Page 15 of Beautiful Ugly

Nobody was sitting in the aisle seat next to him, it was just the two of us on the row of three, and he offered me the spare blanket he had swiped from the empty one earlier. I took it, even though I didn’t really want it, and tried not to sulk when he switched off the reading lights above our heads, plunging us into semidarkness like the rest of the plane. I attempted to get comfortable in the uncomfortable seat, turning my head to face him and closing my eyes. I kept feeling like he was watching me, but whenever I opened my eyes, his were closed. When I thought I saw his eyes start to open, I squeezed mine shut.

His face was so close to mine I could feel his breath. I opened my eyes a fraction and studied his features, his hair, his thick eyebrows and dark eyelashes, the shape of his nose, the shadow of stubble around his mouth, his lips. He seemed to be sleeping already, unlike me, so I turned away. It’s strange how we sleep next to people we do not knowon a plane, how we can allow ourselves to be that vulnerable when surrounded by strangers.

I thought I was imagining it at first.

A hand slowly slid beneath the thin blanket that was covering me. It came to rest just above my knee, and I didn’t know what to do or how to react. I kept my face turned toward the window. The hand moved again, warm, strong fingers finding my skirt beneath the blanket and gently gathering up the material. Then the hand started to slide up my thigh. My eyes were shut, but I couldn’t hide that I was breathing faster, my chest rising and falling. My thighs were closed together, blocking the hand, but I opened them just wide enough for it to go wherever it wanted. I only opened my eyes once, to check that the blanket was hiding what was happening beneath it and that nobody else could see. I opened my legs a little wider, and the fingers found their way inside my underwear. I didn’t tell him to stop. I didn’t want him to stop. The only time he did was when I gasped as his fingers slipped inside me. Only when I was silent did he carry on. His fingers moved tantalizingly slowly at first, stroking, exploring, plunging deeper until he reached the perfect rhythm. Ripples of pure pleasure made me want to cry out, but he stopped if I moved or made even the smallest sound. So I kept quiet, and I kept my eyes closed—even though I was sure his were open and looking at me—because I didn’t want what he was doing to end.

Several hours later, when the cabin lights came back on and the flight attendants began serving breakfast, he acted as though nothing had happened, so I did too. We chatted—just as we had before—and when the plane landed we parted company with a simple,

“Nice to meet you.”

There was no exchange of contact details.

No plans to meet again.

I felt confused, numb, and incredibly foolish for thinking I had met someone who liked me. Someone I could maybe learn to love. I looked for him in the queue for passport control and again at the baggage reclaim carousel, but he was gone. Only when I walked out into arrivals,overwhelmed by the sea of happy faces waiting for loved ones, did I see him again. He was holding a large bouquet and a box of chocolates and smiling in my direction. I smiled too.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“I met a girl,” he replied. “I wanted to buy her flowers.”

“That’s nice.”

“She is. Smart and fun, too.”

“Well, thank you.”

“Can I take you out for dinner? I want to do this properly.”

“It’s eight o’clock in the morning; it’s a little early.”

“A second breakfast then?”

“Definitely maybe,” I said and he grinned.

We spent an entire day walking around New York hand in hand and never ran out of things to talk about. He was late for a book event, and I was late for a meeting, but neither of us cared. We shared stories, laughed, ate, drank, and we made love that night in my hotel room. It wasn’t just sex. It was something different from anything I had ever experienced before. Something more. We got married a year later.

It never occurred to me that I’d made a huge mistake. Until now.

I don’t share any of this with the woman in black.

“I’m sorry. I think I might have wasted your time,” I tell her. I stand up and gather my belongings, but she soothes and silences me with her kind words and her smile, and I realize just how good she is at this—getting people to trust her.

“I know it can be difficult to talk about the things that upset us,” she says. “How about we start with one word to describe what brought you here today? The one thing that is troubling you the most.”

“Trust,” I blurt out.

“That’s good,” she says. “Is there someone you think about when you say that word?”

“My husband.”

“You don’t trust him anymore?”

“No, he doesn’t trust me.”

She frowns then, ruining her perfect face. “What makes you feel that way?”

“I’ve been lying to him, and I think he knows.”