White. Rosie Thomas
live in Vancouver?’
‘Uh, not exactly. Visiting, you know. Looks like we might have a long wait. Maybe until tomorrow.’
‘I’m not giving up hope. I need to get away tonight,’ she said, checking her watch. ‘And I have to make some calls. Nice talking to you.’ She was dismissing him.
‘Sam McGrath.’
Although she hadn’t invited the introduction she nodded politely enough. ‘Finch Buchanan.’
He bent down and picked up the flowers, putting them into her hands. They were some kind of creamy white scented ones, spiked with glossy evergreen. Conventional, in a way that didn’t quite go with her. And her fingers were ringless.
‘Congratulations, by the way. Mrs Buchanan, is it?’
She laughed now, a great uninhibited snort of merriment that showed her teeth and her tongue. Jesus, he thought again.
‘Actually, it was. But I only married him for his money. I shot him on the drive from the reception.’
‘Wise move.’
‘Thank you.’
‘So now you’ll be looking for a replacement?’
One try too many, he realised, as soon as he said it. Finch gave a delicate shrug. The parka crinkled around her and she pulled impatiently at the velcro fastenings to undo it. She wasn’t, unfortunately, naked beneath it. She was wearing a little buttoned-up blue skirt suit that made her look disappointingly like Ally McBeal. She rolled up the parka and stuffed it into her bag.
‘See you.’ She smiled and strolled away towards the bank of payphones at the end of the hall.
As soon as she was busy with her call, Sam went straight to the Air Canada desk and transferred his ticket. After Finch finished her animated conversation she found a place to sit a long way off next to a group of Mexican nuns, took a book out of her bag and immersed herself in it.
Slowly, the snowstorm moved away south-westwards. The Vancouver flight was nearly three hours late departing, but on the other hand it was one of the few that left at all that night. It was full. Sam saw her as soon as he boarded, in a window seat halfway down the main cabin. He strode up the aisle to the as yet miraculously unoccupied seat beside her.
‘What do you know?’ He smiled and settled himself in place. She had the book open on her lap.
‘I know something about the laws of probability,’ she answered coolly and returned to her reading. Sam saw a guy who looked like John Belushi making his way towards them, already frowning. He leaned down and scooped Finch’s flowers from where she had wedged them under the seat in front, and held them on the armrest between them. And he squirmed closer so their heads were almost touching.
‘Is this …?’ Belushi began tetchily.
Sam passed over his boarding card. ‘I’m really sorry. It’s your seat, I know. But look, it’s our wedding night. D’you mind changing so I can sit beside my wife? She’s a nervous flier.’
‘Well, okay,’ the man grunted and pushed onwards.
She didn’t laugh now. She didn’t look alarmed or disconcerted or angry – just severe. She took back the flowers and pushed them under the seat again, kicking them out of the way with the toe of her pretty shoe. ‘What is all this about?’
‘You think I’m a flake, don’t you?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’m not. I just wanted to sit here.’
‘Then sit,’ she said crisply. He did as he was told, through the last-minute de-icing and the taxi and the take-off, and the pilot’s announcement that in the wake of the storm severe turbulence was anticipated and they should keep their seat belts fastened. As the plane climbed through the cloud layers it pitched and shuddered, and the engines whined and changed key. Finch suddenly let her book drop and pushed her head back against the seat rest. Sam saw the pallor of her throat.
‘As a matter of fact there was one grain of accidental truth in that load of bullshit.’
‘What’s that?’ he asked.
‘I’m a lousy flier.’
‘Want to hold my hand?’
‘I want a drink.’
He peered around the seat in front. As far as he could see, the crew were still strapped in. ‘Not yet. Want to talk instead?’
She sighed and closed her eyes. The fuselage creaked and swayed giddily. ‘If you like.’
‘I had my fortune told by an old native Indian woman when I was a tiny boy. I remember to this day, her saying to me, “You are not going to die in an Air Canada 737 somewhere over the western seaboard.” Do you feel sick, by the way?’
‘If I vomit I can deal with it myself, thank you. I am a doctor.’
‘Dr Buchanan. Specialising in put-downs of pushy men and vomit.’
The plane hit a pocket of empty space. It pitched through the vacuum for what seemed like ten seconds before hitting solid air again. A child began screaming and a moan came from an old woman across the aisle. Finch snatched at Sam’s hand and dug her nails in. She had gone white to the lips.
‘It’s okay,’ he soothed her. Her hand was clammy; he rubbed the skin on the back of it gently with his thumb. ‘It’s just storm turbulence. Nothing’s going to happen to us. You’re safe.’ He reached to the seat pocket and laid the paper bag on her lap, just in case, on top of the book. He noticed now that it was Touching the Void, a classic account of a climbing catastrophe and its aftermath.
He nodded pleasantly at it. ‘I read that. Quite a story.’
She rolled her head. ‘I think I’d rather be down a crevasse than up here.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Look. Don’t expect me to be polite and kind. Just talk to me. Tell me about yourself, if you like.’
‘An invitation no male could refuse. Where should I begin?’
He told her about why he had been visiting his father and about running, and his work and its problems, trying to make it twice as interesting as it really was. He avoided mentioning Frannie, although once or twice he caught himself saying we and he knew she had registered it. The plane’s bucking and shuddering gradually eased, and in-flight service began. By the time he was putting a large vodka and tomato juice into her hand, Finch’s colour had improved. She drank half the measure down straight.
‘Thanks again.’
‘Steady.’
She had let go of his hand minutes ago. Now she picked up Joe Simpson’s book again. ‘I think I’ll read some more of this.’
It wasn’t until they had begun their descent into Vancouver that he broke in on her once more. ‘You know all about me, I don’t know anything about you. Is that a fair arrangement, do you think?’
She smiled briefly. ‘I shouldn’t think so. What do you want to know?’
In response to a series of direct questions he learned that she had been in Oregon for her best friend’s wedding. She practised in the city with a partner, she had four brothers all older than she was, her father was an architect he had vaguely heard of and her mother was a mother. She lived alone in a city apartment. And yes, she was seeing someone at the moment. Although she flashed a warning glance at him just for asking.
They had landed and were taxiing towards the stand when he put the final, inevitable, schlocky question he couldn’t think of any way around. ‘Can I call you some time? Maybe we could have dinner.’
Finch sighed. She had gathered up the flowers again and they made her look as if she was headed for the altar. ‘I don’t think