“My old boss would do a fortnight a year for Operation Smile. He took me along the last couple of times. The whole point is to get to places with little healthcare, so the transport can be a quite basic.”
Comprehension dawns. His eyes crinkle, and Anna reflects that he really is very handsome. “Operation Smile?” he says. “Ithink I’ve heard of them. Aren’t they the charity that fixes cleft palates?”
“That’s them.” She nods for extra emphasis.
“Are you a surgeon?” His head tilts as he considers her, reassessing in the light of new information.
“Anaesthetist,” she corrects. “What Americans call an anaesthesiologist,” she adds. She has been taken for a nurse before in the US. While it wouldn’t usually bother her with strangers, she still has a perverse desire to amuse and impress this man. Although he was born British, he has been Stateside for a few years.
It works. He is clearly impressed. “Wow,” he says. “Difficult job. You work for the NHS?”
The dull jolt of the wheels retracting accompanies her reply, “Yes. I’m based in one of the London hospitals.”
“Ah. Long hours? High stress?” He nods as if in understanding as he asks each question.
“And low pay. You’ve got it.” And then, as if she needs to defend her presence in Business Class, she adds, “I got upgraded.”
“I never even considered a career in medicine,” he says, graciously ignoring her reference to a disparity in income – a truly middle-class British trait. “I’m not great with gore.”
“Well, I think no one can argue with your decision.” Anna pauses to swallow, adjusting the pressure in her ears. “You are much better suited to being the Sexiest Man Alive.”
“Ah, that.” He looks slightly embarrassed, although Anna cannot understand why. She isn’t self-conscious about being beautiful. And most men she knows are far too fond of their own wonderfulness, even when their supposed magnificence is definitely over-stated.
At that moment, a flight attendant arrives. Thrusting her ample bosom forward, she leans around Anna to havea whispered confab with the Sexiest Man Alive. And Anna recollects herself. This man is off-limits. He must also be sick of women flirting with him. She reaches for her Kindle. Time to ignore him for the rest of the flight. If she can.
When the attendant leaves, Anna signals her disinterest by leaning forwards and pulling up the divider between their two seats. Or she tries to. It doesn’t budge. Rather than make a fool of herself by pushing harder, she gives up with a shrug. But he’s seen her struggle and steps in. She sees his muscles bulge as he tries to force it, but eventually he stops, probably fearful he will break it. He gives a wry grin, a lift and drop of an eyebrow, and sits back. Too bad. Now she will just have to stare at his beautiful face all the way across the Atlantic. A little fillip in her belly gives her pause. She reminds herself: she is not interested in this man.
She is distracted by the cabin crew moving around, bringing pre-ordered drinks. She glances up at her bunkmate as he accepts a coffee. She can smell it from her seat. She raises her glass of sparkling water, tipping it slightly in his direction and says, “Santé!”
He smiles. Another little ectopic heartbeat. “Your health.” He inclines his head in her direction. “Not drinking?” he asks.
“I could do with a good sleep,” she replies. “You?”
“I’m in training,” he answers. Anna has heard the same words from enough of the fitness nuts she works with to venture any further, for fear of being treated to a list of personal bests and health goals. But he continues, “I normally try to limit my caffeine intake too, but I’ve got some work I need to get through.” He lifts a wad of paper, bulldog clipped at the corner, before dropping it back to his lap.
Anna doesn’t return the gesture. She feels no need to compete. She works hard enough. This flight will be her first opportunity to relax properly all week. No patient notes to review, nor operations to plan for. She scheduled it that way,especially as she had been expecting the rigours of Economy Class.
“Unlucky you,” she says in a wry tone, leaning back in her seat and stretching her legs out fully.
“I endure.”
The dry humour is a surprise. Her eyes flick back to him and the innocuous look on his face. She smothers her smile. It will not do to appear too amused.
“I’ll let you get on with it.” She drops her eyes back to her Kindle and schools herself not to look up. The story is fast-paced. It should be engaging enough, but Anna has to work to keep her eyes on the page.
It’s almost a relief when the flight attendants reappear, spreading a white cloth on the fold-down table and placing a tray on top. The soup looks good, a pile of croutons stacked in the middle. It smells tasty too. She hazards a glance at her bunkmate.
“Snap,” she says.
“It’s always a safe choice,” he says in the voice of a seasoned traveller, and she wonders how many times he has done this journey. She watches as he breaks off a corner of his roll and dips it into the soup. She turns her eyes away as he lifts it to his mouth. It seems too intimate to watch him eat. Like a stalker. But she hears his words. “It’s good.”
She takes a mouthful of her own. It is surprisingly good. Especially for airline food, pre-prepared in a factory, no matter what the tablecloth and service might suggest. She keeps her eyes down as she eats, more to avoid spilling the lurid orange fluid on herself than appearing overly attentive. She tells herself it is more because she doesn’t want to endure a long flight, the transit to the hotel and checking in all in stained clothing rather than the humiliation of exhibiting poor table manners in front of the Sexiest Man Alive.
She doesn’t lift her head until she has finished her soup. She relaxes a little as she turns her attention to the side salad, but her seat mate is concentrating on his paperwork. Maybe she was doing too good a job of seeming uninterested.
The empty bowls are whipped away and replaced with an oval dish of roast chicken, mash, and vegetables. Again, they have chosen the same option and Anna looks up to find him looking back with a twinkle in his eye and a twist to his lips. Theoretically, the odds are nine to one against until you take into account that probably everyone in the cabin is likely to choose the meat option. Still, it is a tiny, little bond, and it gives Anna a warm, fuzzy feeling.
It also opens up a conversation when her seat mate offers his opinion on his first forkful. “It’s a little dry.”
