T5

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T5

Heathrow, T5, an April Wednesday, about four thirty. She was sat in Wagamamas waiting for another text she didn‘t want. The chicken curry dish had been mild, as expected, but dryer than she thought it should be; nevertheless, she felt an uncomfortable warmth rising from her blouse and wondered if her recurring flight fear was the reason. There had been too many texts of increasing vitriol over the past few days. Her head sunk down; her blouse was wrong; it gaped. People, men, looked. Nothing could really be seen so why did they all have to look? Why was he looking; had he been sent by Austin to watch to see if she was seeing someone?

Boston was going to be great. The weekend in Somerville, his first ever baseball game in the flesh at Fenway Park - the iconic stadium of the Eastern seaboard - and the prospect of just not being in work for the first time in what seemed like months? Yes, it was going to be a good break. She was cute. He’d deliberately sat at her table - it was big and he was three seats away on the opposite side. Her blouse gaped; he just had to look. She caught him looking and he immediately felt annoyed with himself and then, strangely, sorry for her. She wasn’t happy about something - and it wasn‘t just him looking. The blouse looked new, as did the Blackberry which she fumbled from her small smart hand bag to apparently check emails. He felt sorry because he could see she was scared about something. Flying? New job? No, there was something else. He could see a thin veil of shiny tension in her forehead. The slightly pinched look on her face suggested that something in her life wasn’t right. Yes, she was definitely worried about something.

Why was he looking at her? He wasn’t ‘business’. He was in jeans and a t-shirt; clean-shaven and presentable, but jeans. His bag was wrong; laptop, held close, too close. His mobile rang and he spoke to someone nicely, quietly and with softness in his voice. Then his Blackberry (the old model) rang and he changed. Head up, louder, firmer voice with more assertion.
“No, I suggest we go with plan A - as we discussed earlier.”
This could be work; or he could be talking to Austin. The mobile rang again soon after. More soft tones, but this time more conciliatory. Was he sorry for something? It had to be a ‘she‘. He glanced in her direction again and she looked for the waiter; he was guilty of something now. Time for the bill. Perhaps she should get away before he finished his call? Perhaps he wasn’t sent by Austin after all.

Yes, he knew there was something wrong. Mother had called, then work, then the Natasha. Yes, it was just a weekend away. Yes, he was meeting some chaps later and they would be having a bit of a bash - for goodness sake, they were going to Boston to watch the Red Sox - not exactly Faliraki!! Yes, he would be good. Of course he would be good. She was calling the waiter. It was obvious she knew who he was talking to. Yeah right, well you enjoy yourself too. Putting his mobile down, he glanced in her direction again. She was studying her bill intently and this time he knew he wouldn’t spotted. Small-boned, slim, brown shoulder-length hair tied back and, apart from the frown and the shine, quite pretty; no, not pretty, attractive, sharp, cute. Her blouse was still gaping. The bra was white like the blouse and had plain cups and straps. Business-like? Yes, but like the blouse, apparently new. He wished he’d looked more closely as he made his way to the table from behind her earlier. He wanted to believe that she had a small cute butt. Yes, he began to think beyond the bra, beyond the blouse, beyond T5. He could hear her talking to him, softly as she held him close to her. He could feel her pale skin against his own. She heard his thoughts and stared up from the bill and drilled into him again; her hand subconsciously moving the blouse closer as if to protect herself from his gaze.