Becky looked back to her notepad. She had written the word ‘Spam’ three times. As unconventional as it sounded, Spam was going to be at the centre of her menu pitch for the nursing home. And she meant the meat product, not the messages from Wayfair and Wish you got ten thousand times a day because you once clicked on a Facebook advert…
What would go with Spam in a light finger roll? Something not obvious. Something to signify VE celebrations. Bringing back memories had been all important in helping her dad try to recover from his stroke. She and her mum had used photos of family holidays and Christmases past, music he enjoyed, cricket commentary, anything to provoke a reaction that they had hoped would lead to more interaction. Except it wasn’t to be and Megan had mostly stayed away. That was still something Becky failed to understand.
Was Spam and pickle too obvious? How about a mustard and chive mayonnaise? She had already decided she was going to do some kind of dessert featuring peaches, as Dolly, one of the more talkative residents, always spoke endlessly about the sweet tinned peaches the Americans had brought over with them in wartime. Here on the plane, with time to let her imagination and ideas flow, Becky didn’t care that Megan didn’t want the event. She wanted the job and she had already decided she was going to pitch for it whether it went through It’s A Wrap or not.
‘Are you OK?’
The question from her right startled her and Becky dropped her pen to the tiny table, quickly stopping it from rolling off onto the floor.
‘Yes,’ she answered. ‘Why? Do you need me to get up again?’
‘No,’ the man replied. ‘It is just… you have drawn a pig… I think… with another pig over the top and… you have put a hole in your paper.’
Becky looked at her pad. He was right. Why had she done that? How had she done it without even noticing? ‘Well,’ she said, flustered, ‘you’re… not wearing shoes.’
*
‘You do not like to fly?’ Elias asked her. He had been completely aware of her over the past hour for a couple of reasons. The first was that she was the complete opposite of relaxed, as well as not showing any of the hallmark signs of being excited for an upcoming holiday. The second thing was she had alternated between writing notes then staring into space drawing – or rather stabbing – random objects on the page. Usually he was seated next to a businessman like himself, with only the twin-tapping of their keyboards to accompany the roar of the Airbus. She was therefore a bit of a mystery and he couldn’t help but be intrigued. Who was she? What exactly was she planning to do with a book entitled How to Find the Love of Your Life or Die Trying? Perhaps he ought to give her his business card as a way of warding off any cluelessness when it came to finding love for life…
‘I don’t fly very often,’ she admitted. ‘I’ve actually only flown three times. Once to Scotland because it was cheaper to fly there and onward to Blackpool than it was to go direct. Then I went to Germany to pick up some acai palm seeds I bought because it was cheaper to go there in person than it was to pay the postage. And the other time was a glider lesson my sister bought me as a present. I’ve no idea why. I’ve never wanted to be a pilot and I hated it. I mean, gliders have no engines.’
‘I think that is why they are called “gliders”,’ he answered with a smile.
‘I understand the concept of gliding,’ she replied. ‘I just didn’t think, in this day, with all the health and safety rules they have now, that putting someone inexperienced in a vehicle with no engine when the only way is down, was going to be… you know… an actual thing. I really wished she’d just got me a gift card for Byron.’
She was cute. All large brown eyes and caramel-coloured hair that touched her shoulders. Had he just thought the word ‘cute’? Perhaps he should have had something alcoholic from the in-flight service. Too much coffee wasn’t good for him and he was about to be experiencing the deepest, darkest, strongest Greek coffee of all when he dropped in to see his parents while he was on Corfu.
‘I didn’t mean to sound rude,’ he told her. ‘About the gliders. I’ve never been in one myself.’ He held out his hand. ‘Elias Mardas.’
‘Oh… Becky.’ She picked up her notebook then put it down again and finally took his hand in hers. ‘Just Becky.’
She had a firm shake for someone with hands that got a little lost in his. Neat fingernails. No fake tips or French polish. He cleared his throat and withdrew his hand, picking up his stylus and poking it at his laptop screen.
‘What work do you do?’ she asked him, turning a little in her seat.
‘I am…’ You are a divorce lawyer. A highly regarded one. Tell her that and she will probably be both appalled and impressed. ‘Why don’t you guess?’ He turned in his seat now. ‘What do you think I do for a job?’
‘Not a gliding instructor,’ Becky said quickly.
‘Amusing.’
‘Not something that involves getting your hands dirty.’
‘Hmm.’
‘Your suit says banker or… international playboy but…’
‘Wow. I do not know whether I should be insulted or flattered.’
And her cheeks were flushed now. Like she wanted to retract her last sentence. She was cute. Too cute for him to try and give her his number and work for a casual hook-up some time. He didn’t know why he had thought that. Casual hook-ups weren’t that satisfying to him anymore.
‘I’m a—’
‘Doctor?’ Becky interrupted.
He shook his head.
‘Vet?’
‘You think I look like I could fix people.’ Well, she was kind of on the right lines.
‘People or pets.’
‘I don’t cut things open.’
‘Thank God… serial killer was my next guess.’ A relieved breath left her and he wondered for a second if she was serious.
‘I’m going to put you out of your misery,’ he said, leaning a little into the seat space between them.
‘I thought you said you weren’t a serial killer.’
‘I am an… estate agent.’
God. He had lied. Why had he lied? And why had he said he was an estate agent? Of all the occupations he could have picked! Estate agents weren’t generally liked by anyone. But, then again, he didn’t need to be liked. It was just a conversation on a plane. Something to while away the flight time and distract him from working on Chad’s divorce for an hour or so.
‘International, I’m guessing,’ Becky answered. ‘So, I suppose you get to walk around luxury villas all day long. Wow.’
‘Well…’ He was in a hole now and he had no idea how he was going to dig himself out. But… who cared? Not him. He could be an estate agent for an hour. It wasn’t too far away from all that property law he had studied. And it might be refreshing. ‘It’s not always about the villas. I deal with all kinds of properties. From luxury penthouses to… tiny one-bedroom boltholes no one even knows are there.’
‘It sounds exciting,’ Becky said. ‘Every day a new property to look at. It’s very different to what I do.’