot her a parting warning about imparting information to strangers.
‘You’re going to meet a lot of people you might only want to share one conversation with,’ Hazel had said. ‘Don’t give them everything. Save that for the ones who deserve it.’
‘Have you watched “Don’t F**k with Cats”?’ That had been Shelley’s offering.
‘Have you been to Athens before?’ she asked. There was no better way of avoiding talking about yourself. Get someone else to do the talking.
‘Yes,’ he answered. ‘I visit practically every month.’
Or did he? Damn Hazel and Shelley. The beginnings of the first proper conversation she’d had and she was already questioning the truth of every single utterance.
‘Wow,’ Becky answered. ‘You must like it a lot.’
‘I do not always get to see the Acropolis,’ he continued. ‘Most of the time I am inside. It is for work.’
Or was it? And what kind of work did he do?
What did she care? As long as his travelling aim wasn’t to steal the identity of naïve single travellers…
‘But that has its benefits in the summer,’ he said. ‘Great air-conditioning.’
He liked it cold. If that didn’t smack of serial killer, she didn’t know what did.
‘Right,’ Becky said. She weaved her foot around the straps of Hazel’s bag and tried to pull it up onto her lap to save bending into the not-enough-space. It was time to get out her notebook and do something productive. Or look like she was doing something productive at least. Except the damn bag wouldn’t move.
‘How about you?’ Mr Handsome/Dexter asked.
‘Oh, I love the heat,’ Becky answered. ‘The hotter the better.’ This wasn’t quite true, so it ticked the vagueness box. She was more of a summer person than a winter one, but she preferred it mid-twenties rather than stifling thirties. Although she was hoping for great sunshine in Corfu to try out that private pool or the sea just steps away. She had a sudden thought. Did ‘steps away’ mean actual steps? How many steps? The photos she’d been sent hadn’t really been plentiful. There had been six. Master bedroom. Guest bedrooms times two. The main bathroom. The kitchen. And the pool and outside space. But it had all looked glorious. Who cared about the potential of steps? Steps might do her good. Despite having had no one to go out with lately she hadn’t focused her attention on her gym membership like she should have done. Instead, she had pledged her allegiance to rom-com films and a meat box delivered to her door.
‘Athens will be hot,’ the man answered her. ‘Really, really hot.’
Becky stopped trying to hook her foot over the bag straps and looked at her companion. His voice saying ‘hot’ was oddly hypnotic in that accented English. It shouldn’t be. He was a stranger who could be set to drug her drink the second her back was turned.
