Canadian Affair

Author's note: This is my first story on Lit for a while, and the first inspired and edited by a new muse. I hope you enjoy it. My thanks to InnocentNot for all her assistance. And an anonymous Scots friend. And to my former editor. Without their help this couldn't have been written.

*****

The man gazed through the A310's port window. The familiar landscape of Renfrewshire became obscured by cloud below the sharply-climbing jetliner. The forecast hadn't been good when he'd checked before leaving home for the morning flight to Toronto; strong southwesterly gales for the entire Atlantic crossing. The eastbound flight had landed early at Glasgow, blown across the ocean by the wind. His flight had left on schedule. Atlantic gales were common enough; nothing to worry an experienced crew, or the passengers on the flight. He settled to read his papers as Castle Semple Loch below was obscured by cloud.

A few minutes later his reading was interrupted by an announcement. It came first in French, then in lightly accented English:

-Good morning ladies and gentlemen. This is Captain Marie Lefebvre. On behalf of the crew, welcome aboard Air Transat flight TS225 to Toronto Pearson International Airport. We are still climbing towards cruising altitude, and anticipate some turbulence before reaching it. For your own comfort and safety, please remain seated until the seat belt signs have been switched off. I wish you a pleasant and comfortable flight.

The man sank back in his seat. He was a fortunate traveller; neither turbulence in the air, nor storms at sea, had ever bothered him much. But he caught movement to the right in his peripheral vision. The woman in the aisle seat drew the thick paper bag from the seatback pouch, and placed it on her knee. She noticed his look, blushed slightly:

-Just in case! Better safe than sorry, eh?

The voice identified her as Canadian. The man stretched his right arm across the empty seat between them:

-Hi, I'm Sandy. I'm sure you won't need the bag. They make these announcements for the benefit of inexperienced kids. You'll be fine.

Her arm moved to reciprocate his gesture, a polite smile slightly creasing her face:

-Fiona. Pleased to meet you Sandy. You're probably right. I've never had to use one of these things yet, but there's always a first time, eh?

-Sounds like you fly regularly Fiona? That's a Scots name. Have you been visiting family?

-Yeah, how did you know?

-Each time I visit Canada, it seems like every second person I meet has family in Scotland, and visits from time to time. So with a Scots name, it wasn't hard to work it out in your case. Probably a third of people I know in Glasgow have relatives in Canada.

-Oh. So you visiting family?

He grinned at the memory of Melinda's nakedness when they'd Skyped last night. Hardly family:

-No, friends.

He settled back to read his paper. The woman's body language said she didn't want to chat, and Sandy was happy with that. He had plenty to read. And to think about. He wasn't quite sure what to expect when he reached his final destination, a couple of hundred miles north of Toronto. He'd travelled oceans and continents to meet women before. But never to meet one whose husband knew - and apparently welcomed the fact - that their visitor was primarily there to fuck his wife.

He'd chatted and Skyped endlessly with Melinda over months, and been introduced to her husband Bryan online. Despite all his experience, the situation felt a wee bit weird. And then Melinda had suggested he stop over with her mother in Toronto for sightseeing, on his return journey, to save him a hotel bill. So he'd chatted to the mother online as well. She'd been more warm than he thought appropriate, talking to a friend of her daughter. Of course, she didn't know how close a friend she was speaking with. Probably.

The outcome of any journey can be unpredictable, but he'd seldom felt more unsure about an adventure. He sighed: he was on the flight, and whatever was going to happen, would happen.

The fasten seatbelt signs remained illuminated. Sandy had consumed 'The Herald', 'The Guardian', and was well into the 'Macleans' magazine he'd bought at the airport, so he had some idea what was happening in Canada before he arrived. The standard ping heralded an announcement over the speakers, again in French, then English:

-Ladies and gentlemen, Captain Lefebvre again. I hope you're all coping with a slightly bumpier ride than we would have liked. We're experiencing much stronger headwinds than were forecast, and are about to hit more serious turbulence. We're making good headway, but I'm afraid I have to advise you to remain belted into your seats for the remainder of the flight, and only leave them if you have to. If you must leave your seat, for your own safety and that of other passengers, please hold onto seatbacks as you walk down the aisle.

