State We're In (24 page)

Other than the drone of the ineffectual air-conditioning, the cabin was reasonably peaceful. From time to time Dean's attention was pulled to the sound of someone glugging water from a plastic bottle or someone else intermittently chuckling at the movie they were watching. There was a persistent but insignificant chorus of bored sighs and shuffles as the passengers began to tire of the long journey. The plane's air was warm and sour with perspiration. Arid and coarse, it found its way up his nostrils and down the back of his throat; he knew it would cling to his clothes too. He couldn't wait to get home, to shower off the past few days and change into something fresh. He needed to be Chicago Dean again.

He might pop by the agency later this afternoon, even though he wasn't expected in. He loved his huge open-plan office with its great view of the city. There had been a time, a few years ago, after the Towers tragedy, when people had started to get nervous about having an office in a skyscraper but Dean had never been concerned in that way. He liked the view and the open space. It was probably true to say that he felt more at home in his huge, high-in-the-sky office than anywhere else in the world, even more so than in his loft apartment – although that was undoubtedly cool too. In his office, Dean was tall and strong. When he sat at his enormous glass desk he felt calm and composed. Triumphant and significant. Sitting by his father's hospital bed had leached away some of that confidence and self-belief. England did that to him sometimes. It was hard to remember who he had become when everything about him reminded him of who he once was.

Fuck his father! he thought angrily. Dean had been steaming when he'd believed his father had got in touch with him as he lay on his deathbed – he'd thought it was selfish and indulgent, melodramatic and confusing – but to hear that he hadn't even done that much was somehow worse. He felt humiliated that he'd gone running when he hadn't even been called. It was the worst. And now his father was dying. Typical of Eddie Taylor; he'd always been top of the class when it came to bailing. Dean felt intense flares of fury burn inside his chest and head. Fuck the woman he had left them for! He wanted to punch something or someone, or everything and everyone, but instead he silently simmered. It really wouldn't do to alarm the flight attendants.

His eyes fell on Jo. She was asleep now. At rest, her face was free of any desire to impress or apologise (the two states he'd already identified as her default settings). She looked neither young nor old, or strong or vulnerable. She was simply being human; she was sleeping and breathing, her chest rising and falling. Her mouth had become slack and hung open. The straightforward effortlessness of that fact caused Dean to draw a jagged, surprised breath.

They'd talked for a few more hours after he'd told her about his father. About something and nothing. She'd wanted to know more about what he did for a living and how he'd got into advertising in the first place; where he lived, how many children his sister had. He'd been glad that she'd kept away from the subject of his father; that she'd understood enough to let the matter drop. He'd recommended a couple of hotels that she might want to stay at. He couldn't believe she'd set off halfway round the world without giving her accommodation a moment's thought. He wasn't sure how big her budget was, so he'd written down the name of a hotel that his company had a corporate deal with and told her to pretend to be an employee when she booked in; they never asked for proof. He'd also recommended that she visit Buckingham Fountain, Millennium Park and maybe take a boat cruise. She'd murmured that she doubted she'd have time for sightseeing but thanked him for his suggestions.

In the end Jo had provided the distraction he'd hoped for, as she was extremely easy to talk to and listen to. She was quite unlike the women he usually met. So raw and open about her ambition to pursue her ex, she was totally devoid of any artifice or guile. Bonkers, obviously, deluded and mistaken, but at least real. Not that he could blame the women he knew for being cagey. Men could be bastards.
He
was a bastard. Of course, women were unlikely to bother to say what they were really thinking or feeling. Still, it was refreshing to get the truth off someone occasionally, even if that truth was foolish and reprehensible. Jo had a naivety – or was it more accurate to say optimism? – that he found intriguing. In fact he found it almost bewildering, because from where he was sitting her life was a lousy mess, and yet she really seemed to think it might get better.

