Page 78 of The Elements

“Oh yeah. Sorry. I forgot. But still. I hate drinking alone. Actually, who am I kidding, I love drinking alone, but we’re, what, thirty-five thousand feet up in the air? Might as well be sociable.”

The steward brings the drinks, and as he puts them down before us, she gives him an unsettling pat on the thigh. “Thanks, darl,” she says, and I notice his jaw clench a little as he steps away. He doesn’t appreciate her touch either, hasn’t asked for it, doesn’t want it.

“I mean, if we are, in fact, that high,” she says. “I don’t really know.”

“37,532,” I tell her, and she turns to me in surprise.

“What?”

“We’re 37,532 feet in the air. Actually, 37,618 now.”

“How the fuck do you know that?”

I point toward a large television screen on the wall facing the bar, and she looks at it. A number in the lower left corner, beneath a map of our flight plan, indicates our height and position. We haven’t left Australian airspace yet; it looks like we’re somewhere above the Gibson Desert.

“Clever boy,” she says, turning back to me with a smile. “Anyway, what were we talking about? Oh yeah, you think that life can be just as difficult for boys as girls.”

“I do,” I tell her, choosing my words carefully. “The thing is, because of my job, I’ve seen a lot of things that I wish I hadn’t.”

“And you think I haven’t?”

“No, that’s fair, I’m sure you have,” I say, acknowledging this. “You’ve probably seen worse.”

“And you’ve probably ended up dealing with the same kids whose lives have been fucked up by the cunts I arrest.”

She’s speaking a little loudly now, and an elderly couple on the opposite side of the cabin glances over, offended by her language. I feel judged by them and want to let them know that we’re not together, that she’s just a stranger who’s engaged me in conversation.

“That said,” she continues, “while teenage boys are just a bunch of horny dickheads, teenage girls can be just as bad. They’ll do anything to impress the smug little bastards.

And the boys know that, so they take advantage of it.

I can’t remember how often I made a fool of myself at that age over some guy.

He always looked like a soapie, spent every free minute in the water, then just wanted to get into my pants so he could tell his mates all about it.

I mean, you know what it was like. You were a teenage boy once.

It’s not real if they don’t get to brag about it.

That’s one of the reasons social media is so important to them, isn’t it?

People want to show off. Sportsmen filming their gang rapes on their mobile phones.

And Zuckerberg, Musk, all those weird little men who couldn’t get girlfriends in college, it’s given them a platform.

A place they can make it clear how much they fucking hate women.

And enable those who hate them even more to become president. ”

“Maybe I moved with a different crowd,” I say quietly.

“In Sydney? I doubt it. They’re all the same.”

“I didn’t grow up in Sydney,” I tell her. “I only came to Australia when I was in my early twenties.”

“Doesn’t matter. Boys are the same all over,” she says, dismissing this.

“I hate to say it, but Billy’s just like that too.

And he’s got his father’s looks so he’s catnip for the girls.

Come on, Aaron, be honest with me. What were you like when you were fifteen?

I bet you were a right little runaround. ”

“I really wasn’t.”

“Then what were you?”

I search for the right word and settle on: “Isolated.”

“The shy and sensitive type?”

“A late bloomer,” I offer, wishing I could extricate myself from this conversation. “Girls weren’t really on my radar at the time.”

“I bet you were on theirs.”

To my surprise, I feel myself blushing slightly.

“Don’t worry,” she says, bumping a shoulder against my own. “I’m not hitting on you. As it happens, I have a boyfriend. Six years younger than me. Abs of steel. A jawline that could slice cheese. Billy can’t stand him, and my ex-husband hates him even more, but that’s their problem, not mine.”

“You know, you’re quite critical of him,” I tell her.

“Of who? My boyfriend?”

“No. Of your son. Of Billy.”

She rears back a little in the seat and stares at me, clearly surprised by this remark.

She looks away, then lifts her glass and drains it, even though it’s more than half-full.

This time, the barman doesn’t need to be asked; he’s been watching us and comes over with the Dom, keeping a certain distance from her while offering me another beer. I take it but don’t open it yet.

