“How many?”
“What?”
“Landings?”
“Oh, it depends,” she said airily. “The maximum number of movements in an hour should be forty, but we can handle whatever they throw at us.”
He looked at her skeptically. “You’re sounding a bit macho yourself.”
“Comes with the territory,” she told him, and then she grimaced as another pain darted through her stomach. “Actually, sometimes it can get quite stressful, but you learn to cope.”
He exhaled. “Beats organic chips any day.”
She laughed and the pain subsided. “Depends on what you like doing, I guess.”
“Do you work in the control tower?” he asked enviously.
“Sometimes,” she replied. “Really the tower looks after things on the ground and gives clearance for departing planes. Most of us are actually in the center and we don’t see the light of day at all, unfortunately.”
He nodded. “I’ve seen pictures of them. Little green blobs on the radar screen.”
“That’s my life,” she agreed. “Little green blobs.” She looked at him from beneath her lashes. “The best video game in the world.”
“You don’t think that, do you?” he asked in horror.
“Lighten up,” she said easily. “Of course not. But you don’t think of them as planes full of people either. Just — well, blobs on the screen that you have to move around. Like a video game.”
“Are you ruthless or heartless?” he demanded.
“Neither,” she said with amusement. “But you can see that it’s not exactly part of my job description to be clutching at the armrests in terror.”
“I suppose not,” he said. “In which case you must have pretty bad indigestion. Sure it isn’t an ulcer?”
She shook her head. “Indigestion.”
“Because like you said, your job is very stressful.”
“Yes and no,” she told him. “It can be, when it’s busy or when there are problems. But the great thing is that when I’ve finished my shift I can just walk out and go home and I don’t have to think of anything. Somebody else deals with the next batch of planes.”
He nodded. “Nice not to have an in-tray to deal with or anything like that.”
“Exactly,” she said.
“Well, Ms. Air Traffic Controller,” said Ben as he sat back in his seat. “It might be indigestion, but it could still be an ulcer, or stress. In which case can I recommend lycopodium.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Lycopodium is good for mental exhaustion,” he told her. “Also those who are stressed.”
“I’m not stressed, honestly,” she said. “I just shouldn’t have eaten sausages, rashers, black and white pudding, baked beans, and a fried egg before leaving.”
He grimaced. “Do you eat anything with whole grains in it?”
“Afraid not.” She grinned.
“Oh well, it’s your stomach to destroy,” he said. “And you don’t really look overweight to me.”
“I have a brilliant metabolism,” she told him. “Burns off loads of stuff. Besides, most times I eat healthily. More or less.”
“You must do,” he said. “You’ve got good skin, great hair, and clear eyes.”
She stared at him. “You make me sound like a spaniel or something,” she told him.
“Sorry.” He was quiet for a moment, then turned to her again. “Why air traffic control?”
“I grew up under the flight path to Dublin Airport,” she told him. “I always wanted to make sure the planes landed in the right place.”
“Really?”
She nodded. “And my dad worked at the airport so it was kind of inevitable, I suppose.”
“Are you a family dynasty of controllers?”
“Not really,” said Carey. “Dad was ground crew until he retired. My older sister worked in one of the airside shops until she got married and had a gaggle of kids.” Her brown eyes twinkled at him. “But my brother’s a pilot.”
“I feel a right thick asking you if you were scared,” he sighed. “You’ve probably sat in the cockpit with your brother loads of times.”
“Actually, no,” she admitted. “Tony’s married to an Australian girl and I haven’t seen him in a couple of years. He doesn’t do commercial flights, he works for a private company in Perth. And controllers don’t often get the opportunity to go up front in a plane.”
Ben looked at her. It could all be true, he thought, or she could be making it up just to sound more interesting. She looked far too happy-go-lucky to be an air traffic controller with those mad curls dancing round her face and her lively eyes sparkling at him from behind that cute pair of specs. Air traffic controllers should surely be more serious? His only experience of them was from the movies, where actors like George Kennedy played grizzled tough guys who had to come through in any crisis. This girl didn’t look as though she could chomp on a cigar like George. She should be the love interest, being rescued rather than doing the rescuing.
