by Tom Rachman
"Addictive, isn't it," he says graciously.
"That's a terrible habit of mine. Sorry."
"Don't be nuts. Here. Please." He opens the book between them on the armrest. "Want me to explain what's happening?"
"No, no--it's fine, really. I should do my work."
"See, that's why they fired me," he jokes. "Everybody else is working while I'm reading damn Jane Austen!"
Fired him? That's not how he characterized it before.
"Well, you certainly have a good sense of humor about it."
"Easier when you've got a new job."
"You do? Oh, that's so good to hear."
"Thanks. Yeah, the day after I got canned I was talking to this Italian buddy of mine and he told me about this position. Guess I'm lucky."
She wonders how old Dave Belling is. Roughly her age? Older by a bit?
"Hey, look," he says, "it's lunch number one coming down the aisle."
"Lunch number one?"
"Yeah, we get two lunches on this flight because of the time difference."
"Oh, hurrah."
"Seriously."
They eat their plastic chicken and rubber carrots and a pink confection, and make sardonic remarks about it all, as people will when faced with grim airplane food that they nonetheless consume to the crumbs.
"So why are you headed to Atlanta?" she asks.
"Just wanted to see my folks before I start the new job."
"You're from the area, then?"
"From Georgia, yeah. A little town called Ocilla."
"Nice place?"
"It's all right. Couldn't live there again. Grew up there, and that's enough for a lifetime. And you? Where you from?"
"Rochester, New York, originally."
"So you're an 'originally,' too. That means there's been a whole bunch of stops after originally."
"Not that many. I went to college in Binghamton, did a year abroad in Milan, which is where I met my husband. Not currently my husband. My ex. Though he wasn't that then. I never know how to say that."
"Allow my copydesk expertise to intervene: your then-pre-husband, later-to-be-post-husband in his prior-to-ex-husband status."
She laughs. "Is that how you'd phrase it in the paper?"
"Now you see why they fired me."
She smiles. "So anyway, yeah, I got involved with my whatever-he-is in Milan. He's from there. It was my first really significant romance, and I was--" She pauses.
"You were what?"
"I don't know. Stupid. Twenty-three."
"You can't complain--you got three kids out of the bargain."
"That's true. That's what I tell myself."
"I don't have any," he says. "Wanted them. But my wife--my then wife--didn't. No matter what I said, she wasn't having it. But listen to this: we get divorced in, like, '96, and she meets some guy and they go and have four kids! Guess it wasn't that she didn't want kids. She didn't want them with me!"
Abbey doesn't respond.
"What?" he asks.
"No, nothing. Nothing. I was just thinking," she says. "You seem very strong about that. Very, like you don't have self-pity. I have a lot of admiration for that."
He smiles abashedly. "Not really."
"No, seriously."
He picks at his cuticle. "I'm sure you're the same about your divorce."
"You only say that because you haven't heard me mouthing off about my poor ex! Not that he's poor in any sense of the word. Kind of a rich jerk-off, actually. Excuse my language."
"Why's he a jerk-off?"
She twitches her head as if swooped by a bee. "Just is. I don't know. We had this passionate love affair--I thought. Now I suspect he just wanted to improve his English."
"Nah."
"I'm not entirely kidding. He's this terrible Anglophile. He insisted we give our kids these traditional British names, or names he thought were traditional."
"Like what?"
"Henry, Edith, and Hilda."
"That's like something from Victorian England."
She covers her face. "I know, I know. I'm so embarrassed. He forced them on me! I swear. I was young and dumb. Keep in mind that these names are also impossible for Italians to pronounce. So their own grandparents in Milan--really good people, I have to say--can't even say their own grandkids' names. It's ridiculous."
"So where's the ex-husband now?"
"London. He was so in love with it, he moved there. Supposedly to find a place big enough for all of us. I even gave in my resignation--I was an assistant in accounts back then, before I did my MBA. Then he sends me this letter about how he has 'nervous problems,' whatever that means. There was a slow, ugly end. Never told me directly about his girlfriend. He lives there now. In London. With her."
