ANNE WEALE - Sleepless Nights

He had five nephews and nieces and numerous godchildren. He didn’t need children of his own. Nor did he need a wife in the housekeeper-cum-nurse-cum-social secretary sense of the term.

The practicalities of life he could manage by himself, probably more efficiently than many of today’s domestically unskilled career women. His mother had raised her sons as well as her daughters on the precept that every adult human being should be able to do their own laundry and cook simple meals.

The only place Neal needed a woman was between the sheets. Even in his twenties he had never been a stud, learning early that relationships which lasted a while, and included some mental rapport as well as physical harmony, were preferable to casual one-nighters. That said, life was about enjoying oneself. If, when he reached Kathmandu, the right kind of woman made it clear she was available, what red-blooded male would prefer to sleep on his own on holiday?

For the second lap of the flight Sarah had requested a window seat on the port side of the plane. Naomi had said this would give her a wonderful view of the Himalaya on the approach to Kathmandu.

When she reached her row, she found a small plump woman in traditional Nepalese costume already occupying the seat that should have been hers. Had she been a European, Sarah might have pointed out the window seat had been allocated to her. But with her minimal grasp of Nepali she let it go, stowing her pack in the overhead locker before sitting down in the centre of the three seats on the left side of the left-hand aisle.

Some time later, among the last to board, the man with the book came strolling along the aisle. After folding his tall frame into the empty seat next to Sarah’s, he turned to her and said, ‘Hi!’

‘Hi!’ Suddenly Sarah was glad the Nepalese woman had commandeered the window seat.

The man beside her leaned forward, put his palms together, inclined his head and said something to the woman by the window. Her face wreathed in smiles, her drop earrings bobbing, she responded.

‘Was that Nepali you were speaking?’ Sarah asked him.

‘Yes...but I don’t speak it well. Just enough to get by and make the right polite noises.’ Feeling around for the ends of his seat belt, he fastened the clasp across his flat stomach and settled his shoulders comfortably against the back rest. ‘As we’re going to be elbow to elbow until late afternoon, shall we introduce ourselves? I’m Neal Kennedy.’

‘Sarah Anderson.’

‘Going trekking?’

She nodded. ‘Are you?’

‘Not this time.’ He looked sideways at the emblems machine-embroidered on her T-shirt: three snow-capped peaks surrounded by a double ring of stitching with the name and date of Naomi’s trek between them in a contrasting colour. ‘Like you, I’ve been coming to Nepal for a long time, but not always doing the same thing. This time I’m involved with the Everest Marathon.’

Sarah knew she ought to explain the shirt wasn’t hers. But somehow she didn’t want to...not yet. From the books she had read about trekking, it was clear that the people who did the hard mutes, carrying heavy packs in the company of other seasoned trekkers, were inclined to disdain the groups of tourists who, with all the hard slog done for them by porters, had only to cover the ground on the less exacting routes.

Neal Kennedy looked as tough as they came. She didn’t want to put him off her right at the start of their acquaintance. Instead of admitting this was her first time, she said, ‘Are you a runner? I thought they were usually shorter and more slightly built.’

‘They come in all sizes,’ he said. ‘But no, I’m not one of them. I’m going to report the event. I’m a journalist. What do you do?’

‘I work with computers.’ Already firmly decided to forget her everyday life until she returned to England, she didn’t elaborate. ‘Are you a freelance?’

His smile warmed his rather hard eyes. ‘You obviously don’t read The Journal. I’m one of its columnists...and I do some TV and radio.’

The only newspaper Sarah saw regularly, although she seldom read it, was the scandal-stuffed tabloid her mother took. Sarah herself kept up with world events through an Internet news service. But she was aware that The Journal was one of England’s most respected and independent broadsheets, read by the movers and shakers, the people who mattered. It followed that Neal must be one of the stars of his profession, even if he didn’t look at all like her idea of a top journalist.

‘I must look out for your column when I get home,’ she said, returning his smile.

At close quarters, the parting of her lips and the glimpse of her perfect teeth gave Neal a buzz. He wondered how many men had kissed that passionate mouth and if one had kissed her goodbye at Heathrow last night. The fact that she was alone wasn’t conclusive. Even his parents sometimes went on trips separately.

He had already noticed that, although Sarah was wearing several decorative silver rings, her wedding ring finger was bare. Most of the women he knew who had live-in lovers wore a dress ring on that finger to indicate they were in a relationship. Not that being in a relationship necessarily stopped them from having a fling on the side if they felt so inclined and the chance came up.

Neal preferred to stay out of entanglements with other men’s girlfriends. Seven or eight years ago a bored and unsatisfied wife had figured in his love life, but her husband had been having affairs of his own for years and couldn’t complain at being cuckolded. Neal hadn’t repeated the experience. There were more than enough unattached females around to make poaching other guys’ women a pointless exercise.

He knew that his determination to steer clear of a serious relationship troubled his parents who wanted him settled down with a wife and family. But he’d managed to avoid losing his heart this far and now was out of the danger zone when the drive to reproduce was at its most powerful, persuading people that what were basically chemical reactions were emotions that would last.

Sitting next to Sarah Anderson, strongly aware of the curves filling out her souvenir T-sheet and the slim thighs outlined by the soft folds of her skirt, he felt the beginnings of arousal. Sensibly, she wasn’t wearing one of the heavy cloying scents some women thought seductive but which could be overpowering in confined spaces like aeroplanes. The only fragrance he could catch came from her freshly washed ash blonde hair. The big brown eyes suggested that by nature she was a brunette. But the dye job was subtle, not brassy, and suited her creamy skin. In general he preferred long hair. Hers was cropped boyishly short, possibly styled for the trek. A pair of dramatic silver earrings were set off by her long graceful neck.

The plane was starting to taxi towards the runway. As she turned her head to look out of the window, he wondered how she’d react if he leaned over and put his mouth to her nape by a charming little flat brown beauty spot.

He had no intention of doing it...not yet. But it amused him to speculate how she would take it. Although it was rare for physical attraction not to be mutual, women’s responses depended on lots of other factors.

‘When are you starting your trek?’ he asked.

‘Not till Tuesday. After a long flight, a couple of days to relax is a good idea, don’t you think? When does the Marathon start?’

‘In two weeks, but some of the people will be arriving ahead of time. Kathmandu is a place where I’m always happy to spend time...even though it’s changed a lot since you and I first came out.’

His assumption that she shared his familiarity with the city was curiously warming, Sarah found. How she wished it were true. There had been a time when it might have been. With Samarkand and Darjeeling, Kathmandu had been a name ringing with magic for her since she was in her teens. There had been many others and by now she might have seen them all if it hadn’t been for... Her mind shied away from the thought.