CHAPTER SEVEN
My plane trip from California to London involved two layovers and an interminable amount of time over the Pacific Ocean spent behind three rows of high schoolers who apparently took international vacations every semester. They yelled back and forth about how much beer they planned to drink when they landed in England. I remembered the type from high school, but they were no less obnoxious now that I had graduated. Only two things kept me sane on the journey. One was the vague hope, now turned real, of visiting my mother’s grave. The other—god save me— was the thought of Eliot’s hot lips on my skin, his piercing blue eyes staring into mine. I thought of him and everything else melted away. I would have to be careful. I didn’t want to lose my heart to someone I could never be with, but it seemed that I was already far, far gone.
At the London airport I got off of the packed plane gratefully, wiping my bleary eyes. I had only managed a few hours of sleep, and couldn’t wait to be in Budapest and finished with my trip. I checked my transfer information with one of the agents at the gate. She took my ticket and frowned.
“Gate Oh-Thirty? Hmm. I don’t know that one.” Her voice sounded exceedingly British, and although my stomach jumped with nerves, her smooth voice settled it back down.
She took me over to the information desk through the mobs of people with cardboard cups of coffee in their hands. My body wanted to collapse and sleep, and the world had taken on a hazy sort of fuzz to its edges. I slung my bag to the ground. It seemed to have grown thirty pounds since the last layover.
“Do you know Gate Oh-Thirty?” she asked.
“Gate Oh-Thirty?” The older man sitting at the booth took up the ticket to examine it. “Oh yes, see here at the corner. It’s one of the private hangars.” He looked up at me with evident surprise and stood up from his chair. “I’ll see you to your gate, miss.”
“I can find it,” I said, a bit annoyed. “Just tell me where it is.”
“Not at all,” the man said. He came around the booth and motioned the female agent away as he picked up my backpack.
“You don’t have to—” I said, but the man already had the bag over his shoulder. He waved me on.
“Please, miss—ah, Tomlin,” he said, checking my ticket once more. “Is the rest of your luggage already checked through?”
“Um, that’s it,” I said.
“Pardon?”
“That’s all I have.” Every belonging of mine was stuffed into that duffel bag.
“Of course. My apologies, Miss Tomlin.” He walked briskly through the airport, even with my bag weighing on his shoulder. My sleepiness evaporated as I had to hurry to keep up.
We passed through two terminals and I was beginning to think that we would walk the entire rest of the way to Hungary when the man motioned me through a doorway to the outside.
“Brrrr!” I wrapped my arms across my chest, shivering under my hoodie. Outside a freezing mist blanketed the morning, and we stood on the icy tarmac with salt like grit under our feet. A huge jet rolled right in front of us, heading toward another gate.
“Not too far now,” the man said, and walked on, ignoring the airport workers who loaded suitcases onto a huge belted carousel. I followed meekly as we passed underneath the extended walkways toward a small jet plane sitting on the side of the tarmac. The wind pelted my cheeks with wet snow.
“Um, I don’t think…” I said, looking back to the airport with the 747s all lined up like fat geese on the side of the terminal. “Is this a mistake?”
The information agent shook his head.
“This is it,” he said. He escorted me to the side of the plane. The body of the aircraft sloped down to the tail, a sleek aluminum figure with a small staircase attached to the side. Only three windows checkered the side of the plane—the smallest passenger plane I’d ever seen. Stamped on the tail was a large letter H in slanted text inscribed in a circle.
A man poked his head out of the side of the plane, a pilot’s cap covering his light hair.
“The American girl! You’re early!” He thumbed back into the plane. “We can board you now, though. Come on in!”
I stepped up the stairs and almost fell backwards onto the tarmac in surprise when I saw the inside of the plane. Plush leather seats lined the sides of the plane, and dim lights made the entire interior glow. Extended tables held bottles of wine and champagne in sunken ice buckets, and velvety blankets and pillows were plumped up on each seat. Large screens in front of each seat beckoned with menus of entertainment. And it was warm.
“I can’t… this isn’t…” I couldn’t form a complete statement if I tried. “Is this…am I…the wrong terminal?”