His next question was drowned out by the stewardess announcing that they’d start their cabin service shortly. Carey, feeling that she’d done rather more talking than she’d intended, no matter how nice her neighbor might appear, took a fresh magazine out of her bag and began to read. He went back to his book, which, she realized, wasn’t actually a vegetarian handbook but a John Connolly blood and guts thriller. In her opinion, this showed a secret longing for gore in a far too healthy life, but she said nothing and immersed herself in 20 Ways to Get Your Body Ready for Spring.
But they got chatting again when the meal was served, which was when he told her his name was Ben Russell and that he lived in a modernized two-up, two-down house in Portobello. And that he actually owned the health food store he ran as well as two other similar stores in the city. She told him that she hadn’t pegged him as a multi-vitamin entrepreneur, more of a shopkeeper. And he laughed and said that there wasn’t as much money in it as you’d think, but that he was very happy doing what he was doing. Money wasn’t everything, he said, which was just as well because he’d lost a fortune on the Internet company and now he plowed most of whatever he made back into the shops.
She warmed to him. He was easy to talk to and easy to get on with. He wasn’t as patronizing and sexist as she’d originally thought. He talked about the radical change his life had taken when the Internet company went bust and he moved into herbal remedies instead. He told her that he was in partnership with his sister, Freya, and that they were trying to get away from health foods and natural remedies as being a goody-goody way of looking after yourself.
“That’s why we sell fruit-flavored condoms,” he remarked, causing her to splutter into her glass of wine. He grinned and confirmed that they were excellent sellers. “You’d be surprised,” he added, “how many people ask me if the orange-flavored ones have Vitamin C added.”
“And do they?” she asked.
He laughed. “You mean you haven’t already tried them?”
She asked him what it had been like when the Internet company had gone bust and he told her that it had been the weirdest feeling in the world. One day he was the marketing manager of a company employing a hundred people, the next he had nothing. “If only the damn takeover had gone through first,” he said gloomily. “It was worth a fortune. At least then we could have gone bust with some personal cash in the bank!”
“So why did you go into health food stores?” she asked.
It had been his sister Freya’s idea, he explained. Six years older than him, she’d worked in a bank all her life but had always wanted to do something else. Alternative remedies were an interest of hers. So when she came to him with a business plan which exploited her business knowledge and his marketing expertise, they’d taken their proposal to the bank, succeeded in getting a loan, and had taken the plunge together. Now, three years later, things were going really well.
Carey realized she was enjoying the sound of his gravelly voice as
he chatted to her, and the way his bondi-blue eyes lit up with animation when he spoke of things he was interested in, as well as the way he listened when she spoke of things that interested her. Their interests were very similar. They both liked action movies, loved Italian food, agreed that Barcelona was probably the most beautiful city in the world — and neither of them could stand opera. Quite suddenly she understood what people meant when they talked of meeting someone whom they felt they’d known all their lives.
For the first time ever she was disappointed that the trip across the Atlantic didn’t take longer.
“D’you need me to hold your hand?” Ben asked as the captain announced that there were fifteen minutes to landing. “In case you’re really a sales rep for a sheep dip company or something, and everything you’ve told me is a complete lie, and you are, actually, secretly terrified.”
“No,” she said, her voice brimming with laughter, and then she mentally kicked herself for not saying yes. And then she told herself that she was right to say no, because she was definitely still hurting from the Peter Furness episode and she was better off not getting involved with anyone, no matter how quickly they made a transatlantic flight pass by. Just for once, she reminded herself, learn your lesson. Don’t fall for someone on the rebound.
