As a Reward $

‘Getting there is half the fun’. . .what acid-addled 1960s ad-man had come up with that little gem? The travelling part of any holiday jangled her last nerve. She was standing in the aisle, waiting for the priority boarders to finish adding the final touches to their handbag and seating arrangements. She could see her own airline-allocated seat and it was still 7 rows away, the middle seat in a row of three. She’d have preferred the aisle seat, but at an extra 8 quid each way, she was prepared to spend the 2 hour flight to Venice sandwiched between strangers. That £16 saved might even buy her a coffee at Florian, (but only if the band had the afternoon off and there was no additional music supplement).

The window seat next to hers was already occupied, she’d lost the arm-rest battle there. And from what she could see, the occupant of the aisle seat was about to settle himself in too. Bugger. Now she’d need to think thin to shimmy by. That could be a while yet; he’d probably got time for a quick 40 winks before being disturbed. She glanced down at her own ticket and looked back towards her soon-to-be neighbours. Oh hello. Aisle Seat was looking up and to her delight, he almost had a look of Jude Law about him; she hoped he smelled as nice as he looked. This could be a rather pleasant two hours after all. Crazy 1960s ad-man might have been bang on the money. She looked away, embarrassed that she’d been caught staring.

Minutes later she arrived and stowed her carry-on case realising, belatedly, that her book was still inside and now out of reach for the duration. She and Aisle Seat then did a strange little dance, he half standing, she stepping past just a little too soon and before he’d made quite enough room. But her guess had been right, he did smell good. She sat down heavily on the seat belt buckle and ‘ouch’-ed aloud. She felt him smile. Oh yes, she still had it. Now perhaps, if she sat demure and quiet for the rest of the flight, she might be able to exit the plane without making a further tit of herself.

God, she wished she’d taken her book out of her case. She leant forward and grabbed the inflight magazine. Sticky. She replaced it. Other than the laminated safety card, that was that as far as entertainment went. She closed her eyes. She normally loved the fact that she’d stopped carrying a mobile. Everyone thought she was bonkers, but what could she say? Being at the world’s beck and call was not her idea of fun. What had started as a way of being out of reach to her idiot ex, was now a very pleasant and peaceful way of life. The down side was that at times like these, she had no entertainment. Window Seat was already snoring and they were still taxiing. She put her head back, shut her eyes and drifted away on the warm woody scent of Aisle Seat.

She awoke sometime later, opening her eyes as Aisle Seat reached for the rope-handled carrier bag stowed by his feet and dropped his tray table to inspect his airport purchases: posh pen with real ink, fancy, and a cute but rather spendy looking little black notebook which she watched him unwrap from its cellophane protection. It seemed to come with its own instruction booklet. Had we really become so addicted to virtual note taking, that we had to be reminded how to use the real thing? And before she could stop herself, she’d asked it out loud. Bloody hell, had she got no edit button? But he laughed and told her that it was a rather beautiful potted history of the books’ manufacture, and of the famous writers and artists who were fans. Fascinating. She might even ask to have a read of it herself. She slid her eyes over and watched him open the cover; she could just make out tiny print on the flyleaf, and amongst it the word ‘reward’.

“Oh, now there’s a conundrum” he said, reaching for his new pen and unscrewing the cap.

“How so?” She asked.

“Well, if I lost it I’d want it back, but if I write here that there is a reward of say £10, would anyone bother to return it to me? But if I say ‘Reward £100’ the finder might think that it’s of real value to me and hold it for ransom perhaps”

“Hmm, I can see that that would be a problem” she said, not sure if he was joking. “Surely it would depend on what it contains. Are you intending great things for it?”

“That’s just the thing isn’t it? I mean, that’s what’s so beautiful about these babies. . .they are so full of potential aren’t they. They could contain prize-winning doodles or Genius Grant jottings. I’ve seen them in glass cases in galleries and museums all over the World”

“Yes, well, I wouldn’t have that problem because I’m fairly sure mine would contain shopping lists or reminders to book my next smear test.”

He laughed out loud and the occupants in the row across the aisle looked over in a diagonal line of heads, to see why.

She flushed, unable to believe that she had said it. What was wrong with ‘hairdresser’ or, at worst, ‘dental hygienist’? There was no coming back from that, for either of them and so she shut her eyes, determined to keep her mouth shut too.

The rest of the flight was a blur of half-heard tannoy announcements: drinks trolley; duty free; charity scratch cards; stow tables; descent into Marco Polo airport, time in Venice now 11.15am; pleasant flight; safe onward journey. That early start had caught up with her and she opened her eyes fully to realise that they had landed and people were already standing. Aisle Seat had retrieved his briefcase and was amongst the first inching towards the exit. He glanced back at her as she watched him leave and with a shrug and a smile he was carried away into the warm Italian morning.

