for FICTION
LOUISA gasped, and the man beside her on the plane, eyed her, unreadable. She knew it was only a two-hour flight, but how on earth was she supposed to get through it when she’d jumped at the simple sound of a Tango can being opened?
Louisa hadn’t been on an aeroplane in eight years. She hadn’t planned it to be that long, but after her last flight (a hen holiday to Lanzarote where the turbulence was so bad, passengers actually screamed, disaster movie style), she made a promise to herself that she wouldn’t fly again until she absolutely had to.
And it had finally arrived.
The ‘until she absolutely had to’ moment: her sister’s wedding in Spain – and so far, so… not so good.
The flight was delayed due to a fault. Then it had started storming. Thick, smoky cloud through the airport windows, low, angry rumbles. And now, 20 minutes into the flight, sparks of lightning outside her tiny plane porthole, her inner, ‘It’s just two hours!’ chant had turned to ‘Two hours? How will I get through two hours? Will I survive?’
The man beside her though, appeared to be enjoying a paperback and a can of Sprite, the corner of his stubbly mouth twitching with humour at the story he was reading. This man didn’t care about the storm. He was acting as if he was on a fireside sofa somewhere cosy, safely on the ground. Imagine, thought Louisa, concentrating on her breath, to be enjoying the down time and not acting as if you’re in a tin can going headlong into doom.
The plane lurched. No reaction from anyone, but a small ‘Oops!’ from a member of cabin crew, wrestling with a drawer in the drinks trolley.
But Louisa’s hand flew to the armrest and grabbed it… and the man’s arm.
His eyes slid slowly away from his book, dropping down to her hand, over his glasses. She retracted it.
‘Gosh. Sorry,’ she said.
‘It’s fine.’
‘I’m just a – very nervous flyer.’
‘It’s honestly fine,’ he said, and Louisa found herself relaxing a little. She was terrified, but at least the passenger next to her was nice and not having an (understandable) pop at her for grabbing his arm without consent. ‘So, um, what’s waiting in Spain?’ he asked. ‘For you.’
Lightning flashed outside and Louisa threw her head around towards the window, then turned |back to the man, who waited calmly for her response. She was a meerkat on a mound, looking for danger. And this man, her age, she guessed, handsome, and definitely not a nervous flyer, was a dog resting by a fireplace.
‘Clearly I’m not doing it for the love of flying,’ she said with a strained laugh.
He smiled.
‘My sister’s getting married. Her fiancé; his family have a house in Puerto Banús, so they’
