I see the young man’s back first, as he squeezes past the passengers cramming their luggage into the overhead lockers. His fair hair curls over the collar of his cream trench coat. He is so tall he has to stoop slightly as he presses past. Now he is looking at the seat numbers on the other side of the aisle. Although people are sitting there, perhaps he thinks they are not in their rightful places: the only unoccupied seat in this part of the plane is next to me. I pick up the book and newspaper I had placed on the empty seat.
The man turns and I realise my mistake. He is not young at all; he must be in his late thirties or maybe older. His hair is not fair either, but light brown finely streaked with white, as if he’s had highlights from some expensive Bond Street hair salon.
He mumbles a greeting. I nod, hoping this won’t be interpreted as an invitation to begin a conversation. After handing his carry-on luggage to a flight attendant to stow at the back of the plane, he sits down with a sigh. I engross myself in my book, reading the same paragraph twice without taking in any of it. Then I steal a sideways look at my companion at the same time that he is sneaking a look at me. He smiles disarmingly. I smile back but don’t put down my novel.
The plane begins to taxi along the runway and in a few moments we are airborne. Below is the shimmering snake of the River Thames, and row after row of houses, an ever-expanding vista. One of those is mine, my little terrace in Kentish Town. Soon we are swooping into a thick white bank of cloud, and upwards into a blazing blue, and London has gone.
I try to read but again I’m not taking it in. The man next to me has extracted something from his briefcase, a hardback book. Without turning my head, I glance at its cover but can’t make out the title. He turns it so I can read the dust jacket, and we both laugh. It’s the new novel by Peter Carey.
We have left England far behind and are flying over water. The sea, solid like a piece of frosted glazing, is patterned with fine ripples. A few ships are dotted in the distance, like flies squashed on the glass. The sun glints off the surface, glittering and gold-rimmed.
‘Would you like lunch, Madame?’ The flight attendant holds out a tray as if she is offering rations to a particularly ill-favoured animal in a zoo.
I decline. I ate at the airport and am not hungry. But the man next to me whispers, ‘I’ll have it if you don’t want it. I’m starving.’
At once I tell the flight attendant that I have changed my mind and she passes me the tray. My neighbour thanks me profusely and makes a start on his lunch. As he opens his water cup, he says, ‘You’re not a biologist, are you? I know there are a few on this flight.’ He has a pleasant voice; more resonant than deep, it seems to vibrate from the centre of his chest.
I nod and offer him my quiche. He transfers it onto his tray. ‘So you’re going to the same conference as me,’ he says. ‘I haven’t seen you on the conference circuit.’
‘I haven’t been to many international ones. This is only my second.’
‘I travel quite a lot. Too much really but it’s part of the job. Why so few conferences for you?’
‘I’m a single mother.’ I watch for his reaction. I’ve grown to enjoy the male retreat on learning this information. It’s a way of preserving my independence and my cynicism.
‘That must be hard.’ His tone is matter-of-fact. The piece of information I’ve given him means nothing to him.
He takes a large mouthful of quiche. He eats quickly, as do people who are used to institutional food. Probably he was educated at a boarding school, a posh one at that. For a moment I consider telling him about my daughter Charlie, but think better of it. When he has finished he puts down his knife and fork; he smiles and asks about my children.
Only one child, I tell him and soon find myself explaining how hard it is to get away to conferences, although my daughter is a dream and has never caused me any trouble, at least not yet. He seems interested, so I tell him that she’s seventeen and doing her A-levels.
‘You look too young to have a teenage daughter,’ he says. This is the usual response, the conventional response. He is being gallant, as they always are. But today I am pleased. It’s as if I gave away my scepticism with my quiche, barely five minutes ago. I explain that I had my daughter when I was twenty. I don’t want him to think I’m older than I am.
‘You look much younger than thirty-seven,’ he says.
‘I see you’re good at sums.’ I pass him the tired-looking chocolate mousse from my lunch tray. Probably I’ve been talking too much; I resolve not to say any more about Charlie.
While he polishes off his second dessert, I speculate on his family background. He will have a charming professional wife – a lawyer perhaps – and two beautiful children, whose digital pictures he might show me later in the flight, when he opens the laptop that is almost certainly concealed in his briefcase. ‘What about you?’ I ask.
‘No kids, I’m afraid, and I’m not married either.’ He doesn’t look at me but tidies the various pieces of packaging on his tray, eventually returning them to a semblance of order. He might always be methodical or perhaps my question has unsettled him. I feel embarrassed, as if I’ve been prying. It’s my fault we are on this topic; I shouldn’t have gone on at such length about my daughter. But then I remember that he asked me first. He looks at me and grins; the awkward moment passes and is replaced by a feeling almost of ease.
The flight attendant comes by with coffee. She fills my cup first but avoids my eye. She lingers over pouring my neighbour’s coffee and offers him an additional mousse; she has several spare in the galley. After he declines, we grapple in silence with the aluminium foil covers on our pots of milk. Mine comes off with a rush; the milk spatters all over my hand and drips onto the tray. My neighbour passes me his napkin and asks me my name.
‘Sally Lachlan,’ he repeats after I’ve told him. I like the way he pronounces the syllables, on different notes. ‘You’re at University College, aren’t you? I read one of your papers in the latest issue of Trends in Genetics.’
I am delighted. I saw somewhere that on average two people in the world read each academic journal article: it’s gratifying to meet one of them. ‘Was that the one on stem cells?’ I ask.
‘What, do you have more than one paper in that issue?’ He is laughing now.
‘Was it on stem cells from skin?’
‘From skin and not human embryos – isn’t that what you work on? That will have ethical implications, won’t it?’
‘You mean there won’t be any?’
‘Do you ever answer questions, Sally, as well as ask them?’
‘Sometimes,’ I say, laughing. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Anthony Blake.’
My laughter dries up. I hadn’t imagined Anthony Blake would be close to my age. He has been publishing for so long I’d assumed he’d be nearing retirement. He has been at Imperial College for a number of years, so it’s surprising that we haven’t met before, although I know he visits the United States frequently.
The flight attendant takes away our trays as we approach the Spanish coast. The plane is dropping, wheeling like a bird of prey over cracked brown hills. The landing gear descends and the plane floats down towards the runway. As the wheels touch the tarmac, I look at my companion at the same moment that he turns towards me. For the first time I see his face full frontal. He smiles and I feel a shock of recognition. I smile back. His eyes are a deep blue.
The moment is broken by the hubbub of excited voices, the click of seat belts unfastening, the opening of the overhead lockers. Someone is calling, ‘Sally! Sally!’ and I look up to see a colleague waving for me to join her. I turn to Anthony, who offers me his hand, a strange gesture.
‘It’s been really good to meet you,’ he says. I shake his hand, somewhat awkwardly in the confined space. It is cool and dry and I don’t want to let go of it. Next he collects his coat and briefcase, and is given his luggage by the simpering flight attendant. After extricating myself more slowly, I leave the plane with my colleague.
At the luggage carousel, I notice Anthony on the far side, standing with a man I haven’t seen before, probably also a conference delegate. I watch Anthony watching me. I am at the mercy of my biochemistry now. Isn’t this what attraction is? I can almost feel the neurotransmitters making connections. Watch out, body: here come the monoamines. Watch out, body: dopamine, adrenaline, and serotonin are on the loose.