The Truth About Beauty

Chapter Two

“Excuse me sir, but we’ve just landed,” a voice trilled in my ear.

Rousing from a rare deep sleep, something which was becoming more frequent as the days dragged by, I blinked several times before removing my sunglasses.

“Where are we?” I asked the flight attendant.

She had sleek black hair, tied taut in a high ponytail and wore at least two-layers-too-much of makeup. Spider-legged eyelashes and thick eyeliner contrasted the sharp blue of her eyes, and her small mouth had formed a perfectly shaped “O” while she gawped at me.

“Sorry, Mr Evans,” she said, correcting herself. I was sure she was blushing under all that foundation, although no one could tell. “I’ve only just realised it was you. We’re in Heathrow.”

Heathrow? Where the hell was that?

I asked her.

“In London, sir,” she informed, voice suddenly turned sweeter since seeing me without my shades.

“Thank you...Emma,” I looked at her name badge. “Nice name,” I threw in for good measure, whilst rising, retrieving my bag, and walking towards the steps which would lead me out into a cold, British day.

I heard a meek thank you follow behind me, while I trundled out of the jet.

Suddenly it hit me. I was in London, England. Not Australia. Not somewhere hot.

Damn it.

I swiftly went to retrieve my phone from my pocket to complain to Barry, until I realised it was currently thousands of miles away, smashed against a wall.

Could this day get any worse?

Gloomily, and still stuffy with the tiredness that accompanies a long sleep, I was escorted off of the plane by a team of security, avoiding the other passengers and protected by my Ray Bans.

Eyes were windows into a person’s soul, mom had always said. They were also windows into whether you were drunk or not. Or depressed. My sunglasses had been my best friend since the suicide. Who needs Jase when you have a pair of these?

Smiling to myself, I was led to a silver car, collapsing into the back seat.

“Where are we going?” I asked the driver as he diverted away from the airspace, but he didn’t reply, just kept eyes firmly fixed on the road and fingers clasped around the steering wheel.

“I said where are we going?”

“I’ve been instructed not to speak to you, sir,” the man replied in a steel-like English accent.

“Who told you that?”

He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, while we sped down the British version of a highway.

“Mr Barry Thoth, sir.”

I rolled my eyes at the name.

“Well you aren’t doing a very good job then.”

 He didn’t reply. Instead of arguing with the man, who didn’t seem the type to go against orders, I observed the cloud covered sky which I’d heard was common for an English summer.

Pathetic.

We pulled off of the motorway now, and were twisting down a vine of main roads, until, up ahead, I saw a cluster of trees which marked the beginning of a woodland. I was shocked when the driver began to cruise towards it.

“Um, excuse me, where do you think you’re taking me?”

Again, there was silence.

What’s the point? I thought to myself. The driver won’t answer, I have no phone, and I’m going God knows where.