Sleeping Arrangements Read online

  ‘I bet he tells Sam where all the emergency doors are,’ said Chloe. ‘And how to use an oxygen mask.’

  She smiled fondly, then reached into her bag for a paperback and opened it. Philip took a swig of orange juice and shuddered at the sharpness against his seething stomach. He could have done with a brandy. Preferably a double.

  He opened his complimentary newspaper, then closed it again. They’d agreed no papers on this holiday. In his jacket pocket was a thriller about Russia—but he knew that in the frame of mind he was in, he wouldn’t be able to concentrate enough to follow the plot. He raised his glass to his lips again, put it down—and as he did so, met the eye of the man sitting next to him. The man grinned.

  ‘Disgusting stuff.’ He pointed to his own glass. ‘Get yourself a beer. Only a quid.’

  He had a thick south London accent and was wearing a Lacoste polo shirt which stretched over his muscled chest. As he reached for his beer, Philip noticed that his watch was a chunky Rolex.

  ‘On holiday, are you?’ he continued.

  ‘Yes,’ said Philip. ‘And you?’

  ‘Go every year,’ said the man. ‘Can’t beat Spain for sun.’

  ‘Or Britain, at the moment,’ pointed out Philip.

  ‘Yeah, well,’ rejoined the man. ‘Can’t count on it, can you? That’s the trouble.’ He extended a fleshy hand. ‘I’m Vic.’

  ‘Philip.’

  ‘Good to meet you, Phil.’ Vic took a swig of beer and exhaled with noisy satisfaction. ‘Christ, it’s good to get away. I work in building, myself. New kitchens, extensions … We’ve been crazy. Non-stop.’

  ‘I’m sure you have,’ said Philip.

  ‘Doing too bloody well, if you ask me. Mind you, it’s paid for our new apartment. The wife’s out there already, soaking up the rays.’ Vic took another slug of beer and settled back comfortably in his seat. ‘So, Phil—what trade are you in?’

  ‘I’m …’ Philip cleared his throat. ‘Banking. Very dull.’

  ‘Oh yeah? Which bank?’

  There was an infinitesimal pause.

  ‘National Southern.’

  Perhaps the name would mean nothing to this man. Perhaps he would simply nod and say Oh.

  But already he could see the dawn of recognition on Vic’s brow.

  ‘National Southern. Haven’t you lot just been taken over, or something?’

  ‘That’s right.’ He forced a smile. ‘By PBL. The Internet company.’

  ‘I knew it was something like that.’ Vic paused thoughtfully. ‘So how’s that going to work, then?’

  ‘No-one’s quite sure yet,’ said Philip, forcing the smile to remain on his face. ‘It’s early days.’ He took a swig of orange juice and exhaled sharply, marvelling at his own relaxed manner.

  But then, he was used to it by now. The frowns, the wrinkled brows, the puzzled interrogations. Some asked their questions in all innocence. Others—who had read slightly more than the headlines—veiled their concern in optimism: ‘But you’ll be OK, won’t you?’ And always he smiled back, saying reassuringly, ‘Me? I’ll be fine.’ The faces would relax, and he would adroitly change the subject and replenish wine glasses.

  Only much later would he allow himself to exchange the briefest of glances with Chloe. And only when they’d all gone home would he allow his increasingly strained veneer to slip, like a shabby costume, onto the floor.

  ‘’Scuse me.’ Vic nodded at Philip. ‘Call of nature.’

  As he made his way down the aisle, Philip caught the eye of an air stewardess.

  ‘A double brandy, please,’ he said. His hands, he noticed, were shaking, and he buried his head in them.

  A moment later, he felt Chloe’s cool hand on the back of his neck.

  ‘You promised,’ she said in a low firm voice. ‘You promised not to think about it. Let alone talk about it.’

  ‘What else can I do?’ He lifted his head to look at her, aware that his cheeks were flushed red. ‘What can I do, if people start quizzing me about it?’

  ‘You can lie.’

  ‘Lie.’ Philip stared at Chloe and felt himself twitch in annoyance. Sometimes she viewed life so ridiculously simplistically, like a child. She turned that milky blue gaze on the world and saw a pattern; a logical order that made sense. Whereas all he could see was a random, chaotic mess. ‘You’re suggesting I lie about my job.’

