Page 37

FOURTEEN

Suzie

‘Miss, are those Gazelles? Those are fire,’ Lola tells me, as we all get on the plane, Lee to the front trying to direct people to the right seats. I look down at my red suede trainers and smile.

‘Thanks, lovely. You managed to find something to wear?’ I ask her.

When Lola arrived at school, she basically showed up in a crop top and cycling shorts claiming Mr Shaw had told her it’d be really hot and she wouldn’t need much.

Mr Shaw disputed this fact quite sternly but it didn’t make up for the fact that all she had in her bag were shorts, crop tops and bikinis.

‘Yeah, Mr Shaw made me wear his hoodie. Does it look crap?’

‘It looks warm at least.’ It’s actually Nike and vintage-looking so she does look quite cool.

Well, to my twentysomething eyes at least. She continues down the aisle in her UGGs, socks and polka dot trolley bag.

The mention of Mr Shaw’s name makes me peer around from my aisle seat looking for him.

Why am I here? Why? I had a whole season of Reacher cued up for half term and had planned how many episodes I was going to watch per day.

I was going to laminate more things for my classroom, see my cousins.

I guess I’ll still have time for that, but school trips are always draining, eventful, not the reprieve from school life I need.

I tell myself I’m here because of my bleeding heart; I didn’t want the kids to miss out and a whole trip to be cancelled.

But then there could be another reason why I’m here. Him.

‘Ladies and gents, please keep to the seats you’ve been allocated.

No swapping. This really is for your own safety,’ Lee shouts.

A couple caught in the melee look at him.

‘Obviously not you, madam, I meant the teens. Ah, Senor Shaw! You will be sitting here with Senorita Callaghan…’ Senor Shaw.

That would be him and that senorita would be me.

We both look at each other. It’s the most I’ve looked at Charlie all day.

We’ve managed not to converse much so far.

We sat on different parts of the coach to the airport, we were allocated our own kids to herd and check in, we were even ushered into different security queues.

Maybe this doesn’t have to be a trip where we are anything more than colleagues.

However, this? This is a possible problem.

Charlie freezes in the aisle, hovering over the seat.

‘You…There are people behind you…’ I tell him, as a queue starts to form, blocking the way.

He hesitates then puts his bag in an overhead compartment and I stand to let him squeeze past me to his seat.

There’s no easy way to do that with the people waiting.

I don’t really want to put my back to him so he’ll brush against my arse, so I let him face me, hands in the air, and he slides himself past me, his face just inches away from me.

This is not ideal. I just smile so the kids don’t think it’s weird. Breathe, Suzie.

‘I can swap with Mark, if it’s easier?’ he asks me, still hovering around his middle seat.

‘I don’t think we’re allowed. It’s a safety thing and if the kids see us swap then they’ll want to swap and then… ’

‘Bedlam,’ he says.

You can do this, Suzie. We are adults. We have been super professional in how we’ve herded the children this far.

It’s a three-hour flight, we can literally just nap, plug in a podcast, read.

It could be easy to just ignore each other again for this short time, and then throw ourselves into showing these kids around Seville, helping to improve their conversational Spanish and broaden their cultural horizons.

‘So, kids…I don’t want to have to remind you that there are expectations on this plane. Any disruptive behaviour and we will…’

‘Sell you to the Spanish,’ Mark shouts. Some of the other passengers look at each other, worriedly.

‘Well, we won’t, Mark, but there will be severe consequences,’ Lee continues.

That sounds worse. The plane starts to quieten down, air hostesses walking up and down the aisles closing overhead compartments and checking seat belts before the plane starts taxiing away from the terminal.

A few of the children cheer. I try to focus on them so I won’t notice Charlie next to me.

Across the aisle is some fifteen-year-old I’ve never met before in a full Nike tracksuit and some pretty swish Air Force Ones.

Well, we’re now going to be best mates for the next few hours.

‘Do you have one of those emergency card things?’ Charlie asks me.

I turn to face him. I reach around in the pocket in front of me, pulling one out as I see him scanning it and looking at the flight attendant teaching us all how to put a lifejacket on. I like how he’s paying such close attention. ‘You good?’

He nods. ‘I just…every plane is different. It’s good to know things.’

‘Things?’

