Chapter Four Soundtrack: That Don't Impress Me Much by Shania Twain

I sneak another look over at him. The chair is so deep, and the armrests are so thick, that I have to lean so far forward that my neck is poking out like an ostrich, and now I am imagining myself as an ostrich, all flapping feathers and bulging eyes, and shit I've definitely been looking for too long.

Okay. Lean forward. Lean back. Coast clear.

I glance back, trying very hard to look elegant and classy, and not like someone obsessively scanning their colleague for proof that he's a bad person who deserves the texts he accidentally read. 

Nas is leaning back in his seat, apparently engrossed again in his book. Only the pulsing vein in his neck gives his agitation away.

I sneak a look at the cover. The Copenhagen Trilogy. Not a testosterone-fuelled self-help guide then. I feel even guiltier for assuming. Of course Nas reads. He may be unbearably arrogant but he's always articulate.

I can't think of a way to phrase that apology without making it worse.

The plane shudders into the sky, and around us, soft conversations hum. I stretch my legs, pull them back, stretch again. He glances down, but looks away when I relax my hands. I'm a bad traveller, but I don't want to make that his problem right now.

I breathe slowly, like I've practised, and the panic fades. It's still pulsing at the edge of my thoughts, but I can handle it.

Finally, we level out, and I watch the patchwork fields fade beneath us. Our wings pierce through marshmallow clouds.

Behind us, a baby cries.

Maybe this flight won't be so bad. We're both adults, after all. Maybe we can just ignore each other in civil silence.

After the seatbelt sign turns off, the flight attendant approaches us. She kneels down to murmur to Nas. 'Excuse me—I'm sorry to bother you—but are you Nasir Naji?'

'I'm sorry to say I am,' he replies.

She flushes bright pink. 'I can't believe it. I used to love your films.'

'Thank you,' he replies graciously. She touches his shoulder. The vein pulses.

'Could we take a picture?'

'Sure.'

He leans in, obviously expecting a selfie, but instead, she reaches across him and hands me her phone.

'Is that okay?' he asks me.

'Of course.'

She goes to lean her head against his but something in his eyes warns her off; she settles for a beaming smile. They look beautiful on her phone screen. I don't know what my face is doing.

'Smile,' I tell Nas. I take the picture.

'Thank you so much,' she gushes to him.

'You're welcome.'

She lingers for another moment. I can smell her fruity perfume and see the gold glitter of her eyeshadow. She's beautiful and she's expecting him to say something else. When he doesn't, she leaves with one final smile.

He opens his book again. I return to staring out the window.

Finally, I hope, I can stop worrying about Nas. But somehow he is still prowling around in my thoughts. I wonder how it felt, that she 'used to love' his movies. He doesn't act anymore, I think. Surely I'd notice if he vanished for weeks to star in something. Or, more likely, I'd spot a gushing editorial about his sultry eyes and confident movements (not that I've Googled him before, of course). Maybe producing is his passion now, but that doesn't quite make sense, either. He doesn't seem to love it. I don't always like it, but I love it. Not Nas, though. Nas tolerates it.

And she used to love his films because his greatest fame is over. Does that bother him, being someone's nostalgic crush?

I can't imagine asking him that. He's a foot away, but we're a lifetime apart.

'Thanks for that,' Nas says quietly. 'They don't usually recognise me anymore. I must be looking old.'

'No,' I reply, too quickly. He glances again at me. I clear my throat. 'You just don't have the heartthrob haircut anymore.'

'What's wrong with my hair?'

Nothing. But I say, 'It hasn't got that leading man lustre. No more baby curls on your neck.'

I watched the Dusk movies roughly a hundred times. The third one came out on my seventeenth birthday and Mei took me to the midnight premier. We stayed up til dawn talking about his baby curls: the memory comes back suddenly.

His hand brushes against the back of his neck, where his hair is now a clean fade. 'You noticed my curls?'

'I was your number one fan.' I speak lightly, without any of the sharpness we're both so used to.

He says softly, 'I wonder where I went wrong.'

*

I emerge from the plane like I'm waking from a dream.

