The Youngest Sister

He watched her dropping ice cubes into a glass before filling it from the jug of orange juice. Barefoot, she would be about five feet nine or ten. A big girl in every sense. But her curves were firm and well-proportioned, and would be a cuddly armful. He had never been attracted by delicate, doll-like women.

She returned to her place, stepping carefully around the outstretched legs of a sleeping transit passenger who was relying on the stewardesses to wake him in time for his next flight. Her hair was light mouse with blonde streaks. But they were like children’s blonde streaks, not the result of expensive sessions at the hairdresser. Her face appeared bare of make-up. She looked an open-air girl, which was also how he liked them. Except she was too young, and probably not going where he was anyway.

At a different time of year Nicolas would have put her down as a chalet girl, bound for a winter of cooking and cleaning for skiing parties. Assuming her interests to be sporting, he wondered what she would look like stripped off except for a minuscule swimsuit, speeding across the water on a windsurfer.

His train of thought was broken when, after looking round the lounge as he had a few minutes earlier, the girl met his eyes and realised he had been watching her.

For a second or two she was visibly disconcerted, and then a delicious blush suffused that clear outdoor skin and she turned her face towards the door. Her shyness amused and intrigued him. Even at nineteen not many girls were flustered by a stranger’s stare. In his experience, the signal he had been sending—albeit not deliberately—was usually returned with tacit permission for him to make the next move.

Cressy set her glass down on the table alongside her chair and, bending forward, pretended to be looking for something in one of the pockets of her backpack.

She hadn’t expected to find the dark man staring at her, but that wasn’t why she felt agitated. She was in a dither because his face had not been the let-down she had anticipated. It was extremely attractive. More than that, it was a face she had often tried to visualise but never quite succeeded in putting together in her mind—the face of her dream man.

Like a police detective composing an Identikit picture, she had often mentally assembled the various facial characteristics she expected him to have. A firm mouth and chin. A nice smile. Eyes both intelligent and kind. But somehow, like an Identikit, the face she had seen in her mind’s eye had never been more than an approximation of her ideal.

To be suddenly confronted by the real thing, the genuine article, took a bit of getting used to. Had it been a trick of the soft light from the silk-shaded table lamps? If she looked again would the illusion vanish?

Certainly, in that brief moment of eye contact, the impression she had registered hadn’t been one of kindness and niceness. She had felt the same sort of frisson she would have expected to feel on finding herself within yards of a magnificent but dangerous wild animal.

Even his impressive back-view hadn’t prepared her for that extraordinary face—the tanned skin stretched tautly over a bone structure that seemed to belong to the chieftain of a remote mountain kingdom somewhere in wildest Asia rather than here in Europe where, in her observation, real men had almost died out.

She wanted to look at him again, but she didn’t dare in case he was still watching her. She calmed herself with the thought that it was most unlikely they would be sitting together.

Half an hour later, when she found that they weren’t, she was perversely disappointed. They were seated in the same row but she had been allocated the window seat on the port side and he had the other window seat, with an elderly couple next to him. On Cressy’s side of the aisle there was only one seat next to hers and its occupant hadn’t shown up yet.

Some passengers were still boarding when those in the business class section were offered a choice of orange juice or champagne. Cressy decided to stay with orange juice. When the aircraft took off the seat next to hers was still empty.

No sooner was the plane airborne and the No SMOKING sign switched off than the dark man rose from his seat with a polite, ‘Excuse me, please,’ to his neighbours.

Cressy assumed he must want to go to the loo. But, after waiting for the others to resume their seats, he looked down at her and said, ‘Would you mind if I joined you? This airline doesn’t have a no smoking policy, and I don’t want to spend the flight behind a chain smoker.’

Following the direction of his nod, Cressy saw the top of Forty-something’s candy floss hairdo and a spiral of smoke.

‘Not at all,’ she said politely, but without the friendly smile she would have given to anyone else making the request.

As he sat down next to her she was aware of the same inner turmoil she had felt in the lounge. From the pouch on the back seat she took out the in-flight magazine and put on a show of becoming deeply immersed in it.

Even in business class Nicolas found the leg room inadequate, but he was used to enduring far worse discomforts. The girl’s aloof manner amused him. He guessed it was caused by shyness. Shy girls were rare nowadays. He sensed that the one beside him, pretending to be absorbed in the magazine, was a throwback to his mother’s generation. As his mother had, she smelt delicious. The scent was one he didn’t recognise, a delicate, flowery fragrance which didn’t invade the nostrils like the heavy stuff worn by the blonde in front of his previous seat.