Sandy glanced sideways when he heard the gasp. The blood had drained from Fiona's face. He leaned over the intervening seat, patted her arm gently:

-Hey lassie, she's just making sure that Air Transat doesn't get sued if someone stumbles during turbulence. It's a standard company procedure. They're covering themselves against any eventuality. We live in a litigious world. There's nothing to worry about.

Some pink reappeared on the woman's cheeks, and she smiled thinly at him:

-Thanks Sandy. I should've known that, but it's comforting to hear it from you.

The flight did get a bit bumpy, but not enough to prevent cabin crew wheeling trolleys down the aisles to serve lunch. Sandy nibbled; he wasn't that hungry, having eaten a big breakfast at the airport after the lengthy security procedures. He knew Air Transat food. It wasn't the worst he'd had when flying, just standard airline fare. He immersed himself in 'Macleans' again for an hour or two, then dug his novel from the seatback; Alistair MacLeod's 'No Great Mischief'. He wanted to be able to discuss Canadian literature, other than the ubiquitous Atwood, with his hosts and their friends.

A hundred pages into it, his stomach was beginning to feel unsettled, and his ears had popped a couple of times when the plane had lurched downward suddenly. Several passengers, including his neighbour, had involuntarily emptied their lunches into the thick paper bags, and there was a slightly unpleasant odour in the cabin despite the air conditioning. Then the ping from the speakers:

-Ladies and gentlemen, Captain Lefebvre again. I'm afraid the weather has forced a precautionary change in our flight-plan. We'll be making an unscheduled stop at Halifax, Nova Scotia, to wait out the worst of the storm. This is entirely for your comfort; there are no safety issues, and you have no reason to be in any way concerned. We're beginning our descent in five minutes, so if you need to move from your seats, please do so now. We'll be inside the terminal in under half-an-hour.

Movements in the aisles as passengers scrambled to the toilets. A descent unlike any Sandy had experienced before, the plane writhing and twisting as the storm buffeted it. Then the final uncomfortable lurch and bounce as rubber hit tarmac unevenly. His knuckles whitened on the armrests instinctively. The plane slowed to the end of the runway, taxied to the terminal, and was neatly tucked into the airbridge. A final ping:

-Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to our unscheduled pause at Halifax. Please listen carefully for announcements about the resumption of our journey. We'll have you safely on your way to Toronto as soon as it's comfortable to do so, hopefully within an hour or two. Meantime, relax and enjoy your stay. Our staff, and those of associated companies, will help you to get messages to your destinations. I can't tell you how much later than schedule we will arrive at Pearson, but it's likely to be at least two hours. Air Transat sincerely regrets this disruption to your plans, but the causes are beyond the responsibility of the company. Please take all your cabin baggage with you when you leave the plane, and once in the terminal, keep it with you at all times. Do not leave luggage unattended at any time. Thank you for your patience.

Sandy remained seated as his fellow travellers scrambled to retrieve luggage. He wondered what this disruption would do to his schedule. The shuttle bus for Gravenhurst and North Bay left Pearson two hours after the intended landing time of his flight. He'd thought that was plenty margin of safety. Now it was beginning to look as though he might miss the connection. Fuck. A night alone in an anonymous airport hotel... and one more night before he'd have his lover in his arms for the first time. He groaned in frustration.

-Hey, what's up Sandy? Is the delay causing you a problem?

Now that the plane had stopped moving, Fiona's face was flushed pink. A pretty face, he realised. He explained his fear about missing the shuttle, but didn't mention the real cause of his frustration: the fact that his first fuck with his new lover was also delayed.

-North Bay huh? Well, if you must have friends way out on the shield! But look Sandy, my roommate's away just now, so there's a spare bedroom in my apartment. You're welcome to it, if you wouldn't mind sharing with me for a night, instead of a hotel room. I could do with some company, and you've been kind to me on the flight. My apartment's near the main campus of the University of Toronto, pretty near downtown. Lots of good places to eat and drink.

Sandy didn't know what to say. He'd always found Canadians to be welcoming and hospitable, but Fiona's offer surprised him. She was attractive and at least twenty years younger than his sixty-odd years, so he read no sexual innuendo into her offer. It was just human decency, and he was moved:

-That's very sweet of you, lassie. I'm touched by your kindness. I'm very tempted to accept. But I'll have to phone Melinda and Bryan... and find out whether there's a shuttle bus in the morning. If it's really early, I might be better staying in a hotel at Pearson. I seem to remember it's about an hour's trip from the city centre? I wouldn't want to be waking you at some ungodly hour, and both of us with east-west jetlag. I'll know what I'm doing once I've phoned them.