They didn’t talk as the plane descended through the wispy white clouds that hung over JFK. When they landed it was as though the previous six-and-a-half hours hadn’t even happened. Ben was extra polite as he took his bag from the overhead locker. She smiled at him in the way that strangers smile when they’re forced to acknowledge each other, while realizing with a pang that the enforced intimacy of their journey had come to an end. But maybe it was just as well, Carey thought. She wasn’t ready to lose her heart again, she really wasn’t. Peter Furness’s betrayal had shaken her more than she’d realized.
“Maybe I’ll see you on another trip to New York,” said Ben as they waited to disembark. “I’ll definitely think about you whenever I’m flying, though. I’ll be wondering if you’re the one putting us into some crazy holding pattern over the Bay.”
“I doubt that I’ll be back in New York anytime soon,” she told him. “I’m here for a party.” She looked at him quizzically and spoke impulsively. “You wouldn’t like to come, would you?” After the words were out she wished she hadn’t said anything. But he was looking back at her, his eyes bright and interested.
“What kind of party?”
She shrugged. “You don’t have to come — of course you don’t. It’s just — well, you said you were here to see your U.S. suppliers, and I thought you might be bored…” Her voice trailed off. She wasn’t usually so tongue-tied. Everyone knew her as decisive and determined. “A friend of mine is getting married. She’s having a bit of a do in her soon-to-be-husband’s totally awesome apartment.”
“I’d love to come,” said Ben. “Of course, I get bored when I come here. There’s only so much you can say about Vitamin E supplements. And I’ve never been in a totally awesome New York apartment before!”
She smiled. “Where are you staying?”
“The Pennsylvania. Not flashy but OK.”
“You’re only a couple of blocks from me,” she told him. “I’m in the New Yorker.”
“Is this party tonight?” he asked. “I’m supposed to be having dinner with some people, but…”
She shook her head. “Tomorrow. It’ll give you time to get over your meetings and your dinner.”
“OK,” he said. “Will I meet you at your hotel?”
“Great.”
“How are you getting into the city now?” he asked.
“Oh, the bus,” she told him. “I’m traveling light and it leaves me near the station.”
“Share a cab?” suggested Ben.
She smiled. “I’d love to.”
In the cab, the intimacy was restored. Once again, Carey felt as though she’d known Ben for years instead of hours. Even when they lapsed into silence she didn’t feel uncomfortable in his company. She simply gazed out of the window and watched as the Manhattan skyline grew ever closer.
She was tempted to ask him into the hotel, but she knew that the New Yorker didn’t have a bar. So she simply said that she’d see him the next day and he said fine. They looked at each other uncertainly for a moment, then she smiled at him and walked through the revolving doors without looking back.
Chapter Two
JASMINE ABSOLUTE
This oil is sensual and luxuriant; it is also relaxing and uplifting
Carey’s fond reminiscing about her first meeting with Ben was interrupted by another announcement from the captain. Despite his desire for a speedy departure, JFK remained closed and the snow was still falling, although not as heavily as earlier. But they weren’t going anywhere in a hurry. The cabin staff came along the aisles offering orange juice and peanuts. Carey and Ben both took the juice but refused the nuts. She looked at her watch.
“Worried?” he asked.
“Not yet. My shift starts at two. As long as we get back before then it’s fine.”
“You’ll be exhausted,” he said.
She shrugged. “I’ll get some sleep. I wish we’d managed to get upgraded, though; it’d be nice to be able to stretch out.”
“Prop your pillow against my shoulder,” Ben said. “You might as well try for some shuteye now.”
She smiled and did as he suggested even though she wasn’t tired yet. But she was accustomed to falling asleep at will and it wasn’t long before she’d nodded off. It seemed only moments later that she was woken by another announcement. She blinked and glanced at her watch to discover that she’d slept for three-quarters of an hour as the captain told them that the airport had finally been re-opened and that they would shortly be ready for de-icing. A murmur of anticipation and relief ran through the cabin as they were eventually pushed back from the terminal building and the de-icing of the plane began.
