The A-Z of Us (31 page)

The plane levels. The turbulence stops. Two hundred and thirty-six people let out a sigh of relief, as one.

I turn to the window so no one will see the tears which fill my eyes and begin to run down my cheeks.

A while later, the Captain informs everyone it's safe to leave our seats. I stand and head to the toilet. The man and his wife smile briefly at me as I pass.

I wipe my swollen, puffed eyes and look into the small over-lit mirror. The reflection that stares back at me looks older than I'd expected. In the slightly receding line of its hair, in the more sunken setting of its eyes, in the gentle encroaching looseness of the skin under the chin, I
recognize someone else. For the first time in my life I see how the son will become the father. It makes me sad. But it is also a relief.

I want to speak to my dad. I want to tell him that I miss him, that I am still a son who needs kind words and advice. I want to prove to him that I am worthy of the Vicar's love and time and affection, as much as his congregation, as much as the poor, deranged and infirm who flock to the Vicarage, the lost sheep.

Back in my seat, I try watching the film once more, but I can't make out the plot and my headphones aren't working properly. I think about complaining but then I drift into sleep. I wake some time later. The sun is cutting in from the opposite window. I wonder if I can ask the young husband to close it, but he is asleep with his wife's head on his shoulder, the little girl curled in his lap, the baby asleep in a travel cot on the floor. They look so peaceful.

I open the blind by my window. Below, I can see white land, probably Greenland. In the bright sun the ice shines blue and silver, extending to the horizon. Small flecks of icebergs dot the dark sea. I imagine myself, Ian Thompson, alone on the ice, an explorer in furs with yapping dogs at my heels, striding forth to map out new lands. It's an image I created many years before, as a child, reading
Adventure Stories for Boys
by torchlight, beneath my sheets.

Yet at this moment the image of the solitary heroic Ian Thompson fills me with dread. I don't want to be out there, in the wilderness, on my own. I want to be back in London. I want to see Gemma, and apologize. I want to see my parents, to ease their stress and their fear. I want
to sell the map of Palestine and give them the money. For the first time in my life, I want things to go backwards, to return to the time before.

The stewardess asks me if I'd like a pre-lunch drink. I order a coke, which seems to please her. She pours it, smiles sweetly once again, and places the drink and a small bowl of cocktail snacks by my left arm.

‘Good sleep?' she asks, softly.

‘Yes, thanks. Really good.'

I know what I have to do. I take a sip of the coke, reach out and take the Airphone from the back of the seat in front of me. I've never used one before, but it seems straightforward enough. I swipe my credit card in the slot, and dial Gemma's mobile number. To hell with the cost.

I feel a flash of excitement as the crackling silence becomes a dull ringing. I will say I'm sorry, say I want things to be like they've always been, that I am her best friend and I want nothing more from her than her trust and laughter and ability to listen to me in a way no one else can.

As I wait for her to pick up, I take a snack from the bowl. It's salty. I bite quickly and swallow.

I know immediately.

‘Shit!'

I look at the bowl. It's full of walnuts. As the two nutty pieces disappear down my throat I feel the tingling. I cough, trying to regurgitate, but it's too late. Just a speck of walnut affects me. I've never eaten a whole one before. I gag, spit rising. Where is my adrenalin shot? Where is it? WHERE?

Then, in a moment of absolute terror, I remember. My
epi-pen stabbed Molly's thigh. I threw it away. I've been meaning to get another one, but with everything that has happened…

I drop the phone. The receiver hangs forlornly, swinging back and forth. I punch the SERVICE buzzer in the armrest. I rip open my seatbelt. I can feel my hands itch, my back, the swelling of my skin, my throat beginning to close, I can't breathe properly, I fight for breath.

‘Please…'

I stumble into the aisle, the young husband looks up, dazed and concerned.

‘I… ate… a… nut…'

I clutch my throat. The stewardess steps out from behind the curtains, and hurries towards me.

‘Are you all right?'

