3. Three

I’m not so much running away as I am crawling away.

Slowly.

Glacially.

At a snail’s pace.

To be fair, it’s not totally my fault — that line in security had nothing to do with me, and neither did the fact that Rita turned out to have half a bottle of vodka stashed in her bag, which held us all up while she disposed of it. But by the time I approach the gate, my progress is so slow that I’m practically moving backwards, and it’s only the lurking presence of Alexander Fox behind me that’s stopping me from turning around and running away.

I hate him.

Not as much as I hate flying, though; and, right now, it’s the ‘flying’ bit that’s foremost in my mind.

“Okay, you’re all set,” smiles the woman at the gate, who obviously didn’t attend the same training course as April. “Have a great flight!”

She hands me back my passport and boarding pass, and I tuck them carefully into my rucksack, then turn to walk back in the direction of the terminal, as far away from the waiting aircraft as I can get.

“Oh, no you don’t.”

Before I make it more than a few steps, Alex is on me, grabbing me by the arm and spinning me around to face him.

“What are you doing?” I hiss, seeing my own terrified face reflected in the dark lenses of his sunglasses. “Let me go. I’ll scream.”

“No, you won’t,” he says. “You’re not going to scream. You’re going to get on the plane.”

“Er, no, I’m not,” I reply, shaking my head firmly.

Now I don’t want to get on the plane just to spite him.

What is it with this guy?

“Er, yes, you are.”

His tone is so smug and self-assured that I briefly consider screaming anyway.

“How would you know?” I snap, jerking my arm out of his grasp. “You don’t even know me. You have no idea what I’m going to do.”

He stares at me impassively from behind his sunglasses.

Who wears sunglasses indoors, anyway?

“Well, I just listened to you give your life story to the woman at the check-in desk,” he says, shrugging. “Going all the way back to when you were, what, fourteen?”

“Thirteen,” I interject quickly. “Ha! See! You don’t know everything, do you?”

“I know enough to know you want to beat your fear of flying,” he replies, unperturbed. “Everyone in the terminal knows that now. And I know you found some old diary that made you decide you were unhappy with your life, so you’re flying out to Spain to try to change it. Which you can’t do unless you get on the plane.”

He’s right, obviously.

I might have booked the flight in a moment of recklessness that was totally unlike me, but I’ve hated my job forever. And I do want to get on the flight. I just…

“I don’t think I can do it,” I admit in a small voice. “I’m too scared.”

He looks at me for a moment. Then, without another word, he bends down, puts his arms around my waist, and picks me up, like a caveman who’s about to carry me back to his lair.

It’s… kind of a turn-on, if I’m being honest.

“Well, it looks like I’ll have to do it for you,” he says grimly, carrying me towards the air bridge. “It’s okay,” he tells the surprised woman at the gate. “She’s with me.”

“I am not,” I wail, kicking my legs frantically, and hitting nothing but air. “Put me down! This is insane.”

“Nope,” he says cheerfully, continuing towards the door of the plane. “You’ve already almost made me miss my flight today. I’m not letting you delay it again while you try to make your mind up.”

I open my mouth to protest, but we’re already at the bottom of the bridge, where he puts me back down again, positioning himself behind me, so I can’t turn and run.

By rights, I should be furious. I should be humiliated. I should really hate him for treating me like a piece of luggage he can pick up and put down whenever he wants. But before I can allow myself to feel any of that righteous indignation, I’m stepping across the threshold of the plane, showing the flight attendant my boarding pass, and being directed down the aisle, to where seat 13B sits waiting for me.

I did it.

I’m on the plane.

And… so is Alexander Fox.

Who’s wrinkling his nose in disgust as he follows me up the aisle to the only two seats left on the packed aircraft.

Rita’s on the aisle, her sunhat taking up almost as much space as she does. I’m in the middle. And…

“I’m in 13C, by the window,” says Alex, in the tone of a man going to his doom, rather than on a sunshine break to Tenerife. “You’re going to have to let me pass.”

Rita and I stand up, our heads bumping in unison against the luggage compartment above us, as Alex wriggles past us both. I get a brief whiff of his aftershave as his back scrapes my nose. It smells musky and expensive, and I lean forward, just breathing it in, until…

“Are you trying to lick me? Should I be scared?”

He’s frowning again. There would appear to be very little chance of him seeing the funny side of this. I’d be surprised if he’s ever seen the funny side of anything, actually.

“No! Don’t be ridiculous,” I reply. “Anyway, it’s me who should be scared of you. What was that back there? Do you normally go around picking women up like that, against their will?”

