Читать книгу I Know You - Annabel Kantaria, Annabel Kantaria - Страница 17

I know how you met

On a flight. Because it had to be something different, didn’t it? Something special.

New York to London. BA176. Thirty-one flights a day to choose from and you end up on the same one; not just on the same flight, but sat next to him.

It must be fate. How sweet.

Six hours and fifty-five minutes. Neither of you can sleep. A couple of movies? A drink or two. Something to eat. Is it long enough to get to know someone? To fall in love?

I know, I know – but he thinks it is.

From the moment you sit down, he’s captivated.

He’s so easy, he makes me want to puke. I can see it now. The way you slip your neat little arse into the seat. What are you wearing? Skinny jeans maybe. Flat pumps. A t-shirt showing off your tits. Hair tied up. Lip gloss. You have a pashmina: of course you have a pashmina, an expensive one at that. You wriggle yourself back in your seat, look for the seat belt and touch his hand by accident. ‘Sorry!’ You smile at him – and him, he’s such a sucker.

‘Hey,’ he says. He nods and gurns a smile like a puppet and you giggle. Does he give you that line about being a nervous flyer? Is that why you tell him how much you fly? He picks up the safety card from the seat pocket and says something really dumb like, ‘Bet you know this off by heart!’ and you laugh and say, ‘Actually, I wrote it.’ ‘Really?’ he asks and you laugh, like – you really believed that?

He’d believe anything that comes out of your mouth.

He hams it up during take-off, acting out the charade that he’s scared of flying. Little do you know that he probably flies as much as you do. But he thinks it’s cute the way you put your hand on his arm and tell him it’ll be okay, and that’s all that matters, isn’t it?

You order drinks: a beer and a juice. Neither of you plugs in your headphones – you play with the wire of your headphones in your lap: shall I/shan’t I? But he makes small talk, doesn’t he? Where are you from? What took you to New York? Why are you going to London? The food comes; he orders another round of drinks.

You talk the whole flight. I can hear your voices in my head: his deep and smooth, quiet and confident; yours giggly, flirtatious, reeling him in like an open-mouthed fish in the quiet darkness of the cabin. ‘It’s as if I’ve known you forever.’ ‘How amazing that we ended up on the same flight!’ ‘It was meant to be!’ ‘Serendipity!’

Spare me the crap.

As the plane taxis to the stand, he touches your hand. ‘Can I ask for your number? It’d be cool to stay in touch; meet up when we’re both in the same town.’

Because you’re both such glamorous jet-setters.

You encourage him. Don’t play the innocent here. ‘I suppose it’s fair enough now we’ve spent a night together!’ you say. Giggle, giggle.

But he can’t tear himself away from you. You walk through the airport: through immigration, baggage reclaim together and then you’re by the doors and at the front of the taxi queue and the taxi’s waiting and the cars all around are honking and he does it, he only goes ahead and does it: he bends his head down and kisses you with his disgusting overnight-flight morning breath.

He does, doesn’t he?

I knew it. It’s almost as if I was there.