by Lucy Hepburn
“Let’s get on that plane, shall we? Do you need to check in?” Molly asked.
“All done. Online. Unfortunately. Are you sure they will not cancel due to the hurricane outside?”
“Come on,” Molly giggled. “It’s just a bit breezy. I’ll look after you.”
At this, Pascal’s fears came crashing visibly back on top of him. “Must we? Do you not think that in weather like this there is a high chance of the airplane falling to the ground in a terrible fireball?”
Molly, who loved the romance of flight, or at least she did until Reggie’s moonlight dash the night before, laughed. “Listen, apparently you have more chance of meeting your future spouse on an airplane than of dying on one!” She looked down at his left hand as they moved toward the departure gate, wondering whether to ask what might be construed as a flirtatious question, and she’d already made enough of a fool of herself fawning over Delametri Chevalier on the phone. But she decided to go for it because she genuinely wanted to know. “Are you married?”
“Non,” he said, eyeing the tunnel leading to the aircraft with something between loathing and naked terror.
Molly hoped this didn’t mean the trip would get complicated. Romantically.
They joined the end of the security queue and inched forward.
Just ahead, a tall and devastatingly handsome steward was working the crowd, chatting to people, crouching down to make silly faces at small children and making sure everyone knew which gate to board through. Meanwhile, on the other side of security, his colleague, a prim older lady whose uniform was a little tight, waited impatiently.
“Sasha, we need to get aboard!” she called out in English, which surprised Molly until she realized that the airline was Italian, and they were probably using English as their common language.
But Sasha had just looked further down the queue and caught sight of Pascal. And Pascal had caught sight of Sasha.
Their instant attraction was so obvious and so electric that Molly’s mouth had dropped open. Honestly, she was such an idiot sometimes—of course, Pascal was gay! The signs had all been there but she’d chosen to ignore them because she’d been too caught up in her own mini-drama…
Blond, spray tanned, and ripped from what must have been hour upon hour in the gym, Sasha was alongside them in a flash. “Would you like any assistance? Monsieur, how can I be of service to you today?”
“I…I…”
Poor Pascal seemed to have lost the power of speech. Sasha had ventured so far into his personal space that their torsos were practically touching. Even Molly, from two meters away, could smell his expensive Aqua di Parma cologne. She smiled.
“How kind of you!” she gushed. “I think we’re fine though.
“You are fine,” Sasha said to Pascal suggestively. “But I’m afraid this,” he indicated the enormous wedding dress cover, “is not fine.”
“It’s my sister’s wedding gown…”
Sasha was peering at the logo on the cover. When he straightened up, his eyes were huge. “A Delametri Chevalier? Oh, my!”
“That’s right!” Molly simpered, “It’s very precious.”
“Indeed,” said Sasha. Pascal was blushing like a loon. “Unfortunately, we are a little worried that is will be too big to take at carry-on luggage. You will have to put it in the hold, if—”
“Non!” Pascal regained his powers of speech.
“No, please,” Molly said.
Sasha gave the dress cover a covetous look. “How about this?” He raised an eyebrow. “I take it for you. My airline will guard it like royalty—I will personally make sure of it!”
Molly jerked her head toward Pascal, who was perspiring a little. “My friend Pascal, he is the personal assistant, senior manager, and executive designer for Delametri Chevalier himself!”
She was only guessing at these job titles hoping Pascal would forgive her. Sasha did look tremendously impressed. He was gazing at Pascal with even more interest. Pascal, meanwhile, was in all sorts of torment. Molly willed him to say something alluring.
“Wh…where are you from?” Pascal stuttered in a not terribly alluring voice… but not stupid at least.
“Moscow,” Sasha replied in a strong, low voice that even Molly found quite sexy.
Pascal, however, was finished.
“Pascal is a little anxious about the weather,” Molly smiled, feeling more and more mischievous. “Do you think you could do anything to reassure him?”
