Just Haven't Met You Yet(8)

With everything being so rushed, I also haven’t had time to dwell on how I feel about going on this trip. Will stepping into the footprint of my parents’ story bring me closer to them, or am I just going to find it upsetting?

My mother is still so tangible to me. We shared a lifetime of memories, and my grief for her is still so ragged it gives her solid edges—I can conjure her voice in a quiet room. I can picture the way she would open her arms to hug me when I walked through the front door. When I pass the rooibos tea at the supermarket, I see her slim frame standing by the kettle, jiggling a tea bag up and down by the string.

With Dad it’s different. He died when I was three, so I don’t remember him. I only have a few things left that link him to me: the coin, of course, then there are several photos, his old watch that I never take off, a library of his favorite books, and his treasured LP collection. When I was sixteen, I spent all my pocket money on a record player so I could listen to his music just as he had. I’m probably the only twenty-nine-year-old in the world today whose favorite bands are Genesis and Dire Straits.

There is too much of Mum to ever be condensed into a box full of things, but all I have of Dad are secondhand memories and these objects he left me. If I let go of what he treasured, I worry his blurred edges will fade until there is nothing left of him at all.

A woman bumps into me, her apology breaks my reverie, and I realize I’ve been standing, staring at the departures board for a good ten minutes. Now I must run so as not to be late.



* * *




*

It is less than an hour-long flight to the small island off the north coast of France. I’m traveling with hand luggage, but at the gate a man tells me, “Madam, we’re going to have to ask that you put your bag in the hold.” I feel myself bristle. When had I become Madam rather than Miss?

“It’s definitely regulation size,” I protest. “I actually bought this case specifically because it adheres to the dimensions on your website . . .”

“I know, ma’am, but we have a very full flight today, so we’re asking people to check wheeled cases into the hold. There’s no charge; you’ll get it back as soon as you land.”

The man gives me an insincere grin that puckers his smooth, perma-tanned skin. Obediently, I shuffle out of the queue to open my case and extract what I need for the flight. I take out my mother’s Jersey photo album—too precious to stow in the hold—and Tiger Woman, so I have something to read on the plane. Just as I’m trying to close my case, someone bumps me from behind, and my open toiletries bag flies into the air. A value pack of fifty non-applicator tampons hits the ground and explodes across the lounge in a spray of white bullets. My cheeks burn as I fall to my hands and knees to retrieve them. The man who bumped me bends down to help. Why did I bring so many tampons with me for one weekend away? I’m on my fourth day; I should have just decanted the amount I was going to need. Always decant, woman!

“I’m sorry, that was my fault,” says the man.

I turn to look at him, glance away, and then look back, as I realize I’m looking at the most handsome man I think I’ve ever seen in real life. He has soft brown hair; green eyes; a tall, broad-shouldered physique; and the kind of well-sculpted face that commands attention. He is wearing blue suit trousers and a crisp white shirt unbuttoned at the collar. Our eyes meet, and he holds my gaze. His easy smile suggests someone who thinks the world a wonderful place, which no doubt it is when you look like him.

“I was in the way,” I say, shaking my head and wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. Am I drooling? I think I genuinely just drooled. Well done, Laura, Beethoven the slobbering Saint Bernard is a really sexy look.

I try to retrieve the stray tampons as quickly as I can. Of all the things that had to fly out of my bag, it had to be the tampons, didn’t it? The lounge must be on a slight slope, because the seemingly never-ending supply are now rolling down the aisle. I scurry around on my hands and knees, doing my best to fish the strays from beneath people’s feet as they carry on reading their newspapers, too British to acknowledge that sanitary products are being flagrantly bandied about in public.

“Sorry, sorry,” I mutter.

When I stand up again, I see the beautiful man standing with a fistful of tampons he has helped to retrieve.

“I think we got them all,” he says with a dimpled grin.

Hardly daring to look at him, I take them and stuff them straight into my handbag. My forehead feels damp with sweat, my cheeks burn. Clocking my embarrassment, he says quietly, “Don’t worry, I have sisters.”

I give him a pained thumbs-up, too mortified to form words as I hurry back to the desk with my bag, hiding my face behind my passport. All the cool, flirty body language I could have gone for, and I went for the thumbs-up.



* * *




*

On the plane, I’m next to an empty aisle seat. If life worked like it did in films, this would be the perfect opportunity for a meet-cute. I wonder if people ever really meet that way. Maybe I should do a special edition of How Did You Meet? and interview couples who all met on planes. As I’m thinking this, a burly man with a sweaty face and a Day-Glo-orange money belt stops at the end of the row, indicating he is the person I have won in the seat-buddy lottery.

“Cheer up, love,” he says, my face clearly betraying my profound disappointment with the seating plan. “It never hurts to smile.”