79

Ruby peeled the foil wrapper off the meal in front of her and peered cautiously underneath it. A slither of grey chicken breast with something brown and lumpy buried inside it, a smattering of tiny peas, a cluster of oily potatoes, all coated in a viscous tan-coloured sauce. She resealed the container and reached for the crackers instead.

‘Pretty gross, huh?’ The man next to her pointed at her tray and smiled.

‘Mmm,’ she nodded, ‘not really what I fancy.’ She’d been aware of the man sitting next to her since she’d first taken her seat on the plane three hours ago. She’d been expecting him to strike up a conversation at some point; he’d had that air about him. He’d been reading a book, but it didn’t grip him – he kept putting it down, looking away from it. He’d flicked through the in-flight magazines without reading any of the articles. He wasn’t self-contained. He was bored. Ruby had tried to give off her ‘don’t talk to me’ vibes, but he’d obviously decided to override them.

‘Troy,’ he said, offering her his hand to shake.

‘Ruby,’ she said.

‘Ruby? That’s a beautiful name.’

‘Thank you.’

‘So, what takes you to New York, Ruby? Vacation?’

She shook her head. ‘No,’ she said, hoping that, if she didn’t feed him any extraneous information, he might just give up.

‘Right,’ he said, ‘just visiting, huh?’

‘Yeah,’ she said, ‘kind of.’

‘I’m not from New York, myself. I live in Pittsburgh. I’ll be getting a connecting flight.’

She nodded and smiled and smoothed cream cheese onto a cracker.

‘So, I notice that you’re wearing a wedding ring. Are you meeting your husband in New York?’

‘No,’ she said, ‘I’m not married.’

‘Oh, right. Boyfriend, then?’

‘No. I don’t have a boyfriend. I just wear this ring to stop people hitting on me.’

‘Oh,’ he said, ‘whoah. I get it. But don’t worry. I’m not hitting on you. Happily married man.’ He tapped his wedding band and winked at her. ‘But if you’d like me to back off …’

She sighed, then softened. ‘No,’ she said, ‘it’s fine. But when I pick up my book’ – she pointed at it – ‘that’s a sign to stop talking, OK?’

He laughed, throwing his head back. The woman across the aisle glanced at them. ‘Righty-ho,’ he said. ‘I hear you, I hear you. So,’ he said, ‘Ruby, what do you do?’

‘I’m a singer,’ she said, ‘singer/songwriter.’

‘Wow.’ He pulled back from her and regarded her with admiration. ‘What sort of singer? Are you famous? Should I have heard of you?’

She laughed. ‘No,’ she said, ‘not unless you’ve been hanging out in dingy clubs in North London.’

‘Ah, no,’ he conceded. ‘Not quite my scene.’

‘No, I didn’t think it would be,’ she smiled.

‘But you’re good, huh? A good singer.’

‘I’m bloody brilliant,’ she said.

He laughed again. ‘I bet you are,’ he said. ‘Waiting for your big break?’

‘Waiting and waiting and waiting. This is my last-ditch attempt.’

‘Oh, right. New York or bust?’

‘Yeah,’ she said, ‘that kind of thing.’

‘Well, hey, look, in the meantime, I should give you my card. My sister’s getting married next month, been looking for a singer. Something unusual, something a bit … edgy, you know. If your luck doesn’t come up, give me a ring.’

Ruby shook her head. ‘No,’ she said, ‘not my thing. But thanks for the offer.’

‘Well, I tell you what, she knows some people, my sister. Big people up at Sony, up at Geffen. Might be a good opportunity to meet some people, make an impression.’

Ruby turned and smiled at Troy. ‘Now that,’ she said, ‘sounds very interesting.’ She took the card from between his fingers and slipped it into her handbag. And then she let Troy F. Shultzberg buy her a bottle of champagne.