I'm clutching my throat like a character in a bad horror movie, I rasp for air, but I know what is happening, my throat is swelling, closing the air passage, my heart rate dropping, I feel dizzy, faint, my back and armpits and groin swelling in a mass of hives. I can't breathe. Anaphylactic shock. It happens so quickly…

I lurch forward, arms outstretched.

‘Nuts… aller… gic…'

‘Oh my God! Do you have medication?'

But I can't suck in enough air. I stumble and kneel and then collapse on to the floor of the aisle. I can't see clearly, my vision blurring. I can feel the hard sticky carpet beneath my head, and I turn, looking back upwards and faces are staring down at me in concern and fear.

Fight it, Ian, fight it.

I have to breathe, but each breath is becoming more
difficult, my lungs seem to be shrinking, smaller and smaller, my mouth is full of spit and the horrible, alien toxic taste of walnut and I want to be sick, but I have to keep breathing.

I sense movement above me, and voices, but I am feeling lighter, as if the blurriness of my vision is seeping into my blood. Then, at once, I sense myself lifting, and I am looking down at my body lying prone in the aisle of the Business Class section of the British Airways 747, unknown people crowding around me. It is both strange and strangely familiar.

Keep breathing. Don't give in…

Yes. Yes. Yes. I have to breathe. But I can't.

I see faces, but they aren't the people from the plane, they are familiar faces – Justin, Raj, Molly, Gemma, my mother and my father. Suddenly I am filled with a surge of love for each of them, a feeling that makes me tingle and swell. As I choke, I see again moments in my life when I've felt overwhelmingly happy – the view from St Paul's as my father describes the history of London, my first kiss with Sarah Lawrence, meeting Gemma at the pizza-eating contest at Sheffield, my thirty-yard goal for the first team against Manchester University, my first travel writing article, a sunset in the Maldives, Molly's small nose against my neck, my father's smile at the café in Soho.

I breathe out. Maybe my father has been right to believe all along. Maybe everything is connected by an invisible thread that is only detectable at the end. Maybe the head does not rule, maybe it is the heart that has to be followed, because the heart knows what the head and eyes can never
know, that love does indeed make the world go round, and all we need is love.

The plane banks. Sunlight strokes my hair. It's the most beautiful light I've ever seen.

‘See Dad? That's Him, isn't it? That's Him.'

‘Yes Ian. That's Him.'

I am happy. I am more than happy. I part my swollen lips and try to smile. Then, swiftly, before I can say another word, the plane banks again, and everything fades into darkness.

My mobile rings but when I answer all I can hear is loud static. I wait for a moment, but no voice emerges from the crackling din, so I turn off my phone. I have drawings to annotate, I have materials to select, I have costings and invoices from the bar to go through.

I sit at my desk, enjoying how comforting it feels to be back in my space, with my large white monitor, my wall calendar, my selection of coloured felt-tip pens and my big black stapler that is so solid and dependable, unlike the men in my life.

I walked into the office like Clint Eastwood, I think (with the steadfast stride, but without the poncho and cheroot). Gwen Jones looked up, nervously.

‘I want to get back to work,' I declared. ‘There's no hard feelings. It's all forgotten.'

‘Er… all right. Fine…' Gwen stammered. ‘Welcome back, Gemma. And, er… thanks.'

Clicking through the client drawings I am relieved to find that everything seems on track. It is good to see all the layouts in order, everything organized and correct and on course to meet the October deadline. It's all so neat, so sensible. I feel my stomach relax, my lungs open. I find myself humming a song, something that seems familiar, a Top-40 hit I heard blasting from a kid's headphones on the bus.

‘Love me, hold me, I'm yours eternally…'

I try not to think about Ian. He will be all right. He is resourceful. I suspect that he'll get on a plane and travel somewhere for a while. I don't blame him. After all, I am escaping myself, returning to work. Flight from trouble is a natural instinct, I think, much more so than staying put to face the onslaught. It's only human.

Yet, I don't feel like I am escaping. For some reason, on this sundrenched Friday morning, I feel stronger. Something is different, as if elements have shifted and are now in a better, more cohesive alignment. I can't define it. I can't map it, or plan it out, hard as I try. I just feel better.

‘Gemma?'

