It's You [H.S.]

2 | You, again

7th January 2015

"Nothing else, thanks, this is perfect", she bids to the retreating waiter.

Reaching for the glass of red wine, she casts a furtive glance around the British Airways lounge at JFK. Nearing 11pm on a Monday night, the few inhabitants are scattered in quiet corners. Some tired looking corporate types, a smart older couple, a glamorous looking mother with her young son asleep across her lap. She ponders whether the hipster yacking into his phone in the opposite corner is a creative type, or maybe a producer or an agent.

Unwittingly making eye contact with him, she quickly slinks back into her winged armchair, drawing her long legs up, eyes transfixed on the dancing life-like flames of the faux fireplace in front of her.

Feeling tiredness creeping up on her like a misty fog, she takes a sip and hopes the red will help her drop off to sleep quickly on the plane.

In truth, she'd been feeling a little disappointed and out of sorts since the New Year. But who needs boys anyway? A few days with her best friends was exactly what she needed. 

With renewed resolve, she reminds herself 2015 is a year to focus on herself. 

With the penultimate term of her final year fast approaching, she knows she'll be sequestered away back to Cambridge almost as soon as she gets home. She's exhausted at the prospect, but excited for the final push and the promise of what lies in wait for the summer and beyond.

As always, she'd fallen to the temptation of squeezing too much into too little time. She'd flown in for an editorial shoot, meetings with her US agency and, of course,  Adele's party. Having bumped into so many friends and acquaintances at the glitzy do and raucous afterparty, she'd then squeezed in brunches, coffees and dinners in an effort to catch up with everyone properly.

Most of them jet-set back and forth more than she does, so why she overstretched herself again trying to cram everything in, she doesn't know. 'City that never sleeps, indeed', she thinks with a wry smile as she swirls the deep red in her glass.

>

She's pulled abruptly from her thoughts when a heavy leather holdall is thrown against the side of her armchair and a shearling coat lands partially over her from behind. She yelps and thrusts her glass in the opposite direction - dark red far away from gorgeously supple camel suede.

"Oh, fuck, shit...", she hears hissed out in shock.

Followed by an "Oi, language!" retort from an accompanying female voice.

"I'm so sorry! I thought this was empty. Here, let me...", she hears as she wades her way out one-handed from under the heavy fabric.

She drapes the gorgeous coat across her lap and pushes her tousled long blonde hair out of her face as she turns and looks up in the direction of that familiar deep voice.

"Oh, it's you!", his voice rises in surprise.

"Harry!", she grins. "Way to make an entrance, smothering me in your...", checking the label, "Ooh, Saint Laurent, very nice!".

He smiles coyly and rubs the back of his neck, "Hey! I wouldn't give that treatment to just anyone, you know?". He tips his head to the wine glass still in her right hand, "Didn't spill a drop. Classic Winston behaviour, that!".

>

As their laughter tails off she pulls her eyes from his stare - deep green in the flickering low light - and catches his dark-haired companion nudge him, "H?". She's beautiful and the resemblance is uncanny; it must be his mother.

He whirls around. "Oh, sorry! This red wine Ninja here is Eloise, Ben's sister... And this is my Mum, Anne".

Eloise unfurls her coltish legs, springing to her feet to greet his mum properly, only momentarily distracted as her fingers brush his as she passes back the coat.