She closed her eyes to blot out the sight of the workers hosing the thick coating of snow from the wings and allowed her mind to drift back to the night of Ellie’s party. The night of her first date with Ben. She’d intended to wear her one and only posh frock to the party — a plain black silk sheath which looked well no matter what the occasion. But now that Ben was coming too, it seemed drab and boring. She tried to tell herself that this was a one-off, that she wasn’t going to get involved with him and that she needed space and time. Rushing into a new relationship wasn’t on her agenda, so whatever dress she wore was irrelevant.
But even though she told herself all these things, she still wanted to look good. In fact, she wanted to look fantastic. She wanted to wear something that would make him be glad he was with her. Something that said sophisticated but charming. A somewhat demanding task, she realized as she stood in the Bloomingdale’s changing room and looked at her lanky body and almost nonexistent chest in the long mirror in front of her. Carey desperately wished that she had some curves to fill the slinky dress she was trying on, that her bones weren’t so big, that her knees didn’t look so damned knobbly, and that her feet were smaller and narrower. The sales assistant who looked in to see how she was doing tried to tell her that nobody had boobs anymore — hadn’t she seen the pictures of Sarah Jessica Parker or Gwyneth Paltrow lately? — but Carey wasn’t convinced. She longed for a cleavage. A natural cleavage, not one manufactured by Berlei and cotton wool.
Eventually, though, she succeeded in buying a cocktail dress in vibrant purple which showed off her creamy skin and dark brown eyes to perfection. Although the neckline was low it didn’t make her look as flat-chested as some dresses. It also showed off rather more flesh than she’d originally anticipated, but the assistant told her that it was breathtaking.
Carey agreed, but she wasn’t quite sure how her friends, who were accustomed to seeing her in either the black dress or a pair of black leather trousers, would react to the wisp of purple. Nor was she sure how the clean-living and organic Ben would react to goi
ng out with someone who considered it OK to wear a dress which was nothing more than a chiffon hanky. Yet it was undoubtedly breathtaking. And with the expensive high-heeled shoes that she’d also bought it made her look very, very sexy.
Which was exactly what Ben said when they arrived at Ellie’s and she slid out of her navy wool coat. And what Ellie said when she greeted Carey with her newly acquired Manhattan air-kiss. Ellie’s glance had flickered appreciatively over Ben, and then she ushered them further into the apartment, where a throng of friends was already gathered. Carey had forgotten that outside Ireland eight o’clock means eight o’clock, and that by arriving at half-past she and Ben were almost the last to show.
Suddenly, though, she was caught in the middle of the throng, and people were asking her about her devastatingly attractive new man and murmuring that he was absolutely gorgeous and wasn’t she the clever one to have picked him up. How long had she known him and why had she kept him a secret?
“Well, we know why!” Gina grinned at her as they looked at Ben talking to Ellie’s fiancé, the investment banker. “I wouldn’t let him loose in a room of single women if I were you, Carey.”
“He’s rather lovely, isn’t he?” she said diffidently. “Just as well you and Finola are already hitched.”
“He’s walking sex,” said Bernice Taylor. “And I’m not hitched. How on earth did you manage to snare him?”
When they heard that she’d met him in the plane on the way over there were shrieks of astonishment which turned to nods of understanding.
“You always manage something like this, don’t you?” said Gina. “Carey Browne, the lightning rod for the unexpected! Things just fall into your lap and you end up doing everything without thinking.”
“I certainly don’t do things without thinking, as you know perfectly well,” Carey retorted. “And he didn’t fall into my lap.”
“Looks like he might want to.” Gina grinned knowingly at her. “But you know what I mean, Carey. You rush in where angels fear to tread and all that sort of thing. It doesn’t matter whether it’s men or it’s something else. You were the one who bought a king-size bed for the house without wondering how on earth it was going to fit in that cell they call a bedroom. You were first up for the karaoke night at Christmas…”
Too Good to Be True Page 3