"Some proper English girl, I guess."
"Actually, to my great amusement she's from Naples."
"Well," Dave says, laughing, "if that ain't a kick in the pants."
She smiles at this funny expression. "I certainly thought so," she continues. "Ah well. How old are you, Dave, if you don't mind me asking?"
"Forty-five. You?"
"Forty. Just turned forty."
"Seriously?" he says. "You're younger than I thought."
"Oh gee, thanks a lot."
"No, no, I don't mean it that way. I mean you're young to have such an important job. And three kids and all that. Puts me to shame."
The conversation falters. She is facing him and can't inconspicuously turn away.
"Shall we read a bit?" he suggests, opening the book to where they were.
"That's nice of you, but you go ahead. I should do some work."
She glances at him now and then. They smile at each other and he waggles the book, saying, "Not tempted?"
After a stretch of work, she turns to make a joke. But he is asleep, the book flat on his chest. Jane Austen, she thinks, what guy reads Jane Austen? He's not gay, is he? Doesn't seem gay. She hasn't known many Southerners. That twang and aw-shucks about him--it's sort of exotic. Very natural.
What if he wakes and catches her scrutinizing him? So she studies him from the corner of her eye. He's not especially tall, though it's hard to tell seated. Sweatshirt, jeans, hiking shoes. A relaxed, outdoorsy look. His hand on the book is small, but angular and strong, fingernails bitten, cuticles mismanaged. More to him than meets the eye. His divorce obviously still hurts. He's private, though--not a guy to bleed his life over you.
He shifts in his sleep and his arm hops up onto the rest between them, touching her elbow. She holds still, decides to allow the contact, resumes breathing.
An hour later, he yawns and blinks to wakefulness. "Sorry about that."
"About what?" she whispers.
"Think I fell asleep for a minute," he replies softly. "Hey, how come we're whispering?"
"Maybe because the lights are off." She points toward the toilets. "Sorry, I need to go up there for a minute."
"Oh man," he says, unbuckling his seat belt and leaping to his feet. "Did I have you trapped in here?"
"Not at all. Not at all." She sucks in her tummy and squeezes out into the aisle, retrieves her handbag from the overhead bin, and heads for the bathroom. Safely inside, she studies herself, hardly flattered by the lighting. "I look fucking terrible." She takes the roll-on deodorant from her bag, stripes it across her underarm. She unpacks refreshing towelettes, wipes her face and hands, swabs on foundation to conceal her blotchiness, adds a trace of eyeliner, a stroke of lipstick. Or not. She kisses it off onto a paper towel, considers the scratched metal reflection one last time, plucks an eyelash from her cheek. She adjusts her underwire, which was pinching, glances down her shirt: a tattered black bra. She peeks down her trousers: blue granny panties. Nice combo: funeral lace on top and parachute material on bottom. Don't be stupid--who cares. One more refreshing towelette. Done.
She stops at their row. "Hey."
He jumps to his feet. "Hey there."
She inhales and slides back into place.
"You take a shower in there?"
"Why? Because I took so long?"
"Because you look, like, so awake and stuff. I don't know how you girls manage that. When I travel, I look like a pair of old boots."
"We ladies have our secrets," she declares with pride.
"Well," he responds enthusiastically, "I'm all for that."
Not gay, she thinks. "Listen, it's only plane travel," she says, touching his arm. "Nobody expects anyone to look their best."
"You're sure doing pretty good," he says, voice subsiding at the baldness of the compliment. "Anyhow," he picks up, "I reckon I'll go freshen up a bit myself. Even if I'm not working with so much."
"Oh stop it."
He returns, slapping damp hands against his cheeks. "Better." He drops into his seat. "Better."
"So," she says. "Anyway."
A moment of silence.
"So," she attempts again, "do you like living in Rome? Do you have millions of friends and everything?"