The look that crossed Sasha’s face told Molly that nothing on earth would give him greater pleasure. “Monsieur, I would like to—”
“Sasha! We must go, immediately!” The stewardess had adopted a terribly effective ‘don’t mess with me’ voice.
Sasha pulled a pen and paper from his pocket and was scribbling down his phone number. “Coming, Consuela!” he boomed, tucking the scrap of paper into the top pocket of Pascal’s cashmere blazer.
Pascal, safely in possession of Sasha’s number, looked as though he might faint with bliss, though he was trying with all his might to remain cool. It was all Molly could do to stop herself from convulsing with giggles.
“May I?” Tenderly, he gathered the dress up into his arms, cradling it like some giant newborn.
Molly called out, “You will—”
“…like my own Chihuahua!” His eyes were on Pascal the whole time as he reversed away, his beautiful eyes burning with longing.
Molly nudged Pascal in the ribs as they watched him turn round and disappear through a doorway in the restricted area beyond the security gates. “Sooo—what was that all about?”
“I have no idea what you are talking about,” Pascal replied in a robot voice that made Molly giggle.
“I’ve never seen such chemistry in action! Please tell me you don’t already have a partner?”
Pascal was doing his best to compose himself. He tore his gaze away from the door Sasha had just gone through and looked at Molly as they inched a little further forward.
“What were you saying about statistics?” he inquired, his voice low and taut.
“I just said you’re more likely to find your spouse on a flight than die in… Oh.”
“So you did!” His eyes narrowed. “Statistics, do you think? Or perhaps a prophecy?” Pascal clamped his hand over his mouth. “I have a very bad feeling about this flight,” he muttered. “Do you feel it too? You must!”
“No, actually, I don’t,” Molly insisted, but Pascal was barely listening.
“You know what this means? This means the plane is going to crash, doesn’t it?”
“Whoa!” Molly cried. “It was just a figure of speech…”
“I meet someone on the flight, the flight hits the ground, simple.”
All of the good that Sasha had wrought was quickly being undone as they moved through security and onto the gangway leading to the plane. Pascal was trembling like a condemned man being led to the gallows. Even his lingering hand on Pascal’s arm as they boarded the plane wasn’t enough to calm him down.
Sasha gave Molly an understanding wink. “He will be fine,” he whispered.
“You take the aisle seat,” Molly said, lowering herself into the middle seat beside a man already in the place by the window. “You’ll have more leg room.”
Consuela was approaching, moving through the cabin slamming shut the overhead lockers. Pascal straightened in his seat and snapped his fingers at her.
“Brandy. Now,” he barked. Molly looked at him, surprised by his peremptory tone.
Consuela’s glower in Pascal’s direction was withering and devastatingly effective.
“Please,” Pascal added meekly, shrinking back. “Madame. When you have got a minute.”
He sat still for a moment, staring straight ahead, clutching the arms of his seat so that his knuckles showed white. Molly fished a magazine from her bag and tried to settle down.
Pascal didn’t enjoy the take-off despit
e it being smooth and incident-free. He reached into his wallet and pulled out a pill, which he swallowed without water. Then he turned again to Molly and mumbled, “The pills, they are herbal, they relax the muscles. I got them online at a very good price from a very reputable supplier in China. Would you like one?”
“No thanks,” Molly smiled. “I’m good.”
“Up to you,” Pascal shrugged. “But I do not want to be conscious when this catastrophe takes place.”
So, as though re-evaluating his chances of survival and not liking the outcome, he swallowed another. Molly patted his arm. It was hard to believe that this was the man who had appraised her with such elegant Parisian hauteur when she had stumbled into Delametri Chevalier’s atelier the night before. But realized she probably liked today’s version a lot more.
Eventually Consuela brought Pascal his brandy, slamming it down on his lap-tray at the same time as the plan juddered quite hard, causing Pascal to recommence his vice-like grip of the arms of his seat.
Consuela turned immediately away. “I am sorry for the delay, Monsieur,” she said over her shoulder, clearly not sorry in the least.
Pascal downed the drink in one gulp.
