the armrest onto his seat. I wondered how cool he’d be after five or ten hours of leaning to the left. I’d seen his face as I lumbered toward the empty seat next to his. Fuck’s sake. Why does he have to sit next to me?
I’d been given an aisle seat, thank God, which just meant twisting to the side each time the trolley passed, so I supposed I’d be staying awake for twenty hours. No rest for the wicked, isn’t that what they say? I could have done with the extra room in business class, but there’s a pecking order everywhere you go, and I’ve always been at the bottom of it.
I knew I wouldn’t be able to get the tray table down, so I didn’t even try, even though it meant saying no to every meal. I had energy bars in my pocket so I could eat them in the toilet—assuming I could get into it. So much to think about, so much in my head as the plane took off.
But I’m going to change everything in Australia. Lose weight, make friends, kick-start my comedy career. Flight 79 marks the end of a chapter I never want to read again and the beginning of a whole new one. I’m starting over.
I’ve never been happier.
THIRTEEN
11 HOURS FROM SYDNEY | MINA
The passenger’s face is waxy and slick with sweat. The doctor—a woman from economy with a neat ponytail and stud earrings in the shape of horseshoes—sits back on her heels.
“I’m sorry.”
Beside me, Carmel makes a sound somewhere between a gasp and a sob. I put an arm around her, as much to steady myself as to comfort her, because suddenly, my legs don’t feel like my own. The news travels around the cabin in a shocked murmur, and those passengers who had shamelessly stood and watched sink slowly back into their seats. I see Alice Davanti craning her neck from the other side of the cabin. She sees me looking and sits down, slipping a phone into her pocket. Was she taking a photograph?
“What do you think happened?” I’m unable to tear my eyes away from the body in front of me, from his blank, staring eyes to the pale skin on his exposed chest.
The doctor peels off the defibrillator pads and gently buttons up his shirt. “Some kind of seizure. Heart attack, possibly.”
“He did say he wasn’t feeling too good.”
Everyone turns. A tall man with glasses and a neatly groomed beard is standing in front of his seat. He’s wearing a gray sweatshirt, and he plucks at the sleeve, as though he’s uncomfortable at suddenly being the center of attention. “We were queuing for the loo earlier, and he had his hand pressed to his chest. A spot of indigestion, he said.”
“He was knocking back the port like it was Ribena.” At the other end of the cabin, by the entrance to the bar, soccer player Jamie Crawford has none of the other man’s awkwardness. I couldn’t name the team he plays for if my life depended on it, but thanks to the gossip mags in my hairdresser’s and my ridiculous memory for pointless facts, I do know that he retired at thirty-four, owns a nine-bedroom house in Cheshire, and is miraculously still with his wife, Caroline, despite shagging his way through several girl bands. The pair of them are in tracksuits: his gray and hers salmon pink, with love picked out in diamanté across the chest.
“And he had two of them cream cakes,” she says.
“Right. Thanks.” I’m suddenly defensive of the poor man on the floor, whose life choices are being picked apart by complete strangers. “Perhaps everyone could give us some space now?” Jamie and Caroline drift back to the bar, and I turn to Carmel. “You okay?” She nods uncertainly. “I’ll let them know in the flight deck.”
I walk the few feet to the galley and pick up the passenger list, noting that the dead man’s name is Roger Kirkwood. Crossing to the flight deck, I tap in the access code and wait the few seconds for the pilots to check the cameras that will show I’m alone. They buzz me in, and I feel the rush of conflicting emotions that always comes from being inside the cockpit. Instrument panels stretch in front of the two seats, with still more between them. Glass displays showing altitude, speed, fuel, and more. An array of switches on the ceiling shrinks the small space further; only the vast, bright