  ‘Why not?’ Chloe gestured towards Vic’s empty place. ‘You don’t think he cares what you do? He was just making conversation. Well, make the conversation you want to make.’

  ‘Chloe—’

  ‘You can tell people you’re a … a postman. Or a farmer. There’s no law that says you have to tell the truth all the time. Is there?’

  Philip was silent.

  ‘You have to protect yourself,’ said Chloe more gently. She squeezed his hand. ‘For the whole of this week, you don’t work for a bank. You’re an … airline pilot. OK?’

  In spite of himself, Philip felt his mouth twist into a smile. ‘OK,’ he said at last. ‘Airline pilot it is.’

  He leaned back in his seat and took a few deep breaths,trying to relax himself. Then he glanced over towards Sam and Nat. To his surprise he saw that they were both getting out of their seats.

  ‘Your double brandy, sir,’ came the stewardess’s voice above his head. ‘That’ll be two pounds.’

  ‘Oh thanks,’ said Philip, and felt awkwardly in his pocket for some change. ‘I wonder what the boys are up to,’ he added quietly to Chloe. ‘They’re on the move.’

  ‘I don’t care,’ said Chloe, settling down again to her novel. ‘They can do what they like. We’re on holiday.’

  ‘As long as they don’t get into trouble …’

  ‘They won’t get into trouble,’ said Chloe, and turned a page. ‘Their father’s an airline pilot.’

  ‘It’s called Club Class,’ muttered Sam to Nat as they made their way cautiously up the aisle. ‘And you get loads of free stuff.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Like champagne.’

  ‘They just give you champagne?’ Nat looked at Sam sceptically.

  ‘They do if you ask for it.’

  ‘They’ll never give it to you.’

  ‘Yeah they will. You just watch.’

  They had reached the front of the cabin without being challenged. In front of them was a thick blue curtain which, to Nat, read Turn Back Now.

  ‘OK,’ murmured Sam, pulling it aside slightly and squinting through the gap. ‘There’s a couple of seats free at the back. Just sit down as if you belong—and pretend to be nobby.’

  ‘What’s nobby?’

  ‘You know. Like, “darling”, kiss kiss.’

  ‘Darling,’ murmured Nat experimentally. ‘Sam …’ He stopped.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Well, come on then. There’s nobody around.’

  Very calmly, Sam unhooked the curtain, ushered Nat through and hooked it up again. Without speaking, the two boys slid into the two vacant seats Sam had spotted, and glanced at each other with suppressed glee. No-one had looked up. No-one had even noticed them.

  ‘Nice in here, isn’t it?’ said Sam quietly to Nat, who nodded, eyes wide. It was like a different world in here, he thought: all light and tranquil and spacious. Even the people were different. They weren’t snapping at each other or roaring with laughter or complaining loudly about the food. They were all just sitting quietly, even those two little girls over there in their matching blue dresses, drinking what looked like strawberry milkshakes. His eyes stayed on them for a few seconds, then panned over a little further—and stopped in horror.

  Someone was looking at them. A girl with dark red dreadlocks, who looked like she knew exactly what they were doing. Who looked, Nat thought, like she didn’t really belong in Club Class either. There was a grin on her face, and as Nat met her eyes she gave him the thumbs-up. Nat looked away in horror, feeling his face turn scarlet.

  �
�Sam,’ he whispered urgently. ‘Sam, someone’s seen us.’

  ‘Who cares?’ said Sam, and grinned. ‘Look, here comes an air hostess.’

  Nat looked up and froze. An air hostess was indeed striding down the aisle towards them—and she didn’t look pleased.

  ‘Excuse me,’ she said as soon as she got within earshot. ‘This is the Club Class section.’

  ‘I know,’ said Sam, and smiled at her. ‘I’d like some champagne, please. And some for my young associate here.’ Nat giggled.

  ‘Actually,’ he said, ‘I’d prefer a milkshake. If that’s OK. Like they’ve got,’ he added, pointing to the two little girls in blue dresses. But the air hostess didn’t seem to be listening to him.

  ‘Can I please ask you to return to your seats,’ she said, looking icily at Sam.

  ‘These are our seats,’ said Sam. ‘We’ve been upgraded.’

  The air hostess looked as though she wanted to punch him. Instead she turned on her heel and marched smartly to the front of the plane. Sam grinned at Nat.

