Chapter 1
On the first morning of February, I woke up drooling on a stranger’s arm.
‘Oh God, sorry.’ I said, horrified, trying to wipe off the small patch of my saliva from the strangers’ navy-blue jumper. Shit, it looked like cashmere. Hoping I’d got it all, I looked up at the man whose arm miraculously tasted like mint toothpaste and wood shavings.
His steely blue eyes were staring at me, a hint of shock glimmering across their surface. His skin was smooth and tanned. His hair was short, slightly wavy and styled to the right, a light blonde like white chocolate. He was well built, like a fit, broad Swede who biked everywhere and sailed yachts. He was wearing brown boat shoes, beige linen pants, and a thin, navy-blue wool jumper which I had just salivated on. Everything about him screamed ‘expensive’. Including the large titanium watch on his tanned, left wrist. He would have been about thirty-five, maybe a little older.
I wiped my mouth quickly, eliminating any traces of sleep saliva from my face. What was Thor doing in economy? And how had I not noticed him when I’d sat? But then I remembered, I’d taken a valium because I’m not a great flyer and I’d fallen asleep as soon as I sat in the middle seat. And here he was now that I’d woken up, perched on the aisle like a glowing angel.
Thank you, thank you, thank you. I’d been praying the universe would find me someone. MY PERSON. And here was this Scandinavian Norse God, deposited next to me on a jumbo jet. Of all the seats, in all the planes. Here we were.
We both looked down to where I’d been lying on his arm just moments before. Small little saliva marks had dried on his sleeve, like salt did on your clothes after being at the beach. He took a tissue, pulled a face and tried to wipe away my mouth imprint.
‘I should at least have waited until you bought me a drink first,’ I joked awkwardly, readjusting so I was back in my seat.
He looked at me strangely. ‘The drinks are free.’ His voice was low, gravelly, and had a slight Northern European lilt.
‘Shall we have one then?’ I said hopefully. I would never usually be so presumptuous, to ask a gorgeous man, to have a drink with me after I’d drooled on his arm, but it seems the valium had reduced my filter to zero.
‘It’s 4 a.m.’ He said curtly, reacting exactly how I would too, had some stranger left their tongue lolling about on me.
‘Well yes in Australia, it’s 4 a.m., but somewhere else in the world it’s happy hour.’
He paused for a second, before finally saying ‘I suppose.’
Oh God, isn’t this how lifelong romances begin? Yes, we met on a plane. Your mum drooled on me, but she was adorable. I couldn’t help but love her. Yes, your dad was a tricky one at first, but after being single for so long, I thought why not, and suggested a drink – how could he resist?
With a flutter of excitement, I flicked my light on and hoped the attendant would arrive quickly, before he changed his mind.
A slightly irate, and brusque flight attendant arrived at my seat, with a curt, ‘Yes?’
‘Bloody Mary please.’ I said and looked over at Norse God, hoping she’d think we were together, a couple, a thing.
‘Water and a whisky.’ He smiled and it was glorious. Glorious teeth. Beautiful lips. It seemed to melt her too because she almost skipped away saying she’d be ‘Back in a jiffy.’
‘So, what do you do?’ Norse God asked.
‘Well I … um … I’m travelling.’
‘I gathered that, considering you’re on a plane.’ He stared at me, up and down. I was hoping my long, dark blonde hair wasn’t the humid mess it had been in Thailand, even in the airport – humidity did bad things to my hair. I instantly regretted the, lets wear something comfy on the flight idea and hoped he didn’t mind my oversized black jumper, white singlet top and black stretchy leggings.
‘I meant, what do you do for, uh … income?’
Perhaps he was struggling with the thin cabin air, or he’d taken a valium too, because I thought, did he just ask what I did for money?
‘Gentleman first.’ I smiled at him, thinking I couldn’t tell him I’d most recently been working at Los Tacos in London, where the Mexican/Spanish fusion of fast food meant the kitchen deep fried everything before it went out; enchiladas, burritos, tacos, you name it – they were cooked, or worse microwaved, and then dipped in a vat of bubbling oil until they were crunchy. It was like serving a heart attack on a plate, but people gathered, usually very drunk people, for a plate of golden crispiness, stuffed with low-grade minced beef.
I shuddered remembering all the double shifts I’d had to do, just to be able to cover my rent and save for my next shoestring trip to Europe. I’d eaten pot noodles for breakfast, and free heart-attack tacos for lunch and dinner. Oh, the glorious life of a backpacker. Before that, I’d been a little more successful, working for a few years as a glorified filing and coffee girl, aka PR Assistant, but when the company hit a downturn, I was made redundant. And I needed another job pronto. But no one was willing to hire someone whose visa was almost up – hence why I ended up at deep fried Los Tacos hell.
‘I’m a buyer for clothing companies. Spend a lot of time in Asia, India, but now on the way back to meet some friends for a holiday in Fiji, before I’m off to New York.’
Yep. I definitely couldn’t tell him about what I’d really been doing for work.
I jumped in before he could ask about me again. ‘Family? You have kids?’
A wife? I asked silently.
‘No kids. Single.’ He shrugged.
‘Oh?’ My stomach flipped. Maybe this was happening. ‘Me too.’
‘So, you didn’t say what you did? Or where you’re off to?’ He said.
‘I’m heading back home to Sydney, via Fiji, after travelling for quite a while.’
‘How long?’
‘Seven years.’
‘Wow. Where did you go?’
When I first left Australia, all those years ago, I went all ‘Girl Meets World’, being single and independent, trekking around Argentina, Chile, Peru and Bolivia. In Panama, I got a job at a bar, and there was an Irishman I liked – but I think I liked his accent more than I actually liked him, and despite some flirting, nothing ever happened. I did a whirlwind tour of the USA, shoestring style, before being persuaded by friends to join them at their swanky new villa in Bali.
Bali was hot and humid, full of post-career, corporate hipsters obsessed with yoga classes and shots of turmeric juice. At my yoga class, or the local market where I sold jewellery and bags, everyone smelt like sweat and none of this laid a good ground for romance. The closest thing to a crush was a drunken kiss with an English backpacker, who thought my name was Alyssa for the first hour. He was quite good-looking and funny, until he decided to have five vodka shots in a row, and passed out on the sand.
The only other thing of note happened during a full-body massage from Wayan, a local healing man. My towel slipped off accidentally as I was turning on the table, exposing one pale boob to the elements. He rushed out of the room, blocking his eyes, saying, ‘Sorry, Miss Emma, sorry,’ as if he’d tugged the towel himself and now had to deal with the nightmare consequences of this action. This was not the idea I had in my head when I read in Cosmopolitan magazine – that no matter how you look when you’re naked, men aren’t going to complain. Nope, they’re just going to rush from the room screaming.