“No, they’re normally quite willing,” he says, with the slightest hint of a smirk, which only succeeds in making him seem even more arrogant. “And you were too, weren’t you?”

“I certainly was not,” I say hotly. “How dare you manhandle me like that?”

“Would you like a mint, love?” says Rita, thrusting a bag in front of my face. “It’ll help your ears pop when we take off.”

The mention of taking off sends my stomach instantly back into a spin cycle again. I swallow nervously.

“Er, no thanks, Rita. Um, what was I saying?”

I turn back to Alex, who’s settled into his seat, and is back on his phone, tensely tapping out a message that presumably involves some kind of life-or-death situation, if the serious expression on his face is anything to go by.

“I think you were accusing me of manhandling you,” he says, not bothering to look up. “When, actually, I was just trying to help you.”

“Oh, yeah, very helpful, I’m sure. You’re all heart.”

He hits the ‘send’ button on his message in the manner of a man determined to have the final word on something.

“Look, you wanted to get on the plane, didn’t you?” he says tersely. “I helped you get on the plane. You should be thanking me.”

He looks up, and I see my own white face reflected in his glasses again.

“Are you never going to take those things off?” I ask, aiming for distraction. “It’s not even that bright in here. Are you in disguise or something?”

He stares at me for a long moment, and then, before I even realize I’m going to do it, I reach up and pull the glasses off his face with a ‘ta-da’ kind of motion.

Underneath, his eyes are green and slightly bloodshot, fringed with thick, dark lashes, and filled with a sadness that’s only emphasized by the huge purple bruise that covers one eye, making the eyelid swell in protest.

“Oh, my!” says Rita, leaning across me for a closer look. “That’s a right shiner you’ve got there. Been in a fight, have we, love?”

“Sorry,” I mutter, feeling horribly guilty as I hand back his sunglasses. “I didn’t … I mean… Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” he snaps, shoving the glasses back on. “Or I would be if people would just leave me alone.”

He picks up the phone and jabs viciously at the screen to open up his messages. I watch curiously out of the corner of my eye, almost forgetting that I’m currently trapped inside a tin can which is about to hurtle through the skies at 500 miles per hour.

Back in the airport, I assumed he was just a bit of an asshole, really; the kind of guy who thinks he’s so superior to everyone around him that he doesn’t have to bother being polite. Now that I’ve seen him close up, though — and without the sunglasses he seems to be using as armor — it’s obvious there’s something more going on. He’s not just angry, he’s sad. I can tell by the jittery, disconnected way he keeps picking up that phone of his, then putting it back down; and by the way his knee jerks up and down reflexively in his seat, like some kind of nervous tick.

“You’re not scared of flying too, are you?” I ask hopefully, as the plane’s engines give an ominous rumble.

“Of course not,” he replies. “The only thing I’m scared of is small talk. There doesn’t seem to be any escaping it, though.”

He looks pointedly at his phone again, and I turn away, tears stinging the back of my eyes.

I get that he’s obviously going through something, but does he have to be so mean?

I grip the armrests tightly as the pilot’s voice comes over the intercom, telling us we’re about to ‘push back,’ and inviting us to watch the short security video on the overhead screens.

“I never bother watchin’ them things,” says Rita, opening her handbag and pulling out the vodka miniatures she bought in duty free. (They were out of tequila, apparently.) “It’s like my Fred used to say, “If the plane’s goin’ down, Rita, we’re all goin’ down with it. Ain’t no stoppin’ it. Ain’t no use puttin’ on them oxygen masks and what have you. No, you’re best just hoping it happens quick enough that you don’t know what hit you. Not like them poor folks what had to eat each other to survive. My Fred, he always said—”

“I don’t think this is helpful, somehow,” Alex interrupts, seeing me reaching frantically for the sick bag that’s poking out of the seat in front of me. “Air travel is perfectly safe. It’s the safest way to travel, in fact. We’re not going to have to eat each other.”

“That’s a shame, that is,” grins Rita, giving him a wink. “Isn’t it Summer? I’d quite fancy a bite of Alexander here. Wouldn’t you?”

I’m saved the indignity of having to answer this by Alex himself, who suddenly lets out a yelp of pain.

“Ouch! What are you doing?”

I follow the direction of his gaze, all the way down to my own hand, which, completely without my knowledge, has reached out and grabbed onto the closest thing it could find: which just so happens to be Alex’s knee.

