“But I thought it interfered with piloting communications.”
“Nope,” I say.
Clark leans forward. “The airplane mode rule is just an FCC thing to protect against radio interference to networks on the ground. A lot of people flying over cell towers with their phones on might crowd the networks.”
“What? All this time I thought it was a matter of life and death!”
“Myth.”
“Okay.” The plane picks up speed. With trembling hands she pulls out a bright pink packet. “You guys want some gum? It’s watermelon.”
Neither of us wants watermelon gum. She stuffs three pieces into her mouth, then clutches the hand rests. I study her polished hairdo, tucked into hairclips that match her brown suit, looking for signs of the purple and blue streaks that are usually in there.
“You want a drink?” Clark asks.
“Cassie already offered. But, no,” she whispers.
“This plane is very safe,” I inform her.
“I know. More likely to die in a car and all that. Still. I’m a nervous flyer.” She looks up at me with those sparkling brown eyes, wide-set, like her cheekbones. “I don’t fly a ton,” she confesses.
“My pilot did five tours in Iraq and Afghanistan,” I tell her, and then I fix my gaze firmly back onto my computer screen, a hint that it’s time to leave me alone.
“Yeah,” she says. “But you know…”
I look over when she doesn’t finish the sentence. She narrows her eyes and pulls her lips to the right, her expression for when she’s about to say something I might not like, though knowing I might not like something is never quite enough to keep her from saying it. “I’m a nervous flyer, and it didn’t help that Cassie told me that this plane was made by Versace.”
“So?” I say.
“Versace.” She tilts her head and squinches one eye shut, her signature huh? face. I’m surprised she doesn’t come right out and say, huh-face! But apparently some faces are to be made, and others narrated.
I look over at Clark. Have Versace jets been crashing in the news?
Clark shrugs.
When we don’t exhibit the reaction she seems to expect, she leans in and says, “Do you know what Versace is really good at? Evening bags. Structured blazers. Stitching together bits of fabric and leather in a really pretty way—with a needle and thread. You have to ask yourself, is that really the kind of company you want making your plane?” She pauses for effect. “You know what Versace is not known for?” she continues. “Jet engine construction.”
“It’s an excellent plane,” I inform her.
Clark grins. “Versace simply means it’s a luxury brand of jet,” he says. “It’s not like Versace’s people made this plane in the Versace garment factory.”
“Well, here’s hoping,” she says brightly.
“I promise,” Clark says.
She nods, but you only have to look at her hands gripping the armrest to know that she’s white-knuckling it. I’m guessing she underplayed her fear of flying. Though to be fair, she’s hanging in there like a trooper, not that I’m paying attention. I have things to deal with—like the London Stock Exchange sliding into a shaky close.
She relaxes when we get to cruising altitude. Finally I can get something done. My plan is for her to watch movies in the lounge at the back of the plane. “Come on,” I say, getting up and leading her to the back.
Clark comes, too.
“So this is more of the talking area back here,” I say. “This pocket door closes it off from the quiet area where we work up front.” I slide it closed. “Soundproof. You can lounge on the couch and watch shows and take what you want from the bar.”
“You’ll be up there working this whole trip while I’m back here?”
“This whole trip, yes. I have a lot to do, and when I’m at my computer up there, it’s dead serious work time.” I want her to get that right away.
“Got it,” she says. “Business in the front, party in the back. Like a mullet. You should name this plane the Versace Mullet.”
Clark is suppressing a smile. “There you go, Rex. I always told you the plane needs a name. The Versace Mullet.”
I give him a look. He doesn’t need to be encouraging Tabitha. “Clark has a file full of names and photographs for you to study,” I say. “So that you know who’s on that boat. Who we care about and all that.”
“Good. And when should we go over our questionnaires?” she asks.
“I don’t think we really need to go over them. It’s in my email…” I turn to Clark. “Right?” Clark nods. “I’ll review it before we land.”
“You haven’t even read it?” she says.
“I’ll review it later. It’s not as if somebody’s going to be grilling us.”
“You’ll review it,” she says. As though there’s something wrong with that.
“I can assimilate large amounts of information quickly,” I say. “It’s kind of my thing.”
“Did you get the questions I sent you?” she asks.
She sent questions? I look at Clark.
“I forwarded her questions to you,” Clark says.
“Okay, I’ll find them and review them,” I say. “For now I need to get to work.”
“Okay, hold up.” She makes a little motion—two fingers pointed upward. Tabitha’s fingers talk as much as her mouth does. “I’m here to help you pull this off, right? And I need you to know that I’m going to do such an amazing job.” She lowers her voice to a whisper. “But I do have a few concerns.”
Clark touches her arm. “The pocket door is soundproof. The crew can’t hear us. You don’t have to whisper.”
“Okay, a few concerns,” she says more loudly.
I roll my eyes. “We heard you the first time. What?”
She swallows. “So I’m all in on following your instructions perfectly, but there are some things fiancés know about each other. Things that will help us pull this off. If the yacht is full of, like, oil sheiks from the Mideast who don’t speak English, I’d say we don’t need to really know that much about each other. And your”—here she makes quote fingers—“questionnaire would be fine in that case.”
Clark frowns. “Are you putting quotation marks around my questionnaire?”
“Kind of. Because here’s the thing—your personal shopper had me picking out cocktail party outfits. What that says to me is interaction. And if the person you’re trying to fool is a woman? And we’re socializing with her?” She shakes her head. “You guys. Just tell me it won’t be a woman who’s been around the block a few times.”
“I’m a private person,” I say. “I don’t share, and you don’t either. You’re a prop on my arm. And there are a hundred guests on the yacht.”
Tabitha isn’t satisfied. “But who are we trying to fool? Is it a woman? And does she have half a brain? Because when I said that thing about my grandmother in front of Cassie? You were like, oh really? You had an oh really face.”