I shake my head but can’t conceal my smile. “Are you making the funny, Jack?”
He grins. “Only a little bit.”
We reach the incredibly tiny plane and join the slow-moving queue of people, none of whom look like they’re contemplating their deaths. I try to avert my gaze from all aspects of the aircraft as we wait to walk up the steps, but I accidentally look at the propellers again and give a little whine. “Oh my God,” I say, fumbling in my pocket.
“What are you doing now?” Jack asks.
“Taking another tablet. This one isn’t working.”
“Arlo, you only had the last one a minute ago. Give it a chance to work and… Oh Christ, you’ve taken it.”
I swallow it and nod. “Yep. Don’t worry.”
“Should you be taking two in quick succession?” he asks anxiously, pulling the packet off me and reading the back of it like he’s got a medical degree.
I wave my hand casually. “Don’t worry about it. They’re more guidelines than hard and fast rules.”
Two
Arlo
“I am sorry,” I say for the five-hundredth time as we walk through customs at Schiphol Airport. “It turns out that they were hard and fast rules, after all.”
He shakes his head. “It’s fine. It was probably better that you slept all the way because there was quite a lot of turbulence.” He shoots me a smile. “And the drooling was really rather sweet.”
“Oh God,” I whisper. “Have the pins and needles in your shoulder gone now?”
“Not yet,” he says bravely. “But hopefully, soon. Who knew the human head was so heavy?”
“Just you and Jeffery Dahmer,” I say sourly, my mouth ticking up at his rich laughter. “I am sorry,” I say again.
He stops with his hand on my arm. “Stop saying that. I’m just happy to be here with you.”
I indulge in a brief fantasy of him saying that it will be just the two of us on this holiday, and he’s intent on taking me to his hotel room and dicking me until I scream. Then I remind myself to stop leering.
I look round as we come out into the main airport. “God, this is huge compared to East Midlands Airport,” I say.
People are everywhere, sitting on suitcases or standing in queues, but there’s still a bustling holiday atmosphere helped by the enormous golden Christmas decorations and the festive music playing. The shops are big and expensive, their windows gleaming with goodies that put East Midlands with its WH Smiths and Greggs to shame.
“You should see Heathrow lately.”
“No, thank you,” I say promptly.
“Probably best.” He laughs.
I grin goofily, feeling the usual sense of loopy, Valium-induced euphoria that I get when I step off a plane. It’s all the avoiding grisly death. Makes me lavishly happy.
“I actually like airports,” I say, smiling like a loon and dodging around a group of people embracing and talking loudly. “So much good people-watching. It’s just the plane bit that spoils it.”
“Damn those pesky planes. They ruin everything.”
“You would certainly be saying that if you had engine failure, Jack,” I say darkly.
“I think my words would be more of the four-letter kind, and I’d be swearing.”
“No, you’d be the heroic one who saves lives without messing up your hair. You’d then gather everyone together and give a rousing speech that totally circumvents the impulse to start eating one another when the cheese and biscuit packets have run out.”
He gives me a startled look. “Would I?”
I nod, feeling a flush on my cheeks. “Of course. And the base camp on the desert island would be the tidiest and most organised one around.”
I laugh as he reaches out and shoves me, and I narrowly avoid ploughing into two women who are sucking face surrounded by luggage. I give them an approving smile before we walk outside.
“God, that’s nice,” I say, raising my face to the cold air. It’s fresh and invigorating. “I hate the heat in those places.”
He smiles. “You’re just like your brother.”
“That is not the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”
“You just both have this huge aversion to heating.”
“And you’d be the same if you’d grown up in my house. My parents’ fingers were surgically grafted to the ‘off’ button on the heating.” He laughs, and I shake my head. “You know it’s the truth. How many times did you come out of the shower when you stayed with us to find my dad standing outside the bathroom tutting and looking at his watch?”
“A fair few.” He shrugs. “Your mum and dad’s house was so nice, though. Very welcoming and chaotic.”
His voice sounds wistful. Probably because his own home could have doubled up as an operating theatre, so tidy and clean was it. I think of his mother’s personality and amend the comparison to a morgue. I sneak a glance at him to find him looking a bit sad. I want to hug him desperately but resist the impulse because I might lose control and start humping one of his very long legs. Instead, I look around at the scenery to give him a second of privacy.
Huge buildings and hotels circle the airport, along with lots of cranes, and the sounds of construction fill the air. It’s always slightly disappointing to come out of an airport. You always think that you’re going to exit the building and find yourself in some exotic locale, when in reality, you usually just walk out into a building site.
When I spy the huge Amsterdam sign, I brighten. I thrust my phone at Jack. “Quick, take my picture.”
He smiles and waves me in front of the sign with the phone poised. I strike a funny pose by the letter “A.” His smile dies slightly when fifty tourists take the opportunity to wander across the shot. And then more and more. Finally, he manages one just as my leg is starting to get pins and needles.
I hobble back to him as a very beautiful girl comes over, all legs and shiny brown hair. She says something in Dutch to Jack who looks politely bewildered. “Would you like me to take a photo of the two of you?” she asks in English, smiling at both of us.
“Oh.” Jack hesitates. “There’s no need.”
“Yes, please,” I say fervently and snatch the phone off him to present it to the girl.
He grins at me and throws his arm over my shoulder. “Okay then, smile.”
I nestle closer, under the pretence of getting in the shot, and relish the weight of his arm and the smell of his cologne. He smells like Jack. Wonderful and sexy and somehow home. I’m just toying with sniffing his neck to get a bigger fix of his scent, when the girl hands the phone back.
“You make a lovely couple,” she says kindly. “You look very right together.”
“Oh no, we’re not together,” I say immediately. “He’s my brother’s best friend.”
She smiles. “Ah, my mistake.”
I thank her for the photo, and she vanishes back into the crowd. I look down at my phone and smile. The funny thing is, she’s right. We do look good together, his dark hair and brown eyes a nice contrast to my chestnut waves and boring grey eyes. Of course, his hair is immaculate, while my unruly locks make me look like I’ve been dragged through a hedge backwards. Three times. I’m also as pale as a vampire, while he looks tanned and handsome. With his arm draped around me, and his contrasting height and broad shoulders, he looks protective and somehow more content than usual.