The Show Must Go On

Chapter Forty-Three: Don't Go

Chapter Forty-Three Soundtrack: Don't Go by Kate Stephenson

This journey to Heathrow was much more successful. For starters, I slept in my own bed, not driven to the couch by the ghost of Ben's smell. My back feels great. Plus, I threw out every hand mirror I own. Probably my appearance will suffer but I can't risk another grenade.

And if I'm feeling a little smug, well, who could blame me?

My mum? Behind a safe boundary.

Ben's mum? Not my problem.

Nas? Good. Really good.

Well, I think so. We haven't actually discussed what we are.

But basically I'm not anxious or mentally ill at all, actually. I'm completely cured of all my problems. And I'm about to travel with a hot man who, if past experience is indicative, may kiss me again. He may even do more than kiss me.

Once again, though, he is late. I guess he couldn't be too perfect.

I buy two coffees without being asked. His has sugar, because I'm now sure that he prefers it.

And just as I've dropped mine and my white top is ruined, he appears. He's being ogled again, and five minutes ago, I would have found the competition sexy. Now I'm just acutely conscious of the spreading stain across my chest.

Nas spots me immediately and smiles. His dimple appears.

Okay, I'm not that annoyed.

As he strides towards me, he pulls off his jumper. In the smoothest move I've ever seen, he takes his coffee, slings my backpack over his shoulder, and pulls his jumper over my head. I emerge with tousled hair, smelling of his sharp warmth. This is a really soft jumper. Only the best for Nas, I guess.

Still carrying my bag, he enters the queue to order me another coffee. I sit and wait. I've literally been swept off my feet.

When he returns with the coffee, the barista's number smudged on the napkin, he finally greets me: 'We're flying business.'

'Your treat?'

'Always is, Eleanor.'

'In that case, we're late.'

He swears. 'Finish your coffee,' he calls over his shoulder as he walks towards the gate. I hurry behind him on my short legs. Damn his height.

But he waits before boarding, and still won't let me carry my own bag, and I guess that's why I find it so hot when, as we sit down, he murmurs, 'Do you still need to get laid?'

Yes, Nas. Yes I do.

*

We land in Helsinki a few hours later. There's a big premiere here this week, and Barry agreed, without checking the proposal properly, that Nas and I both needed to come for networking. When I sent the email, a few months ago, I resented that we'd be sharing an apartment. Only a wall between us felt unhygienic.

Now, sitting with my back to that wall, I'm acutely conscious of how close he is. Maybe his bed is against this wall, too. Maybe he's sitting on it, just like me, our backs separated only by plywood.

There's a knock on my door.

Okay, so he's not against the wall.

'Come in!' I call, my voice cracking, just as he calls, 'Shower's free if you want it!'

Oops.

'Thanks!' I shout.

No reply.

I do actually want a shower, but now I'm paranoid that I smelled musty for the entire flight. Maybe that's why he stared so intently at his book.