Dean glanced casually around the cabin, looking for some diversion. They were making good time and would land in about forty minutes. Three p.m. Chicago time, just ahead of schedule. He'd take a cab to his apartment. Then later he could walk to his office and spend the rest of the afternoon there: catch up on emails, mooch around the creative department and see what they'd been working on in his absence. Maybe he'd call some of his friends and see if anyone was up for a night out. Dinner, a movie, anything. When had he last slept? It wasn't worth trying to nap now. He doubted he could anyway. He felt jittery and yet depressed. Wide awake and yet out of step. It had been a smooth flight, with just one or two spots of turbulence. When the plane shuddered, people looked up from their paperbacks but avoided one another's gaze, unwilling to show that they were afraid and irrational. Everyone was, though. In the end, despite the shows of civility that were meant to prove they weren't dumb animals, everyone was afraid and irrational.

Dean became aware that the flight attendants were striding down the aisle collecting used glasses and headsets. Then the fasten seat belt sign came on, and as though it had actually instructed everyone to leap out of their seats, rather than the opposite, people all around him suddenly jerked into action. The middle-aged businessmen bounced in their seats, slipping their shoes back on, putting away laptops, copies of
Time
magazine and Sudoku puzzles. Other passengers rushed to the bathrooms and the captain's voice came over the speaker system, informing them that they were now just twenty minutes from landing, that the temperature in Chicago was a surprising twenty-nine degrees and that the captain was aware that they had a choice of airlines and was gratified that they'd picked his. Dean stretched over to Jo and gently shook her awake.

‘We're going to land. You have to put your seat up.' She sat up suddenly, looking alarmed and befuddled. Dean wondered whether the enormity of what she was doing had finally sunk in.

He realised he was mistaken when she said, ‘Gosh, I must look a mess. Was I snoring?'

‘No.' She had been, very lightly, but he didn't think she needed to know; he figured she had enough to worry about.

‘Well, that's good. Did you get any sleep?'

‘No.'

She glanced nervously at the illuminated fasten seat belts sign. ‘Do you think I have time to go to the bathroom to freshen up? I bet I look a state.'

‘Not really. There's a queue. The flight attendants are asking people to return to their seats. Anyway, you look fine. Better than you did when you boarded.'

‘Oh, thanks. I think.'

‘You've got some colour back in your cheeks.' Without giving it any thought, he leant forward and gently, using his thumb, eased out the sleep that nestled in the corner of her right eye.

‘Thank you.' She surprised him by bringing up her hand and rubbing his cheek robustly. ‘You have a crease where you've leant against the pillow,' she said by way of explanation. He stared at her, startled but not affronted in any way. She stared back as though they were in a playground contest. But she lost because she blushed and turned away first.

They both watched in silence as the plane pushed through the downy bank of clouds, and suddenly Dean could see the imposing Chicago skyline. Terra nova for Jo, home for him. The elephant-grey tarmac loomed up to meet them. The wheels banged on to the runway with one whack, two, and then a third, before they were pinned firmly and safely to the ground. Dean heard a round of applause being offered up from economy class; one or two passengers in club class joined in, Jo being among them, even though cheering the pilot was largely an American tradition. Dean wasn't a nervous flyer so he hadn't realised he was gripping his seat arm. He only became aware when Jo placed her hand over his and wriggled her fingers to thread in between his. She gave his hand a small squeeze.

‘It's going to be OK,' she said over the noise of the rushing wind and whirling engines.

‘You think.' It was a statement rather than a question, but Jo nodded enthusiastically anyhow. It was odd; if he'd been a betting man, at the beginning of this flight he'd have bet that he'd be the one comforting her as they approached touchdown, not the other way round. She was a peculiar combination; so positive and therefore powerful, and yet so misguided and naive. Did she know what was making him nervous? Did she, with her blissful childhood, have any real idea? For a moment it seemed as though she did know that he needed reassurance, that by squeezing his hand she was telling him what he needed to hear – that everything would return to normal again now, the interruption could be forgotten and buried. He wouldn't sink.