  ‘This is excellent. Isn’t it? Now we can tell everyone we’ve flown Club.’

  ‘Coolissimo.’ Nat grinned back.

  ‘Look, the seats go right back if you press this button.’ Sam reclined his seat as far as it would go; a moment later Nat joined him.

  ‘Mmm, darling,’ said Sam in the voice which always made Nat giggle. ‘I do so love to fly whilst lying down. Don’t you, darling? I mean, why bother to sit when you can lie? Why bother to—’

  ‘OK, boys.’ A voice interrupted them. ‘The joke’s over. Sit up, the pair of you.’

  The man staring down at them had an official-looking gold badge on his lapel, and was holding a clipboard. ‘Right,’ he said, as their two seats gradually reached the upright position. ‘I want you straight back to your seats and not a sound out of you. That way, I don’t have to bother your parents. OK?’

  There was silence.

  ‘Or else,’ said the man, ‘we can all go back now to Mum and Dad—and explain exactly what’s just been going on.’

  There was another silence—then Sam shrugged.

  ‘C’mon, Nat,’ he said, raising his voice slightly. ‘They don’t want the plebs in here.’

  As they struggled out of their seats, Nat noticed that everyone in the section had turned to watch.

  ‘Bye,’ he said politely to the girl with the red dreadlocks. ‘Nice to meet you.’

  ‘Bye,’ replied the girl, pulling a sympathetic face. ‘Sorry you couldn’t stay. Hey, you want a souvenir?’ She reached down and produced a smart wash bag, embossed with the words REGENT AIRWAYS. ‘Have it. There’s soap, shampoo, aftershave …’ She tossed it through the air and Nat automatically caught it.

  ‘Cool!’ he said in delight. ‘Look, Sam!’

  ‘That’s nice,’ said Sam, examining it. ‘Very nice indeed.’

  ‘You want one?’ came a voice from in front. An elderly woman turned round and handed Sam an identical wash bag. ‘Have mine. I won’t use it.’

  ‘Thanks!’ he said, smiling broadly at her. ‘You Club Class people are all right.’

  A ripple of laughter went round the cabin.

  ‘Enough of this,’ said the man with the gold badge sharply. ‘Back to your seats, the two of you.’

  ‘Bye, everybody!’ said Sam, waving around the cabin.‘Thank you so much.’ He gave a little bow and disappeared through the curtain.

  ‘Bye!’ said Nat breathlessly. ‘Enjoy your champagne.’ As he followed Sam back into Economy he could hear another ripple of laughter following him.

  When the two boys had disappeared from sight, there was a muted hubbub as the Club Class passengers gradually turned back in their seats and resumed normal business.

  ‘Honestly!’ said Amanda, reaching for her copy of Vogue. ‘The nerve of it. I mean, I know it’s a cliché, but children today …’ She flicked over a page and squinted at a pair of snakeskin boots. ‘They think they own the bloody place. Don’t you agree?’ She looked up. ‘Hugh?’

  Hugh didn’t answer. He was still looking towards the back of the cabin, where the two boys had disappeared.

  ‘Hugh!’ said Amanda impatiently. ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘Nothing,’ said Hugh, turning back. ‘Just … that boy. That elder boy.’

  ‘What about him? Bloody hooligan, if you ask me. And the way he was dressed … Those awful baggy shorts they all seem to wear these days …’

  He looked familiar. His eyes. Those eyes.

  ‘What about him, anyway?’ Amanda’s disapproving eyes met his. ‘You don’t think they should have let them stay in Club, do you?’

  ‘Of course not! No. I’m just … it’s nothing.’ Hugh shook his head, ridding it of ridiculous thoughts, smiled at his wife and turned safely back to his FT.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The road up into the mountains zigzagged steeply back and forth, a narrow strip carved out of the dusty rocks. Hugh drove silently, concentrating on the road, negotiating each bend smoothly. The air-conditioned people-carrier had been waiting for them at the airport; their luggage was all present and correct: so far, everything had gone to plan.