Fiona smiled at him, a full welcoming face this time, not the restrained politeness of their first exchange:

-Makes sense. The offer's there if you need to stay over.

*****

Inside the terminal, there were queues at the information desks and payphones. It appeared that theirs wasn't the only flight delayed by the weather. All was being handled with typical Canadian courtesy, but he was glad he'd invested in a mobile which worked on North American networks. He found a spot with decent reception, judging by the cluster of others on their phones there, and dialled Melinda's number. He'd need to remember to call it a cell, not a mobile. She answered. He explained. She was calm, in charge:

-Assume you're going to miss the shuttle to North Bay at 6.30 tonight, honey. The next is at two tomorrow afternoon. I'll call them right now and change your booking. And don't even think of a hotel! Mom would love to look after you for the night. I'll call her now, and phone you back once I've arranged everything.

A slight click terminated the call. Sandy followed the signs for the bar. He'd barely settled at an empty booth with the Alexander Keith ale the barmaid had recommended, when his phone buzzed in his pocket. Melinda and her mother had him organised. He was given his instructions: phone Vicky once he was inside Terminal Three at Pearson. She'd give him directions to the nearest subway, and meet him there.

He shrugged. He didn't usually relish taking orders, but felt comfortable about accepting this one. On any long air journey, he always felt a bit disembodied, no longer in control of his life. At the mercy of the airline, and fate. And in this case, now, his lover's contingency planning to cope with the disruption to his journey. He was curious about seeing Vicky before he met his lover. And a wee bit excited. She was around his age, he knew; she'd borne Melinda as a teenager. He'd seen her photos, and his lover had described her 'mom' to him... a former model, then air hostess. A most attractive woman. Hmm...

He re-opened his book and sipped the ale. More than palatable. Some time he would love to explore Nova Scotia and the Maritimes; such close historical connections with Scotland. And decent ale too. The fine novel, by coincidence, was set in Nova Scotia, and he was soon immersed in a web of Scots-Canadian history. So immersed that he barely caught the last call for the resumption of his flight. He was one of the last aboard, and smiled at Fiona as he stuffed rucsac and jacket into the wee space remaining in the rack above their seats.

-Well lassie, thank you for your generous offer tonight, but my friends have organised me...

He explained what had been arranged, and delved back into his novel. He was nearing the end when the captain's voice announced their imminent arrival at Pearson, after a rather smoother flight than their transatlantic experience.

Customs and immigration were courteous and efficient, and he was heading for the crowd waiting at the International Arrivals gate less than half-an-hour after disembarking. But he had indeed missed the North Bay shuttle; it was seven pm.

He stood for a moment once he was just in the concourse, looking for the best place to phone. He wasn't expecting the voice, nor the hand laid gently on his arm:

-Hi, Sandy. You look even better than your photographs!

He started, and turned to the voice. A tallish, fairly slim woman about his age, elegantly if not expensively attired, sparkling blue eyes piercing his:

-Vicky? I... I really wasn't expecting... Melinda said...

-Never mind what my daughter said. I had to welcome you to Canada properly.

Her arms were around his neck before he could take her in fully, her mouth pressed to his. Open, wet, welcoming. His hands moved automatically to her hips, and she pressed her torso against him. After a few seconds, he drew back a few inches, looked deep in her compelling eyes:

-Well. I couldn't have expected a more lovely welcome to your city. And all the more lovely for being unexpected. But I've got myself into the city from Pearson before, Vicky. You really shouldn't...

-Don't be silly! I had nothing better to do. And I didn't know you knew your way around, as my helpful daughter had me thinking this was your first time here. Now, let's go. The Airport Rocket gets us to the subway at Kipling, and it's as quick as a taxi at this time in the evening, and a lot cheaper. Come on.

