One
Arlo
The taxi pulls up at East Midlands Airport, and, after grabbing my bags and almost throwing the money at the startled driver, I fall out of it.
“Thank you,” I gasp and start to run towards Departures, my feet skidding in the slush.
Catching the eye of a security guard, I amend my pace to a dignified jog that hopefully doesn’t scream drug mule or gun-toting maniac to someone who has the power to cavity search me. He shakes his head in a slightly patronising manner as I immediately get myself stuck in the revolving door.
“Shit!” I gasp, trying to get free, but the bag on the back of my shoulder refuses to budge. “Sorry, didn’t mean to do that.” The door makes a high-pitched whining noise and judders to a stop while the guard stands there looking stoical and slightly bored. “But don’t worry about me,” I call, straining to get myself through the opening as several people tut from behind me. “I’m excellent in small, tight spaces. Not that I’m implying something seedy,” I gasp as I wriggle like a tortoise stuck in a revolving door. “Not me.”
“Could we get a bloody move on?” a bloke says from behind me.
“Maybe,” I say through gritted teeth. I pause. “You could always try giving me a push,” I shoot back hopefully.
I hear a muttered, “Fuck me,” but then strong hands push me from behind, and I shoot through and into the building with a clatter. My grumpy Samaritan steps neatly around me and walks off, muttering under his breath about twats.
Ignoring him, I gather myself and look around frantically for the flight-information kiosk. But my gaze immediately lands on something better than the kiosk.
He’s leaning against the booth, his attention on his phone, a slight frown of concentration on his face. Two of the attendants eye him and whisper and giggle. I can’t blame them. Jack Cooper is gorgeous with his thick black hair and warm brown eyes. He’s wearing a camel-coloured jumper and faded jeans that show off his long, rangy body, and he looks as neat and tidy as ever.
“Hey,” I say breathlessly as I race up to him. “I’m so sorry I’m late. The alarm on my phone didn’t go off, and then the taxi driver was so slow. I’m sure I could have got out and pushed the car faster.”
He looks up and grins. It’s warm and wide and lights up his whole face, and it’s as familiar to me as my childhood home. It should be, because he’s been in my life for as long as I can remember. Since the day he met my older brother at primary school and became best friends with him.
“Doesn’t matter,” he says immediately, a tone of familiar comfort infusing his voice. “I was getting a bit worried, though. I thought you were going to miss the flight.” He looks behind me. “Why is that security guard eyeing you like you’re Charles Manson?”
I wave my hand airily. “Probably because I’m an intriguing bad boy.”
He raises one eyebrow. “Really?”
I grimace. “No, of course not. I got stuck in the revolving door.”
His laughter is warm and hearty, the kind that makes you want to chuckle along with him. “You do make me smile,” he says affectionately.
“Well, that’s very good,” I say briskly. “This holiday in Amsterdam is going to go swimmingly, then.”
He holds out his hand in a mute command, and I reluctantly place one of my bags in it. “We’d better make a move,” he says, sliding the strap over his shoulder. “We haven’t got much time.” He reaches into his messenger bag and removes a leather travel wallet. Unzipping it, he produces his ticket and boarding pass. They’re pristine. “Have you got yours? Give them to me, and I’ll do the honours.”
I reach into the pocket of my jacket and produce my crumpled paperwork. It’s creased to hell, and there’s a stain across it where I spilt coffee on it last night. It rests in his hand like a big paper turd.
“Sorry,” I mutter. “It’s—”
“Coffee?” he asks, laughter lighting his eyes.
I shrug. “Could have been whisky from my incredibly wild life.”
“The day you don’t have your coffee is the day England will fall.” He winks at me. “Ready?”
I nod and follow him. Usually, when I travel abroad, it’s chaos. I invariably lose something or turn up at the wrong time, or on one memorable occasion, the wrong airport. However, with Jack, everything goes perfectly. We pass quickly through the check-in as he unerringly picks the queue that begins to move as soon as we join it. Things even go smoothly in Customs. Usually, my naturally guilty expression results in me being searched and asked prying questions about my intentions, like I’m a drug-smuggling Mr Darcy, but today we sail through. Probably because of Jack’s choir-boy expression.
We emerge into the bustle of the Departures lounge. I inhale the scent of coffee and look hopefully over at the nearest coffee shop. Jack shakes his head, but obligingly makes his way over to it.
The place is warm and bright, with Frank Sinatra in the background entreating everyone to have themselves a merry little Christmas. I lean against the glass display case, eying the baked goods as my stomach rumbles.
“Are you having caffeine withdrawals?” Jack asks, coming up next to me. “You’re looking rather jittery.”
“That’s the understatement of the year,” I mutter. “I was in a bit of a rush this morning, if you didn’t get the memo.” He laughs and leans against the counter as I place my order. “Want something?” I ask him. “A croissant?”
He makes a face. “Not this early, thanks. Anyway, they’re full of sugar.”
“That’s the best bit,” I say, mystified.
“I’ll have a cup of green tea, though.”
I wrinkle my nose. “Why?”
Humour tugs at his full mouth. “Because it’s very good for you and gets rid of toxins.”
“So does coffee.”
“Since when?”
I wave my hand airily. “It was in some study I read.”
He chuckles, and I take my drink, smiling a thank you at the barista. I remove the lid immediately and, closing my eyes, inhale the scent greedily.
“What are you doing, Arlo? Don’t you normally use another orifice for drinking with?”
I open my eyes and direct a mock glare at him. “Don’t rain on my moment of holy communion. This smell has the power to make me wake up, regardless of how much sleep I’ve actually had.”
He shakes his head, taking his own drink and smiling at the barista. She looks like she’s considering swooning. I can’t blame her. I’ve been close a few times myself.
“How do you cope with school hours, Arlo? Or do your students come in a lot later than I remember?”
I smile at him. “They’re six, Jack. They come in when they’re dropped off by their parents, and knowing some of those, I’m eternally surprised that we’re not forced to do sleepovers. Private schools are run by the parents. Don’t let anyone ever tell you any differently.”
He laughs and makes his way out of the coffee shop, the crowd obligingly parting for him like he’s Jesus with a bread roll.