A Spanish stewardess distributed menus and another took orders for pre-lunch drinks. Expecting the girl to ask for another orange juice, he was mildly surprised when she ordered Campari and soda, her manner unexpectedly decisive. He liked the sound of her voice and the size and shape of her hands. He didn’t like women whose bones felt as fragile as those of small birds when he shook hands with them. Nor, when making love, did he like having long nails drawing blood on his back. The girl’s nails were short and clear-varnished. She was wearing a gold signet ring on the fourth finger of her left hand. She could have bought it in an antique shop because the crest appealed to her. It could mean she had something serious going with a boyfriend. Or it could be a family heirloom.

As the man beside her ordered a gin and tonic Cressy was aware that the pretty Spanish stewardess, her slender figure set off by a navy skirt and white blouse with red and blue stripes on the revers of the collar, was making it clear that she fancied him.

Well, who wouldn’t? thought Cressy, sneaking a glance at the long length of rock-hard brown thigh parallel with her own leg.

She studied the four-course menu, written in Spanish and English, wondering what Nebraska-style meant in relation to salmon pâté with palm heart sticks and baby corn cobs.

She wasn’t a strict vegetarian but, like a lot of her friends, she no longer ate meat when she had any choice in the matter. She wouldn’t be choosing the veal tournedos. The alternative was a mixed-meat kebab with pilaf rice, peas and Parisienne carrots, whatever they were. She would eat the rice and vegetables, leave most of the kebab and fill up with cheese and fruit, which were shown as two separate courses.

After their drinks had been brought to them, with the usual sachet of peanuts, the man beside her said pleasantly, ‘May I open the packet for you?’

Although the bags were famously difficult to open, Cressy was taken aback by the gallantry of his offer. Big girls like herself were widely regarded as being able to fend for themselves in every respect. Even ultrafeminine babes like the doe-eyed stewardess weren’t being overwhelmed with chivalry these days. In the words of a guy Cressy knew, most men had taken so many putdowns from women who read sexism into every wellmeant gesture that they had given up doing all that stuff their mothers had taught them. If women wanted to be equal, he’d said, that was fine by him. He would go on being nice to old ladies, but anyone else could open doors for themselves, change their own wheels and pay for their own meals.

‘Oh...would you...? Thank you,’ she said, handing over the peanuts.

The brief contact with his fingers as the packet changed hands sent a strange tingle up her arm. She had had several boyfriends, none of them serious, but couldn’t remember ever being as strongly aware of their physical presence as she was now with this stranger.

Having opened the packet and put it back on her tray-table, he said, ‘Are you on holiday?’

‘No, I’m not. Are you?’

‘I live on the island.’

‘Really? What do you do there?’

‘I relax and recharge my batteries. My job involves a lot of travelling. When I’m at home I sit in the sun and vegetate.’

She was about to enquire what his job was when he beat her to it by asking, ‘If not a holiday, what takes you to the island?’

‘I’m going to see my great-aunt.’

‘Have you stayed with her before?’

She shook her head. ‘I’ve never been to Spain at all.’

‘Where on the island does your relative live?’

‘I’m not entirely sure,’ Cressy admitted.

Had this been a holiday, she would have read a guidebook before coming away. There hadn’t been time to do that. She had only the common knowledge that Majorca was the largest island in a group called the Balearics—one of which, Ibiza, had once been a mecca for hippies, and possibly still was.

‘The house is called “Es Vell”. It’s somewhere near a town called Pollensa,’ she told him.

‘That’s up north, nowhere near Palma airport. Will there be someone meeting you?’

Again Cressy shook her head. ‘Aunt Kate doesn’t know I’m coming. She’s a bit of a recluse. It was her Spanish neighbour who let us know she was ill. She rang up yesterday afternoon. Luckily the person who took the call speaks some Spanish, so she could make out roughly what was being said. Aunt Kate has broken her leg. At seventy-eight that’s serious.’

He lifted an eyebrow. ‘Wasn’t there anyone older who could have come out to take charge?’

‘How old d’you think I am?’

‘Eighteen? Nineteen? Rather young to cope with the situation you’ve outlined...especially if you don’t speak Spanish.’

‘I’m twenty-three,’ Cressy said briskly. ‘And, apart from not speaking Spanish, I can probably cope a lot better than some people twice my age. I work for Distress Signal, an organisation which specialises in dealing with domestic emergencies.’

‘I’ve heard of it, but I would have thought they’d be staffed by sensible middle-aged ladies, not girls who could pass for teenagers.’

‘They’re staffed by a wide range of people...of both sexes,’ Cressy informed him. ‘Normally a situation like this one would be dealt with by someone Spanish-speaking. But in this case, when there’s a close relation who can come to the rescue, that’s obviously preferable to employing an outsider.’