main cabin. He strode up the aisle to the as yet miraculously unoccupied seat beside her.
‘What do you know?’ He smiled and settled himself in place. She had the book open on her lap.
‘I know something about the laws of probability,’ she answered coolly and returned to her reading. Sam saw a guy who looked like John Belushi making his way towards them, already frowning. He leaned down and scooped Finch’s flowers from where she had wedged them under the seat in front, and held them on the armrest between them. And he squirmed closer so their heads were almost touching.
‘Is this …?’ Belushi began tetchily.
Sam passed over his boarding card. ‘I’m really sorry. It’s your seat, I know. But look, it’s our wedding night. D’you mind changing so I can sit beside my wife? She’s a nervous flier.’
‘Well, okay,’ the man grunted and pushed onwards.
She didn’t laugh now. She didn’t look alarmed or disconcerted or angry – just severe. She took back the flowers and pushed them under the seat again, kicking them out of the way with the toe of her pretty shoe. ‘What is all this about?’
‘You think I’m a flake, don’t you?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’m not. I just wanted to sit here.’
‘Then sit,’ she said crisply. He did as he was told, through the last-minute de-icing and the taxi and the take-off, and the pilot’s announcement that in the wake of the storm severe turbulence was anticipated and they should keep their seat belts fastened. As the plane climbed through the cloud layers it pitched and shuddered, and the engines whined and changed key. Finch suddenly let her book drop and pushed her head back against the seat rest. Sam saw the pallor of her throat.
‘As a matter of fact there was one grain of accidental truth in that load of bullshit.’
‘What’s that?’ he asked.
‘I’m a lousy flier.’
‘Want to hold my hand?’
‘I want a drink.’
He peered around the seat in front. As far as he could see, the crew were still strapped in. ‘Not yet. Want to talk instead?’
She sighed and closed her eyes. The fuselage creaked and swayed giddily. ‘If you like.’
‘I had my fortune told by an old native Indian woman when I was a tiny boy. I remember to this day, her saying to me, “You are not going to die in an Air Canada 737 somewhere over the western seaboard.” Do you feel sick, by the way?’
‘If I vomit I can deal with it myself, thank you. I am a doctor.’
‘Dr Buchanan. Specialising in put-downs of pushy men and vomit.’
The plane hit a pocket of empty space. It pitched through the vacuum for what seemed like ten seconds before hitting solid air again. A child began screaming and a moan came from an old woman across the aisle. Finch snatched at Sam’s hand and dug her nails in. She had gone white to the lips.
‘It’s okay,’ he soothed her. Her hand was clammy; he rubbed the skin on the back of it gently with his thumb. ‘It’s just storm turbulence. Nothing’s going to happen to us. You’re safe.’ He reached to the seat pocket and laid the paper bag on her lap, just in case, on top of the book. He noticed now that it was Touching the Void, a classic account of a climbing catastrophe and its aftermath.
He nodded pleasantly at it. ‘I read that. Quite a story.’
She rolled her head. ‘I think I’d rather be down a crevasse than up here.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Look. Don’t expect me to be polite and kind. Just talk to me. Tell me about yourself, if you like.’
‘An invitation no male could refuse. Where should I begin?’
He told her about why he had been visiting his father and about running, and his work and its problems, trying to make it twice as interesting as it really was. He avoided mentioning Frannie, although once or twice he caught himself saying we and he knew she had registered it. The plane’s bucking and shuddering gradually eased, and in-flight service began. By the time he was putting a large vodka and tomato juice into her hand, Finch’s colour had improved. She drank half the measure down straight.
‘Thanks again.’
‘Steady.’
She had let go of his hand minutes ago. Now she picked up Joe Simpson’s book again. ‘I think I’ll read some more of this.’
It wasn’t until they had begun their descent into Vancouver that he broke in on her once more. ‘You know all about me, I don’t know anything about you. Is that a fair arrangement, do you think?’
She smiled briefly. ‘I shouldn’t think so. What do you want to know?’
In response to a series of direct questions he learned that she had been in Oregon for her best friend’s wedding. She practised in the city with a partner, she had four brothers all older than she was, her father was an architect he had vaguely heard of and her mother was a mother. She lived alone in a city apartment. And yes, she was seeing someone at the moment. Although she flashed a warning glance at him just for asking.
They had landed and were taxiing towards the stand when he put the final, inevitable, schlocky question he couldn’t think of any way around. ‘Can I call you some time? Maybe we could have dinner.’
Finch sighed. She had gathered up the flowers again and they made her look as if she was headed for the altar. ‘I don’t think so, Sam.’
‘Why not? I’m harmless, maybe even quite amusing. What have you got to lose?’
‘Nothing.’ They were stationary at last. Raindrops glittered on the window beyond her shoulder. ‘I’m not going to be here. I’m going away for a while.’
‘When?’ he asked grimly. Somehow he would see her again, whatever it might take.
‘In a couple of weeks. And I’m really busy before then, getting ready for it.’
‘Where?’
She hesitated. Then a so-what smile crimped the corners of her mouth. ‘Out to Nepal. Kathmandu. Then on to Everest. I’m joining an expedition to climb it. Medical officer.’
‘You’re a climber. You don’t just read about it? That’s extraordinary.’ Shaking his head, he reached out mentally to all the curtains of denial with which he had shrouded his adolescence and pulled them down with one breezy sentence. ‘Because I climb too. Mad about it, ever since I was a kid.’
Her eyes narrowed. ‘I thought you said you were a marathon runner. A failed Olympic one.’
‘That too. Where will you be staying in Kathmandu?’
‘Why do you want to know?’
‘I’ve