She was in no hurry to join the scramble, and neither was Window Seat, who was chugging from a bottle of water. Two hours of open-mouthed snoring was bound to leave you parched. As she waited she noticed the little black book in the pocket of Aisle Seat’s aisle seat. Retrieving it, she’d hand it back to him at the customs queue. But the terminal was almost empty. She headed to the water taxi jetties. She’d find him in there surely? But despite the queues, there was no sign of him. She joined the end of the shortest line and opened the little black book. Next to the word ‘reward’ he had written ‘possible’ and his phone number. Other than that it was empty. Without a mobile she’d have to call him from her hotel.

She checked in an hour later, threw her bag on her bed and headed back down to reception to ask them how to make a call to a British mobile. The receptionist dialled and handed her the receiver.

“Hello, I sat next to you on the plane and you left your notebook in the seat pocket. I thought you’d want it back. Don’t worry I’m not after the ‘possible’ reward” she said smiling.

“That’s kind, but I’m only here for the day, on business. I’m just heading into the gallery for a meeting and I’m flying back home tonight. You keep it. Anyway, I think your need is greater than mine. . .we wouldn’t want you to forget any important doctors appointments would we?”

“Oh ha bloody ha” she said, flushing with renewed embarrassment and ending the call. But as she replaced the receiver in its cradle, she rather wished she’d been less hasty. She popped the book in her bag and asked to borrow a hotel pen. Maybe she’d keep a journal while she was here. A much nicer record of her holiday in this beautiful city than a selfie in front of every landmark.

And so she did. The book became her constant companion as she jotted down feelings; ideas; weather reports; meal reviews and favourite finds. She realised, with pleasure, that it slowed her world down even further; she took time to take in and record the finer detail. The more she noticed, the more she wrote; the more she wrote, the more she noticed. She found a little art shop and treated herself to a tiny watercolour set complete with teeny brush and miniature water bottle. She started adding colour to pages. Not paintings as such, but little sketches and swatches. The little black book grew satisfyingly thicker with boat ride and gallery tickets tucked between its pages. Now she got why it needed the elastic strap to hold it tight. She took it everywhere with her and that didn’t change when she arrived back home.

By July she’d reached the penultimate page. She’d be sorry to finish this little book. She’d buy another one just like it, but the new one wouldn’t have his number in it and she’d miss that little connection to him. She’d managed to get through the whole book with nary a shopping list or health memo in sight. Although with one page left there was still time. She turned the last page and found that the inside back cover wasn’t in fact just an inside cover. Folded very flat, so flat that it had gone undetected by her, was a paper pocket. She pushed her thumbnail under and lifted it open. To her amazement, there was something tucked inside. She slid it out and smiled.

“ Hello, I don’t know if you remember me, but we were on a flight to Venice together?”

“ I’m sorry, I fly to Venice every month on business. I need a bit more to go on”

“ I found your book? “

“ Oh,I often leave books where I finish them. . .let someone else enjoy them”

Oh god this was hard work “No, not a reading book. A notebook, I’m the girl who said she’d memo her smear test?”

He chuckled, a deep and velvety sound. “Yes,” he said, “ I knew who you were from the start. You might think of yourself as the girl who writes revealing memos; I just remember the girl with the beautiful green eyes. So this is a nice surprise.”

“It is? Oh yes, yes it is! I have some news”

“ You do?”

“ Yes, well good and bad actually”

“ Well let’s have the good news first”

“ You know that little black book?”

“ I do”

“ Did you know it has a pocket at the back?”

He chuckled again. “ I did indeed Green Eyes, is that the good news?”

“ Yes and no. The actual good news is that I found the little pocket yesterday, and you’d left something in it.”

“ I had? Well, finders keepers and all that, I obviously haven’t missed whatever it was.”

“ No, but I think you’ll like it”

“ Go on then, don’t keep me in suspenders. . .what is it?”

“ It’s one of those charity scratch cards the hostesses guilt you into buying if you don’t feign sleep. You mast have got guilted, I guess. Anyway, you hadn’t scratched it, so I did it for you and it turns out you’ve won!”

“We’ve won Green Eyes, if you insist on sharing your treasure trove. How much have we won?”

“Twenty grand”

“Holy crap, seriously? But hang on, what’s the bad news?”

“Oh yes, the bad news is that I’ve fallen in love with that notebook and you’re not getting it back, despite the ‘possible’ reward”

“Tell you what Green Eyes, meet me somewhere special to celebrate our win, and then we can debate who gets custody of our Moleskin.”