"Sort of. I mean not millions. I didn't speak any Italian at the get-go, which held me back."
"Still, I bet you had tons of girls chasing you, right? The single American journalist and all that."
"Not so much. For a while, I dated this girl from New Zealand that worked at this pub near my place."
"And where's that?"
"My place? In Monti. Via dei Serpenti."
"Cool area."
"Small apartment, but yeah. You know, one thing I learned in Rome is that the Italians are real friendly and stuff, but they got their cliques. You know? They hang out their whole lives with the same people they met in first grade. And if you weren't at that school, well, you're never getting a dinner invite. You know what I mean?"
"Absolutely. That's so Italian."
"Kind of hard to break into. For an American. Easier, I guess, for girls. Those slick Italian guys and so forth."
"You haven't bought into that Latin-lover myth, have you? Let me tell you a secret: Italian guys--and I know, I married one--are prima donnas, not studs. And I refuse to fall for a guy whose wardrobe is better than mine. A lot of these Italians, they're like little boys. My son, Henry, is way more mature and he's thirteen. A lot of them are still having Mama do their laundry, turn up their jeans, fix them mortadella sandwiches for lunch. They never quite get over it." She wiggles her nose. "What, me bitter? Sorry--no more tirades, I swear."
"It's kind of good to hear this, actually. I spent the last couple of years feeling like one big pile of American slob."
"Listen." She touches his arm confidentially. "You've seriously got nothing to worry about."
"Keep it coming. This is good for my ego after, like, two years of seeing Italian guys in pink sweaters and orange pants and, like, pulling it off. You know what I'm saying?"
She laughs.
"To tell the truth," he goes on, "the past six months or so, I've sort of given up on all that. On getting to know some Italian woman. Like, lost a bit of patience."
"How do you mean?"
"I guess I'm tired of getting burned. I know that sounds cynical. And, if you talked to me in my twenties and thirties, I used to be the most romantic guy. You should've seen me at my wedding. I was the one who pushed for a big ceremony. My ex wanted it all restrained. But I'm crazy that way. Over the top that way. Life'd be easier if I weren't a dumb romantic. But that's me. So."
"It's not a bad thing."
"Maybe. Makes life complicated, though."
"Anything that's worth anything is complicated. Don't you think? Or is that stupid?"
"No, no. You're probably right."
"My problem is the amount of time I spend on my job--honestly, I wonder if I'd even have time for a proper relationship anymore. And I'm way too embarrassed to admit when my last one was."
"Oh, come on."
"I'm not telling. Seriously. You don't want to know. Henry says I'm substituting work for love. That's Henry, thirteen going on thirty. I think another problem is--and I don't want this to sound conceited--is that a lot of guys can be intimidated by me. I think I can come off as too driven, too career-oriented. I don't know. Not mean-hearted, I hope. That's completely not who I am. But you can't be weak in the job I have. You have to be tough or everybody walks all over you. That's how it goes. People think I'm some kind of storm trooper. But I actually don't have a lot of confidence; I'm pretty shy. I know I don't come off that way. But--" She checks his response. "Way too much information, right? Sorry, I'm blabbing."
"Not at all. I get you. I believe every person on this planet needs human contact to be normal, to be sane. Simple as that. And, I'll admit, I'm no exception."
She hadn't been brave enough to say it so directly, didn't want to appear the pathetic single mother. "Maybe you have a point," she says. "I mean, it's probably just normal."
"More than normal."
She crosses her legs tightly--she's dying to pee. She was too busy prettifying herself before to remember to use the toilet. She doesn't want to seem like she has a bladder problem, but she can't hold it much longer. "I'm going to stretch my legs a second," she says. Instead of using the toilet at the front of the plane, she saunters toward the tail. Out of his sight, she sidesteps into the bathroom. She sits in there after she's done, thinking.