“Better?” Molly asked.
Pascal nodded. “Oh, yes. Very much so.”
And then he kept on nodding until his head lolled sideways onto Molly’s shoulder. He fell noisily and instantly asleep.
“O-kay,” Molly mouthed, unsure how to get comfortable. She wriggled in her seat, accidentally nudging the arm of the man sitting on her other side.
“Sorry—I mean, pardon—I mean, s’cuse…” she flustered, stabbing randomly at all the languages she ever knew.
“Don’t worry about it,” the man replied, turning to her with a smile. “There’s not much room on these things, is there?”
He had a lovely voice, this Englishman on her left-hand side. And a lovely smile. Even though they had been sitting only inches apart for the past half hour or so, Molly had been too preoccupied with Pascal and with worrying about the dress being crammed into a filthy hold beneath tons of suitcases, to notice him.
“No, there isn’t. I’m practically in your lap—sorry.”
All she had absent-mindedly noticed about him so far had been his watch. It was a stunning vintage Cartier Tank model, pale gold, rectangular with a gently aged mother-of pearl face, those signature sword-shaped hands, and that legendary sapphire cabochon winding crowns. An early 1930s model, she guessed. Molly had done a jewelery module during her fashion degree, and Cartier was one of the names she had most admired. It seemed to her to have an elegance that several other equally well-known names lacked.
Unfortunately the sleek, classic beauty of the vintage timepiece was all but cancelled out by the hideous green hand-knitted jumper worn by its owner. A Christmas jumper if ever Molly saw one. Why on earth did men wear these things? Was it only Englishmen? And this particular Englishman had no excuse—he was obviously traveling alone, so whoever had knitted it wasn’t even there to see that he’d put it on, so what was the point of doing so in the first place?
Unless he knitted it himself? She grinned and risked a quick second glance at his face. Or worse—he actually liked it!
He was around her own age, possibly a little older, very good-looking, and when he caught her eye, he smiled again and offered his hand.
“Simon Foss,” he said.
“Molly Wright,” she replied. They shook hands.
“Nice to meet you, Molly,” he said.
“You too,” she replied as the plane lurched through a patch of turbulence. She clutched the arms of her seat glad Pascal was still asleep on her shoulder. “Bumpy!”
Another judder from the engines. “It’s entertaining, that’s for sure. What’s taking you to Venice?”
“We’re off to my sister’s wedding.”
“Nice,” Simon replied. “A quiet family wedding?”
Molly rolled her eyes. “Not quite,” she said. “Her fiancé’s Italy’s answer to Richard Branson, and from what I understand, the wedding’s going to be huge.”
“You don’t approve?” he smiled, then added, “sorry, what a nosy question!”
“Oh it’s fine,” Molly reassured him. “I…I don’t know the guy, so it’s probably not fair of me to judge. Just…different worlds, I guess. He’s always in the news apparently, with his business ventures, always jetting off to meet presidents and kings and queens…”
“You’re not making this up, are you?” Simon said in a teasing tone.
“Wish I was,” Molly giggled. “Be careful what you wish for, that’s what I say. Who wants to marry a millionaire if you’ve got to have four hundred and eighty strangers at your two-day-long wedding spectacular? If it has to happen on a Tuesday because the planets were aligned and the date was good luck? If no one is allowed to take photos because there is an exclusive magazine deal?”
“Understood,” Simon nodded. Then he indicated Pascal, snoring on her shoulder. “Is he not keen on flying?”
“‘Fraid not,” Molly replied. “Just as well he’s fallen asleep.” She didn’t like to think how embarrassed Pascal would feel when he woke. Instead she gestured toward Simon Foss’s wrist. “Can I just say that that’s a very nice watch?”
“You think so? Thanks. I love it, I must admit. It’s kind of a family heirloom. It belonged to my great-uncle who didn’t have any kids, and I’m the eldest boy in the family, so I got lucky.”