Reality strikes as we reach the rental car. Nas has picked a huge four-by-four, of course, as if we're off-roading in Iceland instead of driving down motorways to a television set.

'I like to be prepared,' he shrugs. I hope he's prepared for my disdain. 'Just get in.'

He swings into the driver's side but I am immobilised. The tightness in my chest is here again. Every vein is bursting with blood: I can feel it all at once, roaring in my ears, rushing down my throat. I physically cannot open the door to this car. My hand hovers in front of me, like a phantom limb. It is out of my control, I can't—

'Your Highness.' Nas pops my door from inside. His scowl is back, and the door is open, and stubbornness alone pulls me into the passenger seat. Let him think I'm a princess. It's better than him thinking I'm weak.

My skirt rolls up as I swing into the car. His jaw tightens.

'Do you know where we're going?'

'No, Eleanor, I thought we'd take a scenic drive. I just enjoy your company so much.'

He's back to normal. I fold my skirt primly around my legs.

We drive through the outskirts of Cork into sprawling fields, peopled by cows and lambs tripping over their hooves. The road crests and folds around the fences, and the sky seems to expand past its borders so that everything is blindingly bright.

Nas doesn't speak for half the drive. His eyes are firmly locked on the road, even when I point out the horses we pass.

Finally, as we crest a hill and the countryside opens beneath us like a postcard, and the sea glitters in a faint line against the sky, he speaks.

My stomach drops as we start the descent.

'Can I pitch you?' he asks.

'Why?' I watch the trees blur past us so I don't have to see him.

'I told you why.'

'But really, why? You could just make me take one of your other productions. If this is a trap I want to know what it looks like.'

His cough sounds suspiciously like a laugh.

'I told you. You're a good commissioner. Don't argue, I won't say it again. And Barry won't stop talking about Pendleton—how smart you were to option it, how stupid I was to ignore it. He trusts you more than me.'

It has never occurred to me, in all these years, that Nas might doubt himself. I have never even seen him introduce himself. He knows that everyone knows him.

I agonised over Pendleton, an indie series of queer romance books, for weeks before commissioning it. It landed in my inbox two years ago, when I was raw with grief and shaking with insecurity. The email came to Nas first, but he was too busy, or so he said. Barry told me to ignore it and commission a popular dystopian series instead. Only knowing that Nas had liked the author gave me the confidence to pitch it—and, though he brushes off credit, he found my director and my tax credits. He may have passed on it, but he quietly helped me at every stage. It was the most successful show I've ever created.

I am still looking intently away.

'Eleanor. Have you changed your mind?'

Mercifully, my phone rings.

Terrifyingly, it is my mother.

How long can I ignore it?

One.

Two.

Three.

'Hi, Mum.' I finally look over. Nas is staring ahead again.

'Darling,' she says, 'you never sent me that curry recipe.'

'Sorry, I'll text it this morning.'

My leg is bouncing.

'And your aunt says you haven't proofread your cousin's CV.'

'I have done.'

'She says you haven't.'

'I have, I—'

'Well, your cousin didn't get the catering job.'

'I'll have another look, but if—'

'And how is Mei?'

'I'm seeing her after work next week, so—'

'You both work so hard! I don't think it's good for you. Very ageing, those office lights.'

'Well, I'll age either way. And I'm working on a new production. It's actually really exciting. You know Sunshine Hero?'

'No, darling. Are you in the car?'

'Yes, we're driving to set.'

'Oh my God.'

'I'm not driving. Please don't worry.'

I can feel Nas's eyes on me.

'Okay, darling. You know how anxious you make me.'

'I'll call you later, Mum.'

'You'll probably forget again, so I won't wait up.'

'I won't forget to call.'

'I love you.'

'You too.'

I hang up. I want to say something to Nas but my throat feels too tight.

He says, 'She sounds nice,' and flicks on the radio.

We don't talk for the rest of the drive.

*

happy sunday! i am very sick and snotty in bed, so posting this is all i will accomplish today. please recommend some of your fave stories so i can read myself to sleep.