The door slammed - Sue

The door slammed shut

The plane seems to struggle as it rears off the ground and the landing wheels whirr and grind as they disappear into their housing. The ceiling of the plane visually vibrates and the overhead compartments threaten to throw their contents into the aisle. Sharon hates flying and as she watches Sydney Harbour tilt, she peers up and down the aisle looking for the drinks trolley. She needs a double gin and tonic.

She also hates the cold. Her neighbour has monopolised the air vents and cold blasts stream onto her face.

“What a wank” she thinks to herself

“Oh God only another 22 hours to go” she looks at her watch, calculates the time difference and groans. 6 am in London.

As she struggles into her woolly cardigan, her left arm stubbornly keeps getting caught behind the bloke’s newspaper. Grey steely eyes peer sideways over those stupid half size reading glasses. She’s still cold. And London at 6 am is going to be even colder. And grey and probably raining.

After the second double gin and tonic, Sharon hugs herself further into the woolly cardigan and her tummy has gurgling unsettling rumbles.

“What am I doing, who do I think I am, I’m just kidding myself” she juggles the phrases this way and that.

“A month ago I was a happy go lucky, girly kind of a girl with a great job as the deputy editor of Cleo Magazine” one side of her brain argues.

“But something was missing” goes the other side. “That feeling of power, of organisation and structure. Of absolutely running the show”.

Then an advert had flashed across her PC early one morning. An ad as editor of a men’s fashion magazine in London.

The two parts of her brain had battled it out for several days. Then suddenly, just like a seed that had been dormant all her life, the answer burst through the ground.

“I’ll have a red wine thanks” and the flight attendant hands her a tray of unexciting looking food. She smiles anyway and turns to the bloke next door.

“Hi, I mean hello, I’m Sharon Brown. Sorry I was so rude earlier on. Are you stopping in Singapore or going through to London?”

He grunts but he does collapse the newspaper onto the floor and takes his identical tray of food and red wine.

“Are you travelling on business” she persists.

He turns, the glasses are off, he actually looks quite handsome. “Hey hang on” she says to herself. “this is business – lets practice being blokie”

“I’m going through to London. I live there and I work there. My name is David Hatherley. What about you?”

“I’m starting a new job next Monday, based in Regent Street. The job doesn’t phase me” she lies “but that cold, grey, damp weather is going to be a real challenge”.

“It’s not so bad. Believe me, you will get used to it. You’ll just dress and organise your day to suit”

“What do you mean organise my day to suit?”

“Well, here’s my work day. Up at 5.00 am, drive to the gym for an hour’s workout. Then over breakfast I catch up on the overnight financial news which is on the TV at 6.30 am. I’ve duplicated my work office at home so next I spend an hour catching up on emails or reading the next Board report. My driver picks me up at 8.30 am. He battles the traffic and the weather. I read the papers”.

“Oh God” she swallows the words

“Wow, that sounds really powerful”

The two sides of her brain battle again, but only briefly. Her tummy lightens, she smiles and imagines her new wardrobe. Black wool skirt suits, silk shirts and high black patent stilettos. Such a contrast to the long flowing floral skirts and tees, she wore at Cleo.