‘Emergency exits. Like, those lifejackets have whistles. That’s useful. ’

I bite my lip. ‘How many times did you have to do the fire safety course at school when you started?’ I ask him.

‘Passed first time, I took notes,’ he tells me.

‘Nerd,’ I say, surprisingly casually.

‘You?’

‘Twice,’ I say, I lie, it was four. I clicked through and didn’t anticipate the surprise questions at the end. ‘I was morally opposed to some of the questions though. That one that asks you to leave children in a burning building if they refuse to come with you? I didn’t like that one.’

‘So what would you do?’ he asks, curiously. ‘You’d put your life in danger?’

‘I’d carry them all out on my back. Emerge a hero, of course,’ I tell him.

He laughs, opening a bag of Maltesers and offering them in my direction.

The idea was not to engage with him as much, don’t talk.

Don’t look at him, even. However, Maltesers are my kryptonite.

Maybe just a couple so I don’t appear rude and maintain some civility between us.

I can do this. Just ask very general questions, don’t go down that dangerous Mallorcan road again.

I take a deep breath as the plane stutters towards the runway.

‘You managed to get everything packed and sorted in time then?’ he says, keeping the Maltesers packet there in case I’d like more.

‘It was a bit rushed. I probably haven’t packed enough pants but I’ll survive.

’ Why am I talking to him about my pants?

It’s the quickest I’ve ever packed, going to the back of my drawers to find my summer clothes and then realising I had to self-wax and shave and get my body summer ready in one night. ‘It’s actually quite exciting.’

‘Exciting?’ he says. I side-eye him. We don’t go there anymore. He and I.

‘The last-minute nature of it,’ I explain.

‘I’ve never been to Seville.’ I look down at the sinews of his forearms. I shouldn’t really be looking at those.

He reaches down to his bag stowed under the seat in front and pulls out his phone and a notebook.

It looks old, weathered but covered in stamps and stickers.

‘You…journal?’ I ask him, admiring all the pretty adornments.

‘Nah, it’s…I spent my year out in Sevilla. This was my diary that I wrote during my time there, all the little notes I made about the language. I used to eat oranges, peel the labels off and stick them on here. Everything from observations to addresses, telephone numbers…’

‘…Of all the senoritas you bedded?’ That was maybe not the right thing to ask.

He shakes his head. ‘Of all the friends I made. Here, this man was called Pablo. I lived in a flat above him. He was sixty-five, his wife made exceptional gazpacho and he still sends me a Christmas card every year.’ He offers me the book to look through and I study all the notes made with such care and attention.

‘It’s very English Patient ,’ I say, looking at some of the sketches and notes. He looks over at me and furrows his brow. ‘Sorry, niche reference.’

He pauses then shakes his head, dismissing the idea. ‘Where did you have your year out?’ he asks.

‘Guess…’

He shakes his head and grins. ‘Nice?’

I don’t answer but smile. He roars with laughter and I see some of the kids arching their heads over to have a look.

I turn back to flick through the pages of this journal that speaks of someone who loved his travels, who loved the culture, the city.

When I hand it back to him our fingers brush against each other and I try to ignore the charged feeling I get when my skin touches his.

I don’t trust that spark anymore. I try and change the subject. ‘Lola said you gave her your hoodie?’

‘Yep, it was question of her modesty over my warmth. I just hope she gives it back. I’ve lost too many good hoodies to thieving girls over the years,’ he moans. ‘Keep eyes on her.’

I smile. ‘Are you cold?’

‘Nah, it’ll warm up by the time we get to Seville.’

We both pause to take in what those words mean, as the plane gets to the start of the runway, engines growling to a start to summon up the power to take off. He holds on to both of his armrests, fists clenched around the corners of it, taking heavy deep breaths.

‘Are you alright?’ I ask.

‘Nope,’ he says a little too quickly. I can physically see him gulp as the plane starts to pick up speed.

‘Charlie,’ I whisper. This explains the attention to detail with the emergency cards. ‘It’s the safest way to travel, you know.’

‘That is a myth. The safest way to travel is to walk.’

‘You’d rather walk to Seville?’ I tell him. ‘You’d get there in time for Christmas.’

‘No, I’d get there for November. I’d walk quickly.’ He closes his eyes but smiles.