Having settled into her seat, unfortunately one of the central, side-by-side seats, she nearly choked on her champagne when someone collapsed into the aisle seat beside her and she turned and found herself looking into Freddie’s big blues. Next to her, but facing her, with a screen she could put up as soon as they were in the air; or, she thought, she could spend the next hours drinking and seeing how hard he’d try to seduce her, while she decided whether she wanted to fuck him. The latter was definitely more interesting, but she’d made herself a promise she would use the flight to work on illustrations for the long-unfinished book, and there were those selfies to photoshop. But they could wait… there was always tomorrow, and besides, she might not need Tinder, at least for a while. She watched him unpack his pyjamas and organise his personal space.
When finished he sat back and smiled at her. ‘Well, well, this has just made the flight a little bit more interesting. Cheers,’ he said, holding aloft his champagne.
‘I guess it has. Cheers,’ she toasted back, then, theatrically, tied her flaming red hair messily on top of her head, intentionally letting a few bits escape around her face. She smiled, watching him watch her.
It always occurred to Dixie how awkward these seats were, that you found yourself basically in bed, for six hours, with a person you had never met before. She’d had shorter relationships. Turn the wrong way and your arse would touch their leg, or you could fall asleep and snore with your mouth wide open. It was all so invasive of personal space. A sweating, overweight businessman was settling in right next to her in the other central seat. Thank god for the serendipitous delivery of an ageing Rob Lowe.
‘Can I offer you some champagne?’ the stewardess asked Freddie.
‘Yes please,’ he replied, ‘and I think my friend will need a refill before long. Keep it coming.’
Champagne in hand, Dixie decided things were looking up. This guy had all the moves, she thought, and I’ve got a few myself, checking the location of the nearest toilet.
‘So what is it you do then Freddie, or shall I guess…? I think you look like you wish you were in a creative industry, but that somehow passed you by, and you ended up enjoying the financial rewards of a more stable career… and now you are a lawyer, yes, an M&A lawyer… Making the world a better place, one merger at a time… how right am I?’
Freddie was laughing, his eyes glistening. ‘Well, well,’ he said, ‘quite the Mystic Meg, but no, I am sorry to tell you, I am a scientist, of sorts: gene therapy. We research degenerative conditions. I love what I do… although I appreciate it sounds very boring to someone like you.’
‘You are so wrong,’ spluttered Dixie. ‘I’m just a humble PA. It is so refreshing to meet someone with a brain, someone who loves what they do. Believe me, I have met enough lawyers to last me a lifetime, so someone who is actually helping people is inspiring. Unless, of course, the whole thing is just made up to try and impress me…’
‘Well, for now, that is for me to know, and you to find out,’ he said.
Dixie was starting to like this Freddie’s game. Maybe pulling on an aeroplane was a better way than Tinder to find her next hook-up.
When Dixie woke with a start, she was shocked to find them landing in JFK. She was sitting upright. She’d never even made the bed! She prayed to all the gods of personal hygiene that she hadn’t dribbled. Her hair was still piled on top of her head, just. Had she been snoring? Her sinuses were stinging and congested. Her tongue dry and hard like a cat’s. She’d had too much champagne.
Freddie was sitting there staring at her, grinning.
Must get my crap together, she thought.
She remembered laughing a lot. And the purser asking them to keep it down. Then it all became a bit of a blur and she hoped she’d just dozed off.
‘Morning, sleepyhead,’ he said, a little too affectionately.
‘Must have… d-dozed off,’ she stammered. ‘Sorry about that. Anyway, always good to power nap and, you know, err, hit the ground running!’
‘Let’s blame the bubbles… Mind you, I will share a bottle with you anytime if you make more promises like last night… Though passing out mid-sentence – my sentence at that – is a new one.’
She felt herself turn crimson. Her embarrassment made worse by the fear she looked like a red-haired beetroot daubed in Radioactive Red lip gloss and smeared in smudge-proof Maybelline mascara. She pulled down her hair and shook it out to hide her face, before quickly tidying around her eyes and lips while she wondered what the hell had gone on.
‘Freddie, I assume you are teasing me. I am far too well behaved to make reckless promises while under the influence,’ she said, anxiously scrabbling in her bag for a Polo to lubricate her tongue and mask her booze breath.
‘Oh, I don’t know about that,’ he said. ‘I was rather looking forward to tonight. It all sounds quite racy. I assume you are a woman of your word?’
‘Absolutely,’ she laughed, thinking that this was definitely getting out of hand. What was she capable of promising while drunk to the point of blackout on a transatlantic flight? The only consolation was that she’d been trading promises, not favours. She glanced anxiously at the toilets. It wouldn’t have been the first time she’d found herself in there.
God, why did she always do this? What was wrong with her! Still, the girls would love the story. So Dixie! they’d hoot. A handsome, married man, a bottle of champagne and six hours in a bed. What did they expect!
By now the jetty was attached and they were preparing to deplane.
‘It’s been lovely to meet you, Freddie.’
‘You too, Dixie Dressler.’
God, she’d told him her real name! What else had they discussed?
‘I’ll see you later then?’
‘I wouldn’t miss it for the world,’ she smiled, styling it out, knowing she was on the point of escape. ‘Don’t be late!’
‘Seven at your hotel bar should be fine. I’ll text you if it changes,’ he said, waggling his phone.
‘Great. Listen, I must run.’
‘You don’t want to share my car service?’
‘No need.’
They kissed. His hand on her lower back, pulling her against him.
‘Laters, lover boy!’
As she strode into the terminal, she chastised herself. What was the point of having all these adventures if she couldn’t remember the detail? There was a flash of regret that she hadn’t had time to refresh her Tinder profile. Having botched face-to-face flirtation, she was going to have to rely on her well-used Tinder profile to keep her trip interesting.
Chapter Four
Stella
Rory was sitting upright in the Victorian bath, naked. She’d removed his clothes, showered and dried him and left him sitting there. It was literally the only safe space in the house. He could neither escape nor cause havoc. But he was not happy and he scowled as he watched her wet-wipe her face, arms and most of the brown graffiti from the front of her Pineapple sweatshirt. (Olivia was not the only victim of his chocolatey two-year-old wandering hands.) She tried to make her hair behave, primped, flatten, teased, but the humidity and infrequency of conditioning limited her ability to control it.