“Let’s do a little online shopping,” Janelle said, pulling up a browser window. “See what we can find.”
Janelle motioned for Stevie to sit next to her and breezily started searching for lingerie. Like that was a thing anyone could just do. Like looking at store websites was free or something.
“Let’s start high end,” Janelle said, going to a gauzy, soft-focus site full of people lounging on sofas in coordinated underwear in the dappled sunlight, looking smugly content. “Let’s just get a sense of your bra style. What do you like?”
Stevie didn’t know what there was to like or dislike. Bras were a standard construction: two bumpy bits, two strappy things, and something to hold it all together.
“Push-up?” Janelle asked. “Half cup? Lace?”
Stevie tapped her nails nervously on the floor.
“Let’s start with something basic,” Janelle said, clicking on one of the offerings. It was some kind of lace situation, black, with a silver trim. There was a suggestion of a French maid costume about it, and it was $90. While Stevie had some money now, she didn’t have endless money, and not $90 for a bra kind of money.
“That’s basic?” Stevie said.
“Black lace is pretty standard.”
“It’s ninety bucks!”
“What’s your price point?” Janelle said.
“I . . . I don’t know. I didn’t think about it.”
Everything was wrong with everything Janelle suggested. Pink was wrong. Too bright. Janelle offered a plain black bra, which was too severe. Red was out of the question. There was a blue bra that she was almost okay with until Stevie saw that it had different-colored lace, which disqualified it at once. Janelle was delighted by a bright yellow set, but more for her than for Stevie, as yellow was her favorite color. White made Stevie feel like a sacrifice. A green one just confused her. She would turn into a plant.
“I don’t think it’s the color,” Janelle finally said. “You don’t want a bra. Okay. We’ll move on.”
“We don’t have to,” Stevie said. “I think maybe I’ll just . . . I’ll think about it?”
She had thought about it over those weeks. She had purchased something. It was in her suitcase. And now it was on the plane with her.
Stevie had ambitions for the flight—things she was going to read, homework she was going to do so she would be ahead for the week and would have less to worry about. She was going to be productive.
What she actually did, when the plane took off into the night and the cabin lights dimmed, was go into a fugue state and stare blankly at the tiny screen in front of her. She poked her finger at the entertainment selection because it was there, in her face, and her brain was so overloaded from the experience that she could almost hear it sizzling. She found Murder on the Orient Express on offer. She had seen this movie at least ten times, which was why she put it on again. It would be overstating the case to say she watched it. It was in front of her. She was aware of its presence.
Dinner came around and Stevie accepted the item described only as “chicken.” She became obsessed with a pack of salad dressing that refused to open, so she tried to tear it with her teeth. This worked too well, and as she ripped it open, the contents exploded down the front of her black hoodie （the one she had planned to wear for most days of the trip and now forever tainted by the “sex hoodie” conversation）， and a little into Nate’s hair. Nate did not notice, because he was reading something, and she didn’t want to tell him.
Eventually, the line of peachy sunrise brightened, and they passed over a channel of water. The land looked like a green patchwork quilt—great squares of it, rimmed with lines of hedges and trees and meandering motorways. Then they dipped down over what Stevie could clearly see was London. There was the Thames, snaking along. The plane bumped twice as it touched the ground.
She had already decided to swallow the cost of turning on her data—it went against her every budgetary instinct, but there was no way she was going to be without it. There was a series of texts from David waiting for her.
Did you take off?
Are you flying the plane?
I’m watching your plane. You’re near Iceland. Wave at Iceland.
Are you here yet?
She tried to respond, but her phone was slow in recognizing its new location, and there was a sudden rush to get bags and flee the aircraft like it was about to be filled with poisonous gas. Stevie was caught in the hubbub, pulling her backpack out from under the seat in front of her, shaking crumbs from her lap, and shuffling her way out. She looked at the remains of the flight, the carnage that the passengers had wreaked on the plane—wrappers, crumpled blankets, empty Pringles cans, overturned plastic cups, discarded eye masks. It looked less like an international flight and more like a dull rager had taken place.
The first impression Stevie had of England was a series of hallways and lines. The corridors of Heathrow Airport were endless, with people striding along or hustling down the moving walkways, past advertisements of people with their arms open wide, welcoming them. There were winding pathways to get to immigration, where they waited with hundreds of other people. She approached the end of the line with her squeaky new passport. She was sure for a moment a customs agent would open it, take one look at Stevie, and say, “No way, weirdo. Not letting you in.” Or maybe, “Are you the girl who solved those murders? Because I think I found a body in a suitcase.”
It turned out they didn’t even need to speak to anyone. They were each shuffled into a little glass compartment, where they put their passport facedown, then a creepy little computerized eye slid down and took their pictures. The compartment opened, and Stevie was unleashed into the United Kingdom.
While they waited for their bags, she sent David a text saying they had landed. Stevie glared at her phone, waiting for a response. Nothing came, not even when they went through the strange barrier that wanted to know if you had anything to declare. （If you didn’t, you went through a green section, where she kept thinking someone was going to stop and check or at least ask something, but no one did. They seemed to take you at your word.） She held her breath a little, hoping that David might be one of the people lined up just outside the arrival doors, the ones holding flowers and signs and balloons.
She was the balloon now, deflating softly. There was no David waiting at the barrier. Or over by the transportation desk. Or the coffee place. Or the ATM. As much as she didn’t want to be seen with her salad dressing and her glowing red eyes, she wanted that moment to be real—the one where he was leaning over, waiting for her.
There was, however, a man in a brown sweater with a clipboard that read: JANETTE FRANKLIN, NATE FISHER, VI HARPERTOMO, STEVE BELL
“I win,” Nate said, dragging his suitcase. “Steve. Janette and Vi and Steveeeeee.”
The man, who had a thick Cockney accent, told them to follow. They did so, through the arrivals area, up the elevator, out to a car park. They followed him for so long that Stevie started to wonder if they were the victims of a very lazy kidnapping. She had hoped for one of those big black cabs that looked like bowler hats, but it was a black minivan with the words Addison Lee written across the back window. Within minutes, they sped along down a highway, and as much as she had prepared herself for being on the other side of the road, it still messed with her senses for a few minutes. She watched the trucks, which were vaguely different in a way she couldn’t place. There were also some sheep in the pastures along the road, so it was like they had taken a little bit of Ellingham with them.