After travelling at such a high speed for so many hours, it was strangely sobering and very frustrating that the plane crawled to the gate. Dean could see portable steps being wheeled out to meet them, and with an accuracy that surprised him every time, no matter how often he flew, the plane locked on to them like the attracting poles of a magnet. The engine stopped. The fasten seat belt sign went off. Passengers leapt up like athletes off the block competing for an Olympic medal, but Dean and Jo stayed still. Her hand still resting on his. Fingers intertwined. She smiled at him. He smiled back.

‘As a resident, I get to file through a slightly shorter customs queue than yours. So we probably won't see each other the other side.'

‘Right.'

‘So we should say our goodbyes now.' He didn't know why he'd said that. What was he planning to do? Shake her hand? Shake some sense into her? Hug her?

‘It's been wonderful flying with you, Dean Taylor.'

‘The pleasure was all mine, Jo Russell.' As he said it, he was surprised to realise that he meant it; what he said to women and what he thought about them didn't always tally as neatly, but he had needed her company more than he could have imagined. She was not just a distraction, but a comfort too. He'd been comforted by her optimism. Even though he didn't share it, he found he was gratified to think that such hopefulness was out there in the world somewhere. Actually, he was surprised to find that he had remembered her surname; he often called women ‘babe' or ‘doll' to avoid the complication of having to remember names. They sat quietly for a moment, allowing all the other passengers to rush and tumble around them. ‘Good luck with, you know, everything.' Dean couldn't quite bring himself to wish her luck with her ridiculous plan; it was cruel to offer encouragement.

‘I'm sorry about the book dropping and the champagne dropping …' She allowed her apologies to fade away.

He shrugged. Glancing down at the stains. He'd forgotten all about her entrance. ‘Don't worry about it.'

‘And I'm sorry about your dad.'

‘As I said, don't worry about it.'

I
watch Dean's back as he melts into the crowds that are heading for the residents' queue, then join the significantly longer, more higgledy-piggledy non-residents' line. I am continually jostled and urged forward and so I can't let my eyes linger on the sad and ridiculously handsome man for as long as I might have liked. I mentally shake myself. OK, what I have to do is think in terms of practicalities. I need to make this happen with Martin, to make it work. This is my big chance. This is my last chance. I must formulate a plan.

First I have to check into a hotel. Thank goodness Dean suggested one, or else I wouldn't know where to start. Wasn't that thoughtful of him? How far away will it be? I wonder. I bet it's gorgeous; he is clearly a man who values style. Is the hotel likely to be somewhere near the wedding venue? I hope so. Next I'll need clothes for tomorrow. I haven't packed much at all. Whatever came to hand first, without really thinking it through. So I have sleepwear, toiletries, jeans and clean knickers, but I'll need more than jeans and clean knickers to lure Martin away from his new fiancée. Although, arguably, if that is
all
I wear when I confront him, then I might be at an advantage. He's always been a breast man.

Having had my passport and visa waiver stamped, I wander through to baggage collection. I stand on tiptoes and crane my neck. I tell myself I'm not hoping to spot Dean, but I don't believe me when a wave of disappointment washes through me as I register that there's no sign of him. He obviously cleared customs before me, and as he had carry-on luggage, he wouldn't have had to hang around this noisy hall. He's probably halfway home by now.

I'll never see him again.

The thought strikes me like a blow. Suddenly I feel sick and tired and lost. I feel my sanguine confidence begin to drain. Rubbing my eyes with the heels of my hands, I mentally chastise myself. This is idiotic. So I'll never see Dean again. So what? He was an incident. That's all. We shared a few hours and that will be it because Chicago is an enormous city and there's no chance that I'll simply bump into him. I shouldn't even want to. How many people live here? Dean mentioned a figure. Was it two and a half million? So, not a hope in hell of ever seeing him again.

Suddenly the thought of Chicago looming, huge and unknown, is not so much exciting as intimidating. I feel coldly isolated and more solitary than I felt at Heathrow. Heathrow was fun. That side of the Atlantic I had shops and hope, and blind faith. Where has that gone to? It isn't just because this airport is new and strange to me; the truth is, I miss him.