He had the sort of piercing blue eyes that can make a face seem cold, but in his case, they made his strong, open face seem bright and interesting. Dark blond hair flopped over his forehead, and as he smiled, he revealed slightly crooked but very white teeth.
Molly loved crooked teeth: so much more interesting than boring perfect ones. It was such a shame about the hideous jumper because this Simon Foss wasn’t half bad…
She bit her lip realizing that only about fourteen hours earlier, she had still been in a relationship with another man. Shameful thoughts to be flirting already! But then she reminded herself with a heavy sigh—why not? She was single, wasn’t she? Single. A whole new concept.
“I’m sure your great uncle would be very happy to know that you wear it.”
He smiled and nodded. “He was a fine old boy. He didn’t have many possessions; this was about it, I think.” He touched the watch’s face tenderly.
“Where are you from?” Molly asked.
“Wiltshire originally, though I’ve lived in London for the past few years.”
“I don’t know Wiltshire,” Molly commented. She wasn’t widely traveled in England at all, in fact. The few holidays she’d been on with her mum and her sister in her childhood had either involved cheap flights to Italy to visit her grandparents who were now sadly long dead, or to cramped caravans on the East Yorkshire coast, armed with buckets and spades.
“What took you to London?” she asked.
I’m a filmmaker. Got to go where the work is, you know? There’s just so much more scope for grabbing opportunities in London,” he went on, as though apologizing for abandoning his roots.
“You don’t need to justify your choices to me!” Molly chided him gently, though she couldn’t help but feel a little deflated. Not another star-struck, fame-hungry man! Another Reggie.
“I don’t, do I?” he beamed exaggeratedly, mouth open in mock-realization. “But seriously, there’s only so much you can shoot in Wiltshire. We’ve got Stonehenge, and… and that’s about it.” He chuckled.
“I know what you mean,” Molly replied, as Pascal snorted in his sleep, kneaded her shoulder as though it was an uncomfortable pillow, and settled down again. “You can’t fight the facts.”
They were silent for a spell. Molly pondered before asking, “Surely it doesn’t all happen in London?”
“Oh, definitely not,” Simon agreed, “there’s great stuff going on all round the country; it’s just that I’m in a place right now
where I need to get my work seen. And that’s the place to do it.”
“Course it is.”
Another sigh. She could have been listening to Reggie all over again, only substituting LA for London. Everyone, apart from her it seemed, was searching for streets that were paved with gold.
”Got a big project on at the moment, actually,” Simon went on.
Molly forced an interested smile. “Really? Big-budget stuff?”
Simon frowned and seemed to think for a moment. “Well, it would’ve been a whole lot easier if it had been, that’s for sure.”
“A big picture, huh?” she raised her eyebrows.
“Always,” Simon agreed.
Molly turned away. She had heard all this before. The number of times Reggie had gone on and on about ‘cutting edge, big issues’—when, in her opinion, some of his most beautiful work had been when he’d slowed right down and homed in on something tiny, like a flower, or a fingernail…
“What is it with you guys and the big time?”
“How do you mean?”
“Well, it’s not all about making it big, is it? Life should be about measuring success in quality and job satisfaction.” Simon raised his eyebrows, but before he had a chance to speak, Molly ploughed on. “It’s like fashion, I suppose.”
“Fashion?” Simon didn’t bother hiding the astonishment in his voice.
“Yes! With fashion the trends come and go and it changes all the time, but the important thing is what underpins it—moving forward while maintaining high standards and integrity.”
“You’re using the fashion industry as an example of integrity?”
Molly smiled. ”Well, I know a—”
“The vain, fickle, overpriced fashion industry?”
“Sorry?” Molly glared pointedly at his knitted jumper, but he didn’t seem to notice.
The plane juddered again.
“Weird clothes for pampered, stick-thin women?”
The atmosphere grew thick between them as Molly floundered for something to say in response. She was trying not to betray how badly she was smarting at his words. Honestly, some people were so narrow-minded! Just because he, quite patently, knew nothing about fashion didn’t mean it had no merit! Quite the reverse—it meant the world to her!
