Page 84 of Just for December

‘Good luck,’ the driver tells him, as Duke pays his taxi fare. ‘And remember,’ he adds. ‘Love and fishing. Nothing else matters.’

‘Love and fishing,’ Duke repeats. ‘Merry Christmas.’

Inside is chaos. It’s incredibly busy, with people in big, snaking lines at check-in desks in a way that Duke hasn’t seen for a long time: he’s used to private check-in at the very least, if not a private plane. But he’s here, and he can make it work.

Two teenage girls stood with their parents nudge each other as he passes by, looking for somewhere to buy a ticket, and he flashes a smile but doesn’t stop. He’s a man on a mission.

‘Can I buy a ticket here?’ he asks a flustered assistant at the first-class check-in for KLM. ‘I need to get through security to get to …’ Wait. What is he doing? This person doesn’t need his life story. The cab driver got enough of that. ‘Just one first-class ticket for the 12:10 to Salt Lake City, please,’ he says, remembering to give that famous Duke Carlisle smile.

‘Any luggage, sir?’ she says, only barely concealing herconfusion that he doesn’t seem to even have carry-on with him.

‘I sent it ahead,’ Duke lies, because he can’t get into it.

‘Excellent, sir,’ she says, presenting him with everything he needs. ‘Have a safe flight.’

At airport security, Duke is able to loop around the back of the longer economy queues to get to a shorter one for premium customers, but he feels exposed. He wishes he had a baseball cap or something to cover his eyes – maybe he can get one at the other side. He waits in line, pulling out his phone to have something to do with his face, because he can’t see around the corner to the gate. She must be there – no way will she still be in the security line. She’s probably already in the lounge with Magda. He’ll go straight there. Boarding time is in twenty minutes.

Come on, come on, come on,he thinks, careful to smile at the staff, because even if he doesn’t want to be one of the most famous actors in the world anymore, he still intends to be polite for the rest of his days.

‘Are you …’ a forty-something woman says as he walks through the x-ray when it is his turn.

He nods, and says quietly. ‘I am,’ he tells her, and then with a wink adds, ‘But don’t blow my cover.’

‘I loved you inThe Marvellous Mrs Maisel,’ she says, and he thanks her, then is free to go. He makes a mad dash for the departure gates, not quite running, but almost. Right before he gets there he slows down, pats down his hair self-consciously.

Duke pushes through the glass double doors, ready for this moment that has been building and building, his bloodthumping and his breath shallow and his heart all but singing at its chance to be given away.

But she isn’t there.

He searches the room with his eyes furiously. It’s busy, and people are starting to stare at him, now, one person snapping a photo drawing more attention to him, until a couple of people are taking pictures and blocking his way, and he’s trying to be cool, polite, say Merry Christmas, but really this is stupid. He just needs to see Evie, say what he needs to say before she leaves, and then he knows he has fully tried to shoot his shot.

‘Excuse me,’ he says, picking through the crowds. ‘Pardon me.’

He can see the queue for the gate up ahead, and he frenziedly tries to search her out. She’s not in line, waiting to board, and he can’t see her in the seating area either. He’s got this wrong. This was all assumption. He assumed she was flying to Salt Lake and assumed it was from this airport and he assumed it was at this time. He actually doesn’t know any of this for certain. Bugger. He feels defeated. He has no plan B. He hadn’t thought of anything beyond getting to the airport. He searches for a hint or clue in the recesses of his mind about what he should do next. Somebody else takes his photo.

‘Hey, I’m not who you think I am,’ he says, shaking his head. ‘I get it all the time, but honestly, what would I even be doing here if I was him?’

The middle-aged man with a camera phone looks apologetic.

‘Sorry,’ he says, gesturing to a woman standing nearby. ‘My wife – she’s a big fan.’

Duke waves across the way at her. ‘Hey,’ he says. ‘Merry Christmas.’

He can’t get a handle on what he’s supposed to do next. She’s not here. She’s nowhere to be found. So … That’s it?

He starts pacing up and down near the toilets and food outlets. He’s messed this up. He’s hotfooted it across the country, made out to his cab driver like he’s some Hollywood hero from one of his own movies, making one last big declaration, and as it turns out, Evie had been right from the very beginning. None of this – life, or love – is an Ed Sheeran song or a mad dash through an airport. He bought into the fantasy of it, and that makes him a bloody idiot. He sinks down the nearest wall to sit on the floor.

Well … he tried.

That has to count for something.

‘Duke?’

It’s Magda. Magda! Her best friend! Magda will know what to do! Magda might even be with her!

‘Is she here?’ he says, in response.

‘Evie?’ she asks. ‘Yes. She’s just paying at the bar. Oh my God, thank God you’re here. Youarehere for her, right?’

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