Fit For Purpose by Julian Parrott (scary books to read .TXT) 📗

After leaving the army he felt unmoored, unable settle back into the small house that he had never lived in and had never felt like a home. He had only bought it because that’s what people did at a certain time of life and with a certain salary.

        Tom had retired from the army exhausted and restless. He felt the need to keep moving, to keep to himself, to be surrounded by quiet and peace. Especially peace. He’d temporarily moved into a narrowboat and, four years later, was still there. Now he was looking forward to collecting his dog from his sister’s farm and getting back to his boat and, if the weather allowed, moving slowly up and down the UK’s labyrinthian canal system.

Tom looked at the sleet that was now streaming against the terminal’s broad windows. He moved his gaze down to his phone, touched the screen, went to his music, found ELO’s ‘Mr Blue Sky’ notched up the volume, and took a surreptitious look at the woman who had taken ‘his’ seat. Lovely, he mused, I wonder who she is and where she’s going?

There was an announcement from the gate agents and the flight was called. There was a collective movement, and, as one, the mass of people retrieved bags, corralled kids, and searched pockets for tickets and passports. A crowd formed at the gate while the uncomfortable sorting by class began. First class was summoned and somewhat embarrassed, the actress moved to the gate with ticket and passport in hand. She disliked the term ‘first class’ as she had bridled against class and privilege and entitlement all through her life. Many of her roles reflected her own politics and sense of class — pink and working. Her politics had remained steadfast even as her roles and lifestyle evolved. She was cleared by the ticket agent, hoisted her cabin bags and moved off down the jet bridge without a look back.

The big Boeing was almost full by the time Tom made his way quickly down the cold jet bridge. He had completely ignored the call for first-class passengers as he was still stuck in the economy class mode. He was greeted at the plane’s door with an obvious additional level of service courtesy and shown to his seat, which was more like a self-contained pod. He smiled at the flight attendant who returned it with something more than the usual fake plastic smiles found on most cabin crew. The first-class cabin was relatively sedate. Most passengers had already stowed their luggage and were all in various stages of settling in: some reading business newspapers, he recognised the pink of the Financial Times; some were sitting back, eyes closed lost in the reveries of whatever music or podcasts they were listening to through complimentary Bose headphones; most, however, were furiously typing on their phones, tablets, or laptops. There was one empty seat, front row, second seat, slightly angled next to the third pod to his right in which sat the woman who had gazumped him for the terminal seat. He quickly glanced at his ticket for his seat assignment. Yup, this was him.

The actress had just finished arranging her space, champagne flute next to her book on the pod’s small table, magazines piled up next to the microfibre pillow in its hygienic case, when she noticed the flight attendant showing a passenger to the adjacent pod. It was the toddler whisperer. She again gave him a quick, professional appraisal. He was indeed a nice-looking guy, she thought. In her younger days she would have enjoyed the frisson of having a handsome man sitting next to her on a long flight and the possibilities that such a situation conjured. There had been that knee trembler in the toilet on a flight to LA with a Hollywood A-lister, some fifteen years ago. She remembered it, somewhat fondly. He was a terrible actor, but he had been beautiful. But that was then. Time and the bottle, she thought, had not been kind to him. Given her profession she was aware how opportunities changed with age. Her roles had already changed, as they did for all actors.

She had been the ingénue as a late teen while still in drama school. Casting agents viewed her as lovely, but not beautiful, strong yet vulnerable, and she was often cast as the rebellious daughter, the runaway, or the bad boy’s girlfriend. Through her twenties she was seen as sexy, thoughtful, and deep but lead roles were infrequent. She played anger and indignation and insouciance so well that it made casting directors nervous. Perhaps, too, it was the dark eyes that often looked black on screen, the raven hair, the Welsh accent, the full lips over slightly wonky teeth. She was always the consummate professional and recognised and accepted casting directors’ limitations for she was never short of roles. She weathered a personal and professional wobble and was still enjoying a solid career working on stage, frequently on TV, and occasionally in Brit cinema. There had been a couple of Anglo-American movies in her younger days, but Hollywood had never really come calling. Her disappointment had been short-lived.

As the actress returned to her novel, Tom settled into the oversized and extraordinarily comfortable chair pod next to hers. The plane’s safety video played to a distracted audience. Almost no one watched; all, Tom presumed, knew how to fasten their seat belts, find the exits, and how to place the dangling oxygen mask over their own faces before helping anyone else with theirs. The first-class steward who introduced herself as the purser, made a quick check of seats belts and electronic items being turned off and then Tom felt the short shunt of the Boeing being pushed back from the gate. He looked to his right to the window. He had travelled extensively, enough to know that there was a ubiquity to airports, but he wondered whether the weather would break enough