Girl on a Plane by Miriam Moss Page B

. . . ?”
    â€œAnna.”
    â€œGood, lovely.” She has lively brown eyes and short, curly hair the color of chestnuts. I can’t get over how brave she was with the hijackers when that man wanted to go to the toilet. Would I have done that? I doubt it.
    â€œWe need to go through all these used trays in the carts,” she explains, “and pick out any wrapped food that’s left. Only unopened stuff, mind you. Excuse me,” she says a little sharply to Sweaty, who’s in the way. He moves to one side, and she kneels down and slides out the top tray from one of the metal cabinets. “Crackers, cheese, cans of soda and water, especially water. Remember, leave anything that’s been opened. Isn’t it crazy?” she says. “We’ve got masses of duty-free booze, cigarettes, perfume, but hardly any food or water. They might have thought that one through in Beirut.” She picks up a sealed pack of crackers. “Pile it up on here, and we’ll share it all later. Why don’t you start on this cart?” She points to the one nearest the aisle.
    I start sliding the trays out one by one and sifting through them. Loads of people have taken only one bite or spoonful and then left the rest, not able to eat then, like me, I suppose. They must be regretting it now. I certainly am. What I’d do to be offered that tray full of food again.
    Though I’m uncomfortable having Sweaty’s gun trained on my back, it’s good to be somewhere else, doing something different, bending and stretching, not having to think about missing Marni or Tim’s sad story or being blown up.
    Suddenly the chief steward, Alan, steps past Sweaty and into the galley.
    â€œOh, hello,” Rosemary says with a quick smile. “This is Anna.”
    â€œHow’re you doing?” Alan says to me. He’s probably thirty-something but looks older, worn out—​as worn as Rosemary looks fresh.
    â€œI’m OK, thanks,” I say, pushing a tray in and pulling out another.
    â€œWhat brings you down here?” Rosemary asks him.
    â€œWell, as you know,” he says airily, “I just can’t leave you alone.” Rosemary shares a long-suffering look with me. “Actually,” he says, “I thought you might like a hand.” He starts rolling up his shirtsleeves, and I find myself wishing he hadn’t come. Being with just Rosemary felt much less complicated.
    â€œCelia and I have finished going through the food cabinets at the front,” Alan says, dropping a small can of tonic on the counter. “Not much there, I’m afraid. Why we didn’t take on meals in Beirut I’ll never understand.”
    â€œWell, let’s hope we have more luck here.” Rosemary adds a tiny can of tomato juice to the meager collection. “Anna sits between the two boys in row ten, by the way.”
    â€œDo you, now?” Alan grins at me. There’s a dark edge to his smile where some of his side teeth are missing. I go on searching through the trays. He comes and kneels by me. “Yeah, we only found a few crackers at the front.” His face close up is clammy and pockmarked. “Oh, and some peaches and about eight bread rolls.”
    Rosemary sighs. “That’s not a lot, is it? We’ve got ninety-eight passengers and seven crew members to feed. Oh well, we’ll just have to cut them up and share them as best we can.”
    Alan wipes the back of his hand across his forehead. “They say they might be able to get us some tomatoes and grapes and more water by tomorrow. Just hope they mean it. We’ll be pretty desperate by then. I’ve explained that we have passengers with low-blood-sugar problems, diabetics and the like, who need regular food. Doesn’t seem to register, though.”
    I take a surreptitious look back at Sweaty. His eyes range restlessly up and down the cabin, then back to us. I turn