She was fully as bossy as Melinda - he could see where it came from. Her fingers laced in his, she led him to the bus stop, chattering incessantly, asking him about his flight, how bad it had been that they had to stop at Halifax... he barely squeezed a word in edgewise. As they walked, he took wee glances at her. Fuck, she was gorgeous. Melinda had told him much about her mother, but he hadn't quite expected this elegant, distinguished, and utterly sexy lady. Suddenly she stopped him:

-Uh, I'm sorry, what am I thinking? Melinda said you smoke. You can't have had a cigarette since you left Scotland? There are a couple of places in this terminal you can smoke and have a beer before we head into the city. It's about an hour to Cabbagetown from here. Need a break?

He paused. He hadn't thought to ask Melinda whether her mother smoked, or could tolerate it, as he hadn't expected to meet Vicky for another fortnight. But she had asked:

-Vicky, thank you for being so considerate of my antediluvian addiction. Aye, I'd love a fag.

-So let's find you somewhere you can smoke, my dear. This way. I used to, don't now, but understand your need.

Melinda's account of her mother hadn't led him to expect her to be so in control, but he had no problem with it. She led him to a smoky glass-enclosed room near the bus stop, with a bar right outside it:

-So Mr. Scotsman, can your friend's old mom buy you a beer?

-Aye lass. On two conditions.

-Conditions? What do you mean, conditions?

-One, you're not my friend's old mom. You're about the same age as I am, and I don't feel old at all. You're a gorgeous woman. Two, I take you out to eat when we get to your place and I dump my gear. You weren't expecting me, you're giving me a bed for the night, you're buying me a beer. So I get to take you out for dinner, and watch all the jealous men envy me having you on my arm. That work OK for you?

Vicky glowed. Melinda had told him of her narcissistic nature:

-Thank you! I could really get to like you. You sure know how to treat a lady. Yeah, that works perfectly for me.

She kissed him again. On the mouth. Pulled back:

-Your choice is Labatt or Molson.

-A bottle of Molson would be lovely. Mamselle.

He entered the fuggy glass enclosure with bottle in one hand, drawing his suitcase with the other. Vicky stood just outside the open door:

-Hey Sandy, take the seat nearest the door so we can talk, will you? I've stopped smoking twice, I can't go in there.

-Shit woman, why didn't you say? I don't need to smoke that much...

He made to rise from the table.

-You stay right there, Mister Sandy, sir. I'm OK here. Have your smoke.

-Fine then lady. Thank you for indulging me.

-We try to treat visitors right Sandy.

They chatted whilst he rolled and smoked his cigarette and sipped the Molson, easy and light talk laced with flirty undertones. From Vicky at first, but Sandy soon responded in kind, and by the time they found seats on the bus to take them to the subway, Sandy was on the edge of arousal, and wondering where the evening might take them.

*****

An hour later, after a wee walk from the subway at College, Vicky stopped before a three-story brick terraced house, fishing in her purse for keys:

-Welcome to Cabbagetown, Sir Sandy, and my humble abode.

It looked to him pretty much like a standard English Victorian terraced house, but with elaborate decorative 'gingerbread' woodwork under the eaves and above the dormer windows protruding from the roof. Vicky pointed up to the latter:

-My bit's up there. There are three apartments in the building.

Her key turned in the lock, and she led him up two flights of stairs. He couldn't help but admire her tight arse preceding his face. Another key for the door at the top, and they were in.

-The grand tour of my residence, Sandy?

She took his hand. There wasn't much to see. A living room and a bedroom, both smallish, with partially sloping walls determined by the shape of the roof, and delicate plaster cornicing. A small kitchen off the living room, and a tiny shower-room/toilet off the bedroom. Elegantly decorated, a mix of old and newish furniture, obviously created on a fairly tight budget, but with care. Aesthetic taste which matched Sandy's. He liked it, felt comfortably at home. He told her so. She beamed:

-Why thank you, kind sir. My bossy daughter's always trying to get me to move to somewhere more modern and what she calls 'energy-efficient'. But this is my place, I love the neighbourhood, and I wouldn't feel at home in some soulless modern condo development. So I intend to stay put. It does have one disadvantage on the rare occasions when I have visitors staying: there's only one bedroom. There's a perfectly comfortable sofa bed in the living room, which is where you're going tonight, I'm afraid. So just put your case and knapsack over there: that's your fold-out bed. Now - she glanced at the rather worn grandfather clock ticking determinedly in the corner - it's after eight-thirty. We'd better eat. Do you want to wash and change before we go out?