Tom insists on dropping me home after the flight.
We land in Luton this time. A smidge less than an hour’s drive at this time of day. I said he didn’t have to, but he did anyway. Since our breakfast talk, he’s become this funny, self-appointed guard dog. He didn’t leave me alone once, wouldn’t let go of my hand.
I don’t know completely whether it was just because of what happened with BJ and how sad I was, or another reason—because regular foxholery aside, I felt a peculiar kind of relief to be holding Tom’s hand anyway.
And when he told me to come and sit up with him in the cockpit, I knew it would hurt Beej so I did it, and I was right. I saw him sitting at the back of the plane, waiting for me to come sit next to him—I didn’t.
Even though a bit of me wanted to. Because I think a bit of me will always want to. It sounds hypocritical, I know—that I’m this angry at him for sleeping with someone else when I did as well. I don’t know why it feels heavy around my neck, a bit like it’s choking me, and why I feel like he’s betrayed me, but I’ve not betrayed him.
Or maybe I do feel like I betrayed him but maybe I had to?
The spare seat next to BJ was for me, that much was obvious from his eyes, even though I didn’t meet them—I didn’t need to, I could feel them on me, waiting for me, hoping for me.
And then I went into the cockpit with Tom.
And a part of me hoped that Beej felt what I feel whenever I see him with his hands on other girls, hoped that it consumed him while we flew—what was happening behind the closed door.
What happened was making out.
“Am I allowed in here?” I asked, as he closed the cockpit door behind us.
He gave me a look. “I’m the pilot.”
“You didn’t ask me in here last time.”
“Saw Ballentine at the back of the plane with the spare seat next to him,” he said. “You just strike me as the sort of girl who’d be powerless against a backseat with the love of her life.”
“Excuse me.” I blinked, indignant. “I’m powerless before nothing but Gucci.”
He sniffed a laugh. “Go back out there then.”
“No,” I told him, my nose in the air. “I fancy my chances better in here but only because he’s wearing grey and I love grey, and he knows that so he did that on purpose.”
He looked down at himself in a plain white tee from Tom Ford. “How do you feel about white?”
My eyes fell down him and I was being flirty, I knew I was, but it’s fun to flirt with Tom England. “It goes alright.”
He smiled at me with pinched eyes and a mouth that said nothing while simultaneously saying many things.
I sat in the co-pilot chair. We flirted more. Tom showed me what to do, all the buttons to press, talked me through taking off as he did it, and then once we were in the air, he asked me if I wanted to fly it.
“Maybe?” I glanced over at him, nervously. He patted his lap. “Oh, I see.” I rolled my eyes and he laughed.
He bit down on his bottom lip. “Come on,” he said. I walked over to him gingerly, eyeing him, amused. He pulled me down on to him and positioned me for peak plane-flying position, wrapping his arms around me, holding my hands to the yolk of the plane. He rested his chin on my shoulder, guiding the plane through my hands—I wasn’t doing anything, I knew I wasn’t. But I also wasn’t moving because I liked the feeling of Tom England against me.
It felt like I was lost at sea and he was this saviour piece of driftwood that I could cling to.
His breath on my neck caught on my skin and so I turned back, my eyes flicking from his down to his mouth and back up again.
He does this thing with his mouth, Tom England—and it’s unbelievably sexy—it’s this almost smile, no teeth—nearly a smirk but not smug at all. He does it when he wants something or he’s being clever, and it was of my opinion in that moment, that he wasn’t being overly clever, ergo he wanted something and the thing Tom England wanted was me.
He swallowed heavily.
Then I brushed my mouth against his. Quick and gentle, shyer than I wished I was.
I don’t know why I did it. Not very like me, actually. I just wanted to.
He smiled, maybe surprised, definitely pleased, and then he leant in again, mouth hovered above mine, close enough that you could feel the touch before the touch, and my breathing went weak at the knees, and then our lips touched, slowly at first and then not at all, it was just rushy-rushy, time racing past us and through us.
He spun me around so I was facing him and then we were just kissing. We stayed kissing until we hit an air pocket and the plane dropped a few feet, and I nearly went flying into the ceiling, but he grabbed me, and he was laughing, and then he apologised to everyone over the loudspeaker, told them his co-pilot was a bit distracting and not overly-attentive in the aviation arena.
I didn’t know whether he said that for me or for himself, but I hoped it hurt BJ either way.
We stopped kissing after that though, and he sat in his chair and I sat in mine, but every now and then, he’d look at me out of the corner of his eye and his nostrils would flare a bit as he tried not to smile, and then I’d start laughing, and then he’d start laughing and I think he’s become one of my best friends.
There’s a moving lorry out the front of my house when I get home. I look over at Tom, confused. We walk inside and we’re only in for about 4.5 seconds when my sister flings herself into my arms. “Thank god,” she cries. “It’s been a madhouse.”
“Oh?” I blink. “Why? What’s happened?”
Bridget pulls away, hands pressed into her temples. She’s wearing the maroon and custard, yellow, horizontal-stripe, logo cardigan from Miu Miu that I left hanging in her closet, hands on her hips—she looks from me to Tom.