“Sorry,” I gasp, pulling it quickly away. But then the plane lurches backwards, and I watch helplessly as the hand darts forward again, the knuckles white with terror as they grab at him again.

I really need to get off this plane. And also to cut my own hand off before it can do anything else to embarrass me. This trip was supposed to be a second-chance. A do-over. But I already feel like I need a second chance at my second chance. A do-over on my do-over. I need to find a way to change my life without having to face my fears; and ideally without having to face Mr. Alexander Fox, and his superiority complex either.

But it’s too late.

We’re on the move; the plane rumbling and bumping its way to the end of the runway, where the engines rev excitedly, as if it’s desperate to be on its way.

“‘Ere we go,” says Rita excitedly, as it starts to gather speed. “Tenerife, ‘ere we come!”

There’s a moment when everyone in the cabin seems to collectively hold their breath, then I feel the earth drop away from beneath us, and we’re up, sailing effortlessly — if slightly bumpily — through the clouds.

I’ve done it.

I’ve taken flight.

Well, okay, the plane has taken flight. But I’m on it. I didn’t run away. I didn’t try to get off. Well, not too hard, anyway. Whatever happens now — and I really hope it won’t be that whole ‘cannibalism’ scenario that Rita’s put right at the front of my mind — I can at least say I got on a plane and faced my fear of flying.

I should probably also admit that I couldn’t have done it without the help of Alex.

“Can I have my hand back now?” he says sulkily.

“Oh. Yeah. Sorry.” I reluctantly let it go, and he reaches up to massage it with his other hand, wincing ostentatiously with what I’d bet good money is a completely exaggerated level of pain.

“Come on, I wasn’t holding it that hard,” I say guiltily.

“There are finger marks on it,” he points out, holding it up to show me.

“Sorry.” I feel my cheeks turn red. “And, well, thanks. For making me get on. I don’t think I’d have been able to do it if you hadn’t been there.”

As apologies go, it’s not a great one, but Alex shrugs it off anyway.

“You’re welcome,” he says, turning back to his phone, which he’s still fixated on, even though I saw him comply with the instruction to put it into flight mode a few minutes ago.

I guess he’s not going to be a very chatty seat mate, then. Fortunately — or unfortunately, as the case may be — I have Rita on my other side, who’s more than willing to make up for it.

“Come on then,” she says, opening one of her vodka bottles and spilling half of it down her front. “Tell us all about this Jamie, then.”

“Oh! That reminds me!” I say, reaching to unbuckle my seat belt. “The diary! I need to check off item 2 on my list!”

“Seat belt sign,” says Alex, without looking up. “It’s still on.”

I might have guessed he’d be a ‘rules’ based kind of guy. The type who never does anything on impulse. Not like me, Summer, running off to Spain to change her life, say. Now that I’m actually on the plane, and the worst part of the flight is over, my nerves have started to turn to excitement.

I’m actually doing this.

I can’t believe I’m going to Spain.

Wait until I tell Chloe. And my parents. They’ll never in a million years believe that I, Summer Brookes, have the guts to jump onto a plane, with just a few hours’ notice.

This is amazing.

I sit there fizzing with excitement until the seat belt sign above me pings off. The second it does, I jump up, banging my head on the overhead bins again as I squeeze past Rita into the aisle, where I fumble for a few minutes with the door of the luggage compartment, until my backpack falls onto my head, almost knocking me out.

“There she is,” someone says. “There’s our girl!”

I look round to see Gerald-of-the-Fake-Tan sitting right behind us, surrounded by a sea of white heads. I’d always thought of Tenerife as being a bit of a party island, but with the exception of a group of women in their 30s, all wearing matching t-shirts with the slogan, “Libby’s Hen Do” on the front, and an exhausted-looking younger couple with a baby and a toddler, it looks like the median age on board is about 82.

“It’s the winter crowd,” confirms Rita as I ease back into my seat, slamming the backpack into Alex by accident as I go. “The young ‘uns normally come in the summer, or during the school holidays. The rest of the year, it’s mostly us oldies.”

I’m not sure I’m comfortable being included as one of “us oldies” (I might not be married, or have a partner, or, well, a life, really, but I am still only 31. That’s young, right? That still gives me plenty of time to ‘make something of my life’, as the woman in the bar said?) but I say nothing to this, and concentrate on rummaging through the bag until I find what I’m looking for.

“Here,” I say, pulling out the battered blue exercise book that served as my diary from the ages of 13 — 17, and passing it to Rita, open to the correct page. “This is why I’m here.”