  As he neared a particularly tricky bend he paused and lifted his eyes, taking in the endless green-grey mountains stretching before him; the scorched rocks and relentlessly blue sky. Was that a glimpse of the sea in the distance? he wondered. He couldn’t even tell if they were facing in the right direction. Perhaps it was just a mirage. It was known that the mind played tricks on one in the mountains, under the sun. Perspectives were altered, judgement was impaired. A man could act quite out of character up here. Up above the rest of the world, above scrutiny.

  His eyes ranged over the rocky peaks again and he found himself revelling in the sheer exhilaration of being up high. There was an elemental desire in man to rise, he thought. To rise and conquer—and then immediately look for the next peak; the next challenge.

  When he’d first met Amanda, they’d also been up in the mountains—but very different mountains from these. He’d been in Val d’Isère with a party of enthusiastic skiers he’d known since university; she’d been staying in the next chalet along with a bunch of old schoolfriends. The two groups had soon realized, with the kind of faux coincidence typical of such ski resorts, that they knew each other. That was to say, one of Hugh’s chums had once been out with one of the girls—and several others recognized each other from London parties.

  Hugh and Amanda, on the other hand, had never laid eyes on each other before—and the attraction had been immediate. Both were excellent skiers, both were fit and tanned, both worked in the City. By the third day of the holiday they’d begun skiing off-piste together; soon, to the appreciative jeers of his friends, Hugh was spending every night at the girls’ chalet. Everyone had agreed they made a perfect couple; that they looked so good together. At their wedding, eighteen months later, a guard of honour had been formed outside the church with crossed pairs of skis and the best man’s speech had been peppered with après-ski jokes.

  They still went skiing every year. Every February they returned to the magical, sparkling mountains in which they’d met. For a week every year they were like honeymooners again: besotted with each other; with the snowy peaks; with the excitement and adrenalin. They skied fast and furiously, saying very little, knowing instinctively where the other was heading. Hugh knew Amanda’s skiing like he knew his own. Having skied since a child, she was more accomplished than him—but she had the same measured attitude to risk. They took chances—but no more than they needed to. Neither could see the point of risking life and limb, simply for an extra thrill.

  They had not yet taken the children skiing. Amanda had been keen for them to start as early as possible—but Hugh had resisted it; had been uncharacteristically firm about it. He needed that week every year. Not for the holiday, not even for the sport—but for the rekindling of his relationship with Amanda. Up there in the mountains, in the sunshine and the powdery snow, wat
ching her lithe, athletic body encased in designer Lycra, he would feel again the desire, the admiration, the headiness, which he’d felt that first time in Val d’Isère.

  Why he needed this yearly boost—and what would happen if he couldn’t have it—he didn’t ever ask himself. With a slight roughness, Hugh changed gear and began to ascend a steep stretch of road.

  ‘Beautiful scenery,’ said Amanda. ‘Children, look at the view. Look at that little village.’

  Hugh glanced briefly out of the window. As they had rounded the corner, a cluster of stark white dwellings had come into view, perched on the side of the mountain. He glimpsed tiled roofs, tiny wrought-iron balconies and strings of washing hung out to dry—then the road swung away again, and the village disappeared from sight.

  ‘That must be San Luis,’ he said, glancing at Gerard’s instructions. ‘Quite pretty, isn’t it?’

  ‘I suppose,’ said Amanda.

  ‘I feel sick,’ came Beatrice’s voice from the back.

  ‘Oh God,’ said Amanda, turning in her seat. ‘Well, just hold on, darling. We’re nearly there. Look at the lovely mountains!’ She turned back in her seat and murmured to Hugh, ‘How much further is it? This road’s a nightmare.’

  ‘They’re not mountains,’ said Octavia, ‘they’re hills. Mountains have snow at the top.’

  ‘Not much longer to go,’ said Hugh, squinting at Gerard’s instructions. ‘It’s about five miles from San Luis, apparently.’

  ‘I mean, it’s all very well, having a villa in the middle of nowhere,’ said Amanda in a tight undertone. ‘But if it means driving for bloody hours along hazardous mountain roads …’

  ‘I wouldn’t say this was hazardous, exactly,’ said Hugh, concentrating as he swung a sharp left. ‘Just slightly tortuous.’

  ‘Exactly. Tortuous is the word. God knows where the nearest shops will be …’

  ‘At San Luis, I should imagine,’ said Hugh.

  ‘That place?’ said Amanda in horror. ‘It looks absolutely one-eyed.’