David Mitchell - The Book of Other People

And I said, ‘I’ll be back!’

As I walked up the aisle, many of the passengers stared at me, especially the women. Word had traveled fast in this tiny flying village. Perhaps there were even some ’bloid writers on the flight. There were definitely some ’bloid readers. Had we been talking loudly? It seemed to me that we were whispering. I looked in the mirror while I was peeing and wondered if I was the plainest person he had ever talked to. I took off my blouse and tried to wash under my arms, which isn’t really possible in such a small bathroom. I tossed handfuls of water toward my armpits and they landed on my skirt. It was made from the kind of fabric that turns much darker when it is wet. This was a real situation I had got myself into. I acted quickly, taking off my skirt and soaking the whole thing in the sink, then wringing it out and putting it back on. I smoothed it out with my hands. There. It was all a shade darker now. I walked back down the aisle, being careful not to touch anyone with my dark skirt.

When Roy Spivey saw me he shouted, ‘You came back!’

And I laughed and he said, ‘What happened to your skirt?’

I sat down and explained the whole thing, starting with the armpits. He listened quietly until I was done.

‘So were you able to wash your armpits in the end?’

‘No.’

‘Are they smelly?’

‘I think so.’

‘I can smell them and tell you.’

‘No.’

‘It’s OK. It’s part of showbiz.’

‘Really?’

‘Yeah. Here.’

He leaned over and pressed his nose against my shirt.

‘It’s smelly.’

‘Oh. Well, I tried to wash it.’

But he was standing up now, climbing past me to the aisle and rummaging around in the overhead bin. He fell back into his seat dramatically, holding a pump bottle.

‘It’s Febreze.’

‘Oh, I’ve heard about that.’

‘It dries in seconds, taking odor with it. Lift up your arms.’

I lifted my arms and with great focus he pumped three hard sprays under each sleeve.

‘It’s best if you keep your arms out until it dries.’

I held them out. One arm extended into the aisle and the other arm crossed his chest, my hand pressing against the window. It was suddenly obvious how tall I was. Only a very tall woman could shoulder such a wingspan. He stared at my arm in front of his chest for a moment, then he growled and bit it. Then he laughed. I laughed, too, but I did not know what this was, this biting of my arm.

‘What was that?’

‘That means I like you!’

‘OK.’

‘Do you want to bite me?’

‘No.’

‘You don’t like me?’

‘No, I do.’

‘Is it because I’m famous?’

‘No.’

‘Just because I’m famous doesn’t mean I don’t need what everyone else needs. Here, bite me anywhere. Bite my shoulder.’

He slid back his jacket, unbuttoned the first four buttons on his shirt and pulled it back, exposing a large, tanned shoulder. I leaned over and very quickly bit it lightly, and then picked up my SkyMall catalogue and began reading. After a minute he re-buttoned himself and slowly picked up his copy of SkyMall . We read like this for a good half-hour.

During this time I was careful not to think about my life. My life was far below us, in an orangey-pink stucco apartment building. It seemed as though I might never have to return to it now. The salt of his shoulder buzzed on the tip of my tongue. I might never stand in the middle of the living room and wonder what to do next. I sometimes stood there for up to two hours, unable to generate enough momentum to eat, to go out, to clean, to sleep. It seemed unlikely that someone who had just bitten and been bitten by a celebrity would have this kind of problem.

I read about vacuum cleaners designed to suck insects out of the air. I studied self-heating towel racks and fake rocks that could hide a key. We were beginning our descent. We adjusted our seat backs and tray-tables. Roy Spivey suddenly turned to me and said, ‘Hey.’

‘Hey,’ I said.

‘Hey, I had an amazing time with you.’

‘I did, too.’

‘I’m going to write down a number and I want you to guard it with your life.’

‘OK.’

‘This phone number falls into the wrong hands and I’ll have to get someone to change the number and that is a big headache.’

‘OK.’

He wrote the number on a page from the SkyMall catalogue and ripped it out and pressed it into my palm.

‘This is my kid’s nanny’s personal line. The only people who call her on this line are her boyfriend and her son. So she’ll always answer it. You’ll always get through. And she’ll know where I am.’

I looked at the number.

‘It’s missing a digit.’

‘I know, I want you to just memorize the last number, OK?’

‘OK.’

‘It’s four.’

We turned our faces to the front of the plane and Roy Spivey gently took my hand. I was still holding the paper with the number, so he held it with me. I felt warm and simple. Nothing bad could ever happen to me while I was holding hands with him, and when he let go I would have the number that ended in four. I’d wanted a number like this my whole life. The plane landed gracefully, like an easily drawn line. He helped me pull my carry-on bag down from the bin; it looked obscenely familiar.

‘My people are going to be waiting for me out there, so I won’t be able to say goodbye properly.’

‘I know. That’s all right.’

‘No, it really isn’t. It’s a travesty.’

‘But I understand.’

‘OK, here’s what I’m going to do. Just before I leave the airport I’m going to come up to you and say, “Do you work here?” ’

‘It’s OK. I really do understand.’

‘No, this is important to me. I’ll say, “Do you work here?” And then you say your part.’

‘What’s my part?’

‘You say, “No.” ’

‘OK.’

‘And I’ll know what you mean. We’ll know the secret meaning.’

‘OK.’

We looked into each other’s eyes in a way that said that nothing else mattered as much as us. I asked myself if I would kill my parents to save his life, a question I had been posing since I was fifteen. The answer always used to be yes. But in time all those boys had faded away and my parents were still there. I was now less and less willing to kill them for anyone; in fact, I worried for their health. In this case, however, I had to say yes. Yes, I would.

We walked down the tunnel between the plane and real life, and then, without so much as a look in my direction, he glided away from me.

I tried not to look for him in the baggage-claim area. He would find me before he left. I went to the bathroom. I claimed my bag. I drank from the water fountain. I watched children hit each other. Finally, I let my eyes crawl over everyone. They were all not him, every single one of them. But they all knew his name. Those who were talented at drawing could have drawn him from memory, and everyone else could certainly have described him, if they’d had to, say, to a blind person – the blind being the only people who wouldn’t know what he looked like. And even the blind would have known his wife’s name, and a few of them would have known the name of the boutique where his wife had bought a lavender tank top and matching boy-shorts. Roy Spivey was both nowhere to be found, and everywhere. Someone tapped me on the shoulder.

‘Excuse me, do you work here?’

It was him. Except that it wasn’t him, because there was no voice in his eyes; his eyes were mute. He was acting. I said my line.

‘No.’

A pretty young airport attendant appeared beside me.

‘ I work here. I can help you,’ she said enthusiastically.