“Everything.” She shakes her head. “Everything!” I wave my hands impatiently, waiting for more information. BJ would have flicked me for doing that to Bridge. “Well, Mum’s moving out,” she starts, and I roll my eyes.
Wow. “Okay.”
“They’re getting a divorce.”
Geez. I nod. “Okay.”
“Mars is moving in.”
I frown. “She already lives here.”
Bridge gives me a look. “Into his room.”
I scrunch up my face, make a “yuck” sound.
Tom glances at me and has a fairly solid lid on that smile of his but BJ would have covered my mouth to shut me up.
“I heard that,” Marsaili says, walking out. “Magnolia—” She goes to kiss me and I dodge it. Not just to be petulant (though I am) but because we’re not kissers. We weren’t before she had an affair with my father. We aren’t now that she has. “Lovely—” She clears her throat. “Still acting like a child, I see.” She nods at him. “Hello, Tom.”
He gives her a curt smile. “Marsaili.”
My mother wanders out of a living room wielding a Carolingian sword from the 12th century.
“That’s mine!” yells my father. “That’s mine, put it back.”
“I’m taking it,” she tells him.
“You hated that sword—you said it was a waste of money!”
“Yes, but see, you love wasting money, darling, don’t you?” My mother bats her eyes at him. “That third breast augmentation I had was just money down the drain, wasn’t it? Money down the drain! Didn’t even look at them once.”
“Mum, don’t say ‘breast augmentation’ in front of Tom England,” Bridget tells her.
Tom tosses Bridge an amused look.
“Oh!” She looks over at us. “Tom! Magnolia, what a surprise.”
“Is it though?” I frown.
“Hi.” Tom smiles uncomfortably.
I wobble my head around, considering it. “I mean I do live here—”
“And I do not,” she tells me with an indelicate nod.
I walk up a few stairs feeling like I’d rather like to be taller than the rest of the room, except I’m still not taller than Tom.
I stare at my mother for a few seconds. “Are you wearing a ballgown?”
She looks down at herself in the black Puff-sleeve, cotton-blend, Chantilly-lace gown from Dolce & Gabbana. “Yes.”
“Why?”
“This is my moving ballgown.”
“Practical.” My sister nods appreciatively.
“Well, I was going to wear it at our recommitment ceremony.” She eyes my father dangerously. “But that plan’s in the toilet now.”
“I never asked you to marry me again,” he tells her, unceremoniously.
“Harley—” Marsaili smacks him in the arm.
I flick her a look. “Bit of a weird time for you to jump in—”
And I wish for a second that BJ was here. He’s so good when things go pear-shaped like this. He’s so good at diffusing my familial stupidity.
My mother folds her arms over her chest. “She’s right, Harley, our vows might have gone to the wolves but there’s no reason your manners need to.”
I look only at my sister and give her a look. “I hate this.”
She mirrors it. “Welcome home.”
“Well—” I look between them all with a grimace. “I’m going to go upstairs—find a builder to soundproof my bedroom walls.”
Marsaili rolls her eyes. “We’ve had sex here before.”
I quickly stick my finger in my ears. “Lalalalalalalala.”
“Marsaili.” My father gives her a look.
She looks annoyed. “She didn’t hear us then—”
“And I shan’t now,” I yell.
“Do mine too, actually, will you?” Bridge tells me, and I give her a point and wink.
I turn to run up the stairs, Tom following me.
“Actually, darling”—my father makes a step towards me—“can I speak to you alone for a moment?”
I stand still and look back at him. Tom shifts in front of me. “No.”
My father’s jaw goes tight. He’s annoyed but also a bit sad.
“No?” Mars says, incredulous. Tom shakes his head, indifferent. “Listen Tom,” Marsaili sighs. “It’s very, very sweet that you’re so protective of Magnolia but she’s perfectly fine to be left alone with her father, and frankly, this isn’t any of your business, so—”
I shake my head. “Don’t speak to him like that.”
“Magnolia, with all due respect, Tom is new around here, and he’s getting himself involved in our family affairs—”
“—You are not my family anymore.” I shake my head as I point to her. “And he”—I point to him—“is my boyfriend.”
Tom looks over at me and smiles with just the corner of his mouth, and it feels like maybe for a second, he’s not just my fake boyfriend.
“Well,” Marsaili sighs, “I’m sorry you feel that way, Magnolia. I’ve only ever treated you like my own daughter—”
“Oh!” I nod, thinking it through. “Is that why you’ve been fucking my father all this time?”
My father sighs with a groan under his breath. “Come on, love—”
“I don’t know what you want from me.” I look between them. “My approval? You won’t get it.”
“Darling.” My father steps towards me. “I haven’t been in love with your mother for a very long time.”
“Fine,” I nod. “That’s fine—I don’t have a problem with that. What I have a problem with is the spineless act of cheating. Which you do.” I gesture towards him. “You cheat, I know you do. But with her?” I gesture to Mars. “Who was ours? Our one grown-up who loved us and cared for us and raised us—you had to ruin her?”
“Magnolia,” Mars says, shaking her head. Her voice sounds a bit high and hopeful. “I’m not ruined, I’m just—”
“A hypocrite,” I tell her.
