Page 77 of Pretty Mess

“Lovely,” I say very honestly. I glance out the window and startle when I see signs for Heathrow. “Wait. I need to go home and pack.”

“Home?”

I ignore that in favour of panic. “I haven’t got anything to wear.”

“Relax. Your bag is in the boot. I took the liberty of getting your housekeeper to gather what you might need.”

“So, I’m all packed?”

He leans over, his hand on my thigh, tugging me closer. “Yes. I hope you don’t object to her going through your wardrobe. I debated doing it myself, but my courage failed me at the last.”

“I don’t blame you. It’s not a job for the fainthearted.” I grin at him and squeeze his hand. “I’m so excited. Paris, here we come.”

I’m expecting to go into the main terminal at Heathrow Airport. I’ve been there a couple of times to meet friends who’ve been away. Instead, we travel past it, pulling up outside a long building. I climb out of the car, stretching in the sunshine, and then leap to take the cases from Robert.

“No need, Wes,” Robert says, setting them on the ground. He shakes Mac’s hand, shoots me a smile, and then climbs back into the car and pulls smoothly away. As if synchronised, the building’s doors slide open, and a man in uniform appears, pushing a trolley.

“Mr Reilly, lovely to see you again,” he says, approaching Mac with a smile and shaking his hand. “Please come through.” He loads our cases onto the trolley, and we fall into step next to him.

We cross a large waiting room where suited men and women are tapping away on their laptops or talking on their phones. A huge TV on the wall is showing the financial news, and in a corner, a buffet table is set up with lots of breakfast choices. The air smells of coffee and is full of the sound of low conversation.

The man with our cases opens a door, and a wave of diesel-scented cool air drifts into the room. “Follow me, please,” he murmurs, leading us outside the building.

We trail after him as he crosses the concrete to a small plane that’s waiting. It’s a sleek gunmetal grey.

I stop dead. “Is that ours? I thought we’d be on a big plane.”

Mac smiles at me. “No, this is ours.”

I narrow my eyes. “And when you say ours, what does that mean?” He doesn’t answer, and I look around. “Don’t we have to go through passport control?”

“No need.” He puts a hand to my back and steers me towards a set of steps leading to the open door in the plane.

We climb the steps and step into the plane, where we find a lady standing in a small, curtained waiting area. She’s dressed in a smart navy uniform. “Mr Reilly, it’s lovely to see you again.”

“And you,” Mac says. He puts a hand on my shoulder. “Let me introduce you to Wes Archer. Wes, this is Maeva.”

“Nice to meet you,” Maeva says. Her eyes are curious, but she’s every bit a professional when she asks, “Is this your first time flying with us?”

“First time flying anywhere,” I admit.

She smiles. “Really? Well, you’ve picked a wonderful day. The pilot says it’s clear skies and good winds all the way. I have your passports, so I need to just do the usual admin. Please be seated.”

Mac steers me to a door, and I find myself in a small cabin panelled in a shiny wood that looks like my mum’s old tortoiseshell glasses. Oversized white leather chairs are set by the windows, and the light is low.

“Jesus,” I say, turning in a slow circle. “So, this is how the other half lives.”

He leans against a chair, his eyes intent as he watches me. “Do you like it?”

“Is this yours?”

He chuckles. “No, that would be a silly extravagance. I belong to a business club that offers services like this. I find it very useful when on business trips. I can spread out and get a lot of work done without crying babies and noise.”

The door opens, and Maeva reappears. She hands Mac our passports. “Please be seated, gentlemen. We’ll be taking off soon.”

She disappears through the door, closing it behind her, and I settle into the seat opposite Mac. It’s very comfortable and Irelax into the leather, looking out the window at the hangar. Everything seems extra bright under the clear blue skies.

Mac sets his leather messenger bag on the table between us. It looks expensive, yet well-worn. I’ve noticed that everything he owns is of very good quality and chosen for use rather than swagger. He pulls out an armful of folders and his laptop and then looks up as if sensing my eyes on him. “Do you have your iPad?” After I nod he says, “You can read or watch a film while I work.”