“That was a shitty thing to say,” she says when we’re alone again. “Especially from a guy who can’t keep track of his own son from one moment to the next. I thought we were just chatting. Kidding around. Comparing war stories.”

“We are,” I reply, wondering whether I have, in fact, crossed a line. She’s getting drunk but I’ve been matching her glass for glass, so I’m probably not fully aware of the impact of my words, and the altitude probably doesn’t help.

“Like, I love my son.”

“Of course you do.”

“I’m not some sort of psycho.”

“I didn’t mean to imply that.”

“Well, it’s how it came across.”

“I’m sorry,” I say. “Honestly, I am. It’s just…

I find that when parents consistently speak about their children in negative ways, it affects them.

The kids, I mean. They sense your disapproval.

But you’re right, I spoke out of turn. I wasn’t trying to be rude.

Just offering a professional thought. I should probably save it for my consulting room. ”

She nods, considering my apology, and I watch as she decides which she’d enjoy more: pursuing an argument or holding on to a drinking companion. In the end, she chooses the latter.

“All right,” she says with a shrug. “And maybe you’re right, I should lighten up about him. I didn’t have much experience of parents myself so I can’t even blame them. Mine were killed in a plane crash.”

I raise an eyebrow and stare at her.

“It’s true,” she says. “I was just a child at the time. Five years old. They were taking a holiday together to mark their tenth wedding anniversary and left me with my gran in Parramatta. I was only supposed to be staying with her for a week but ended up not moving out till I finished high school.”

“I’m sorry,” I say.

“It’s fine. I don’t remember them very well, and it was so long ago. But for some reason, despite that, I’ve never felt any fear of planes. If anything, I actually love flying. Maybe I have a death wish. You’re the psychologist. Don’t you think that’s strange?”

“A child psychologist,” I say, correcting her.

“Well, I was a child then.”

“But you’re an adult now.”

“Do we really change that much?”

“I think so. I feel that whatever happens to us when we’re kids lays the foundation for the life we’ll come to have.

If we have a happy childhood, then we’re more likely to become functioning adults.

Not in every case, obviously, but it’s more probable.

And if we have an unhappy one, well, it’s the same result.

As children, we don’t have the emotional resources to deal with trauma.

As adults, it becomes a little easier. We’ve learned coping mechanisms. Did you get help to process your grief at the time? ”

“Nope,” she says, shaking her head. “We just got on with things back then, didn’t we?”

“We did,” I agree. “Unfortunately.”

“Talking about what happened to me, to them, people would have said I should just be pleased that I hadn’t been on that plane too.

Your boy’s lucky. If something shit’s going on in his life, at least you have the training to recognize it.

With Billy, I worry that it’s something that I did.

His father and I, well, we didn’t have what you might call an amicable parting.

We still take chunks out of each other whenever our paths cross, and it’s been years since we split. Do you and Emmet’s mother get along?”

“My contact with my ex-wife is minimal.”

“And her contact with him?”

“Even less.”

“That’s unusual.”

I nod.

“Still, he’s a good kid, I can tell,” she says, finishing yet another glass and raising her hand for another. “Trust me, I have a nose for these things. He’ll be all right. He’s cute too,” she adds, and I feel something like an electric shock reverberate through me.

“I’m sorry?” I say.

“I said he’s cute.”

“Who’s cute?”

“Your son. He’s a good-looking boy.”

“He’s fourteen,” I tell her.

“I know he’s fourteen,” she says, slurring her words a little now. “I’m not saying I want to fuck him. I’m just saying he’s a looker, that’s all. Those eyes! He’ll be a heartbreaker, that one.”

She glances at her watch, then realizes how quiet I’ve grown and frowns.

“What?” she asks. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“It was nice meeting you,” I say, standing up and lifting my laptop from the table before starting to make my way toward the aisle.

“What?” she calls after me, raising her voice now, and a couple of people in the seats I pass turn around to see what the commotion is about. “What the fuck did I say?”