I jump, swivelling round on my chair. Duncan Archer steps back. He looks exhausted, but well groomed, his skin taught and freshly shaved, his eyes sunken and sad. He is wearing a sombre grey suit and a light blue T-shirt.

He holds his hands together, as if embarking on a prayer.

‘I am so very sorry. I will never forgive myself. I was completely out of order. It will never, ever happen again. With anyone.'

I have always found the expression ‘to wring one's hands' comic, but here, now, in front of me, Duncan Archer seems to be doing exactly that – his two hands clasped together, swinging up and down like a small bell. He seems smaller. I feel sorry for him. But I'm not going to let him know that.

‘I should have sued you, you bastard.'

He nods, like a small boy.

‘Yes. It was unforgivable.'

There is silence between us. He wants forgiveness, I decided from the outset to grant him forgiveness, but at this moment, I'm not sure I want to give it to him. I glance left and right, to see if others in the office are watching, but everyone is working at their desks, heads down. Evidently, no one else knows what has happened between us.

‘Why did you do it, Duncan?'

‘I was drunk, but that's no excuse. I'm sorry, Gemma. I'm so… so disorientated. I love my wife… now, of course, I want her so much. And I can't have her. And it's my fault I can't have her.'

He seems defeated, but anxious to talk about his defeat.

‘I've ruined everything, and I've only realized the damage I've caused now that it's too late. I couldn't see what was in front of my own eyes, it was there, in front of me, but somehow I couldn't see it. I feel like some bloody old-fashioned explorer who thought he'd found El Dorado, only to find he's completely in the wrong place and about to be eaten by cannibals!'

I imagine Duncan Archer in safari suit and pith helmet being stewed in a cannibals' cauldron. It's not an unpleasant picture.

I nod, once. This is as supportive as I want to be. I say nothing. Duncan Archer coughs, then continues:

‘Anyway… I am taking some time away from the department. Nigel and Gwen will run things. If you feel it's appropriate, I'd like you to be Project Manager on two new commissions, a restaurant conversion in Borough and a retail space in Brixton. We'll double your salary,
you'll have a team of five people working under you, you can select whomever you want.'

He coughs again, his eyes narrowing to a beseeching frown.

‘Please Gemma. Stay. I trust you. You are honest, unselfish and you care about the people you work with. I want you to help build the future of this department, whether I'm involved or not.'

I look at him. Two years ago I would have dreamed of hearing these words. But now I feel overwhelmingly sad. It's likely that I will not have a future, at this company or anywhere else. Can I tell him that?

‘I'll think about it.'

‘I'm in therapy, Gemma.'

I nod.

‘The Borough restaurant is a great project, I've drawn a sketch, it's on Snowfields, do you know the area?'

‘I don't think so…'

‘It would be fabulous if you could start Monday…'

I nod, reaching in my bag. As I take out Raj's
A to Z
, I remember the front cover. I open it.

Raj ♥ Gemma.

I hold out the page to Duncan.

‘Look.'

He smiles.

‘Very romantic.'

My finger lingers over the worn black ink.

‘Yes,' I say, firmly. ‘It is.'

After Duncan departs, I sit at my desk, unable to take my eyes from the black heart on the white cover. Why did
Raj draw it? Why did he spend so long neatly colouring it in? It's a perfect heart.

On our first date, we went to dinner at a small French restaurant in Soho, where the candles stood in wax-caked bottles, the wine was cheap and the tablecloths red-checked. Raj's knife was dirty, and he asked for another one. The peppery onion soup made me cough, and I asked for a glass of water. We've been back several times – on each occasion ordering the same meal – onion soup, steak with Roquefort sauce, crème caramel, coffee and armagnac. Each time he has asked for the knife to be changed, and I've coughed after a mouthful of soup, in remembrance of our First Dinner.

Ritual, I realize, makes a relationship. We are encouraged to believe it's the one-off occasions, the incredible once-in-a-lifetime moments that cement two people together, but it's not. It's the repetition, the small, inconsequential things that become vital and huge. The mortar between the stone.

His signature, so small and restricted.

His toothbrush, always blue, always medium bristles.