Page 124 of The Sound Between Us

31

first flight

Seren

The private jet has a name. Serendipity. I stand on the tarmac at some exclusive part of Heathrow I never knew existed, staring at a sleek white fuselage with my name painted in elegant script along the side, and wonder if Harrison planned this or if the universe has developed a twisted sense of humour.

“Coincidence,” Harrison appears at my elbow with our bags, though his smile suggests otherwise. “Had it for two years. Seemed like fate when I met you.”

The aircraft gleams in the London drizzle, all clean lines and expensive curves. There’s a red carpet leading up to the stairs—an actual red carpet, because apparently my life has become the kind of absurd fairy tale where private jets have my name on them and red carpets appear for Tuesday morning flights to Japan.

Three weeks ago I was alphabetising reggae albums and arguing with Simon about whether Pink Floyd belongs in Progressive Rock or its own special section. Now I’m boarding a plane that probably costs more than most people see in a lifetime, following a man who looks completely at home in this world of casual impossibility.

“You coming?” Harrison asks, and there’s a gentleness in his voice that tells me he understands exactly how overwhelming this is.

I nod and take his offered hand, partly because I want to and partly because I’m not entirely sure my legs will carry me up those stairs without support.

The interior is ridiculous. Cream leather seats, gleaming wood panels, a proper sofa area with a glass coffee table. The bathroom—and I know it’s a bathroom because the flight attendant gives us a tour—is bigger than the staff toilet at Vespa Records.

“Can I get you anything before take-off, Ms Rogers?” the flight attendant asks.

“I’m fine, thank you,” I manage, though I’m clearly not fine. I’m sitting on a leather seat, staring at a champagne menu written in what might as well be hieroglyphics.

Harrison settles beside me with complete ease. He kicks off his shoes, accepts the champagne the attendant offers, makes small talk about flight time and weather conditions. This is his world—jets and staff and champagne before noon.

Dad’s famous—headlined Glastonbury, went platinum multiple times. But he still gets recognised in Waitrose, not whisked through private terminals by security teams. Hailey’s probably done this since she was twelve. The thought stings.

“You okay?” Harrison’s voice cuts through my spiral of resentment. “You look far away.”

“Just thinking,” I force a smile that feels more genuine than expected. “About how different this is from Ryanair.”

He laughs, the sound rich and unguarded. “Christ, when’s the last time you flew Ryanair?”

“University. Easter holiday trip to Barcelona that ended with me sleeping in the airport because our return flight got cancelled and they rebooked us for three days later.”

“Horror story.”

“Character building,” I correct. “Though I admit this is a significant upgrade.”

He stares at me for a moment, searching. “I didn’t know you went to uni.”

I side-eye him whilst watching the tarmac disappear beneath us. “I’ll send you life crib notes. Get you up to speed.”

“Want to know mine?”

I shake my head, biting down on a smile that threatens to announce itself to the world. “No need. I read the three paragraphs necessary in a Hello four-page spread. Heavy on the photos, light on the writing.”

“You wound me.” He settles back, plucking my hand from my lap and studying my palm as if he can read our futures in the creases of my skin.

I’m voluntarily leaving everything I know to follow a man to the other side of the planet. Three months ago, if someone had told me I’d be doing this, I’d have suggested they check themselves into a psychiatric facility.

“Take-off’s the best part,” Harrison reaches for my hand as the engines roar to life. “That moment when you leave the ground and everything just... opens up.”

His fingers are warm around mine, steady and sure, and I focus on that contact as the plane accelerates down the runway. The moment of lift—that stomach-dropping second when physics takes over and the world falls away beneath us—makes me grip his hand tighter.

Then we’re airborne, London shrinking to a patchwork of grey and green below. The world shrinks beneath us. Everything I’m leaving behind—the shop, the flat, my small safe life—disappears into miniature fields and toy houses.

“Look,” Harrison points out the window as we climb through the clouds. The sun breaks through, turning everything gold and infinite. Above the cloud layer, the world is nothing but light and possibility, endless blue sky stretching in every direction.