“You’re in 10B. Looks like 10A is a man. I hope he’s cute and single. By the way, you look great. I love that leather jacket.” She handed me my boarding pass with a smile of solidarity. “You have fun in Paris. Maurice here will walk you to our Executive Level security line. No waiting!”
The VIP treatment reminded me of a trip to Reykjavik I’d taken with my parents in high school, when air travel was still glamorous and benign. My father was receiving a medal of honor from the Icelandic government, and we were flying the national airlines. I recall multiple escorts to the gate, early entry onto the plane, branded earphones offered by immaculately dressed flight attendants. So much fuss. I loved it then, and this little bit of fuss improved my mood considerably. But nothing made me happier than spotting Casey and his entourage at the end of the long security line, one twin already lying down on the ground refusing to move, the other hanging on to the nanny’s leg for dear life. Again, eye contact. I checked my posture, straightened my shoulders, and smiled at Maurice as he unhooked the rope and let me through to TSA, like I was walking into the VIP lounge. I’m sure Casey was watching.
Well, he was cute, in a tweedy coat with leather patches kind of way. Not that he was wearing that, but he looked like he might if the weather turned tweedy enough. Neatly trimmed dark hair, pleasant face, throwback khakis, and an earnest sweater vest. Not exactly the bad boy Gael García Bernal fantasy I had cooked up in my head as I charged down the Jetway, but he did hold some potential for flirting. I was suddenly aware that my all-black ensemble might intimidate a guy who favored wool. Why do I care, I scolded myself. This is a random guy on the plane, not my destiny.
He didn’t seem to care at all. He was clearly not interested in striking up a conversation, not even looking up as I deftly stowed my carry-on in the overhead in one strong motion, stashing my leather jacket on top. Oh well. My plan was to pound a few glasses of champagne, then pull out my battered copy of the Blue Guide for France, 1997 Edition, and relearn the city I hadn’t visited in ten years. I wasn’t going to let one sighting of the Happy Harper Family throw me off my intended course.
I was proud that I had an actual book in my hands; I’d been on a TV jag of the worst sort. How had I never watched Damages before? Prior to Caseygate, I filled my free time with reading or at the very least, paging through magazines. But since Casey left, I’d barely cracked a single spine, TV my drug of choice. But it was time to get back to being me again, and the Blue Guide returned me to a time before anything was complicated and everything was beautiful.
My phone pinged, reminding me to turn it off. I looked at the screen expecting a message from Tai or my mother. Instead, it was from Casey: You looked great, Joan. On a mission? I hope it’s someplace cool. Maybe we can get a drink when you get back. See ya.
See ya? Is he fifteen? My only reply was no reply. I pressed the “off” button with a vengeance, then glanced to see if my seatmate was suspicious about my cell phone abuse. But my seatmate was absorbed in work, with a full display of devices working overtime. He was talking on the phone, staring intently at his laptop screen, and tapping away fluidly. Not even a nod as I slid into my seat. So much for any mile-high magic. What did it matter? Business class was so much better than coach in every way. I could make the upgrade work with my cover story if it came to that. Gate agents must have a long history of taking pity on recently dumped girls headed to Paris to get over the heartbreak. But it didn’t seem like my seatmate was going to grill me on my background; he was clearly a very busy man.
When the flight attendant came by with a round of champagne, I took advantage of the bubbly. That got a look from Sweater Vest, who had ended his phone call with a quick “Gotta go. I’ll call you when I get there.”
“Would you like some champagne?” I asked him, as if I were personally hosting the flight. I took the liberty of grabbing him a glass and putting it on the tray table between us. I was a little worked up, actually, quite a bit worked up, and I thought the champagne would have a calming effect.
“Thanks. Trying to finish up some stuff before we have to turn off our electronics,” he said.
“That’s the beauty of a paperback. You never have to turn it off.”
He wasn’t impressed. I took a big slug of champagne.
“Yeah.” Back to work he went. Of course, it took all my strength not to peek at his screen. My eyes were drawn to the glowing laptop like it was a visual siren song. All I could make out were spreadsheets of some kind, not the sort of information that I could easily decipher, like the usual stuff of outbound LA flights: screenplays and marketing PowerPoints. I gave up trying to snoop, closing my eyes and attempting to clear my mind. The image of Casey & Co kept popping into my head, so I refocused on the night at the hotel with Mason Andrews. I had been tempted to go back to the bar at the Langham and try to find him several times but held off because it still felt “too soon.” Well, not after today, it didn’t.
My schedule in Paris would be my own for the weekend. I was set to drop off the notebook at the art agent’s office in the Marais when I landed. I’d made plans with Polly for some time on Sunday but had an open schedule for the rest of the weekend. Sleep, coffee, and wandering were my plans. Alone. The meeting with the mystery buyer was set for Monday. I opened my eyes and absentmindedly reached for the extra glass of champagne. As I took a sip, Sweater Vest shot me a look. “You know, they give that out free all flight.”
“Oh my gosh. I’m so sorry. What’s wrong with me? I’m not used to flying business class,” I lied.
He looked embarrassed that he’d busted me. “Well, then by all means, have another glass. But it’s a long flight.” He went back to work.
After feeling the effects of the second glass of champagne, I’d given up on reading and was watching Toy Story 3 instead, thinking it would be a breezy way to spend a few hours. A friend’s dad had worked on the original Toy Story, and going to the premiere on the Disney lot was a vivid memory for me. But I loved the movie so much, I made my dad go see it in the theater with me. He identified with Woody completely. I had no idea that the latest addition to the franchise was such an emotional minefield as those damn toys made it back to their person, Andy. I pretty much cried for two straight hours because you’d have to be made of stone not to cry at that movie. It was a poor choice for a plane.
After a trip to the restroom to wash my face, with my own wipes, of course, and to apply a thick layer of La Mer like my mother had taught me, I wandered back to my seat. I rewrapped myself in cashmere and settled in for dinner. Sweater Vest had filed away his devices and was staring straight ahead as he ate his beef Wellington, an ambitious entrée for in-flight cuisine. He nodded at me as I sat down.
“Really sad movie,” I explained.
“I could tell.”
“Should have gone with Gnomeo & Juliet.” Apparently, he didn’t realize I was kidding because an awkward silence ensued. “Did you finish your work?”
“I did. I have to speak at a conference this weekend, and I hadn’t put together my speech. I have an outline now.”
“Oh, what kind of conference?” Maybe he was a doctor. They have conferences all the time in glamorous places like Paris. Or worked for a think tank. He had that think tank look.
“I work in tech, mainly with robotics and artificial intelligence. It’s a conference about the future of AI.”
“Oh,” I said weakly, unable to think of a single informed question, except to inquire when the robot army was going to take over, so I left it at nothing.
A little smile from Sweater Vest. “That’s the reaction I usually get.”
“I don’t know much about artificial intelligence. What does your work look like to dopey real people like me?”
“In short, I started in software that works in robots who help build cars, slit steel, that sort of thing. Assembly-line work. Now I’m working on an application for artificial limbs.”