She smells her forearm, which touched his. He has a particular scent--kind of nice, actually. What is it? Manly. Skin smell. Wonder what his place in Via dei Serpenti is like. Empty wine bottles, half-burnt candles, wax stains in the rug. A small place, he said, which suggests that he's there alone. She couldn't invite him to her place in Rome, with the kids. Well, eventually, maybe. For the next few days, she's got a four-star hotel room in Atlanta. She gets a tingle. Forget it, you freak. But it would be nice to hang out a bit. Talk. He's cute, no? Surprisingly. Totally natural. Nice to have a bit of company. A proper grown-up. Having a man around again. Forgotten what that's like. This hotel they always put her in--wouldn't it be cool if ... Hang on. Stop. This is the travel coma speaking: getting all weird and flirty. The Ott board meeting. Think about that. Should get this guy's number, though. Find out when he gets back to Rome. Meet up there.
The in-flight movie is starting when she gets back. He has her headphones ready. It's a comedy. She keeps the volume low so she can still hear herself--she doesn't want to giggle too loudly or too stupidly or not enough. He has a nice chuckle. Wry, honest. When he laughs, he turns to her, twinkling. "We need popcorn."
"You're so right!"
The stewardess trundles a trolley down the aisle, delivering the second meal.
Abbey checks her watch. "Which is this? Lunch number two? Feels like dinner."
"Sort of a dinner-lunch," Dave says.
"What would you call that? A dlunch?"
"Or a linner."
"Unless it's a mix of lunch and supper. Then you've got slupper," she says. "Or slunch."
"Slunch. I like that. We should trademark that."
We? Hmm. Interesting.
"Hey, listen, Dave," she says. "We should get together sometime in Rome. Don't you think? Get a coffee or a drink or something? When you get back."
"Yeah, totally. That's a good idea."
"You should give me your number."
"My number in Rome?"
"Yeah."
"I don't have one there."
She frowns. "What do you mean?"
"Well, I don't live there anymore."
Each of them is puzzled by the other.
"I don't live there anymore," he repeats. "Can't afford two rents."
"Two? Where's the other?"
"In San Jose."
"I'm totally lost here."
"My new job. In San Jose, California."
"Oh, oh, oh," she says, faking a smile. "I'm so stupid. I thought you meant--when you said before you'd got a new job--I stupidly assumed you meant in Rome."
"No, no, I don't have papers to work in Europe anymore. And, anyhow, I was ready to get back to the States."
"So what is your new job?" she asks hurriedly, as if the location were insignificant.
"Some Web thing. Helping edit this music-mag start-up. A Web-based magazine, basically."
"Okay. I'm beginning to get it," she says. "But ..."
"What?"
"No, nothing."
"Your ears are all red," he says. "You okay?"
Can't believe he just said that. What an assholish thing to say--to point that out. "Yeah, I'm fine," she replies sharply.
The food arrives. He takes chicken. It's the last one. She wanted chicken. She takes fish. Kind of rude not to have asked her.
"How's yours?" he asks.
"Fine." After a minute, she adds, "Would have preferred chicken. But, whatever."
"You want to switch?"
"No, no. No big deal." She puts down her cutlery, opens a binder, and resumes work. Rather, she glowers at the page. What an idiotic thing for him to say. To point out to somebody: Hey there, by the way, you're blushing. Is he five years old? And how is she supposed to know he's moving to California? He says it like it's obvious, like the whole world has been following his life.
He opens Persuasion again but remains on the same page, picking at the skin around his cuticles.
Disgusting. And is he really reading that book at all? Is this some kind of show? To be fair, this isn't the brightest guy on earth. Good ol' boy from wherever. Some podunk town in Georgia. This is a guy who couldn't hack it at the paper, who was outclassed by those Thorazineaddled cretins on the copydesk. When she wanted to ax a job from the editorial side, Dave Belling was the most expendable--a real accomplishment among a group of such disposable losers. (In fairness, Abbey's first choice had been Ruby Zaga, but Kathleen interceded to protect her.)
