Fateful Lightning: A New History of the Civil War & Reconstruction by Allen Guelzo (self help books to read TXT) 📕

“You’re joking,” she asked, and he noticed more of a Welsh accent creep into her speech. Was she relaxing, getting a bit more comfortable?

The jet emerged through the pregnant clouds to find its ceiling and cruising speed. The captain turned out the seat belt lights and gave the passengers permission to move about the cabin albeit in a rather discouraging tone. As if by magic, a flight attendant appeared with another tray of champagne and hot, moist towels for the passengers to freshen up with. Tom and Nia both took a towel and a glass. He wiped his forehead and his neck and felt immediately refreshed, more so when he took a long draw on the champagne. He raised his glass in Nia’s direction and was happy to receive a slightly raised glass and a smile in return.

Nia took a gulp of her champagne. She leant towards him in her pod.

“Seriously, you write about barges?” she enquired.

“Yup, I write travelogue pieces about British canals and living aboard rather small boats.” Tom answered with a smile. Then, in an exaggerated pompous plumy voice,

“Narrowboats to the cognoscente rather than barges.”

Nia laughed again until she realised, he was serious. Tom noticed how she tipped her head back while she produced a deep throaty laugh. He liked it. He liked her.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t know, obviously, and anyway I didn’t mean to sound condescending.”

“That’s okay. It’s not really my career, actually more of a lifestyle thing and helps pay the bills. Well, more like offsets the bills. And, what do you do Nia?” he asked.

She looked at him quizzically, “I’m an actor.” Then she moved on quickly.

“Well, you must be doing well,” Nia made a gesture summing up the first-class cabin.

“I was upgraded,” he said.

He saw her embarrassment. He had already guessed that class was something she was very aware of. You don’t keep that accent as an actor if it wasn’t a point of pride. He kind of liked that.

“Have you always been a writer?” she asked quickly.

Tom paused for a moment before replying, “Errr, no. I don’t actually really think of myself as a writer. It’s still relatively new for me so I’m not really sure what I am. I noodle around a bit enjoying the kind of writing that I do but, now I think I’d like to write a novel… one of those trashy beach thrillers with gratuitous violence and bad sex.”

They both laughed again, and Nia moved closer to Tom.

“What did you do before the writing then?” Nia asked.

“I was in the army,” Tom sighed internally. He was proud of his service, but he’d had these conversations before. Some people responded excitedly, some thanked him, whereas some others withdrew. In the pod next to his, he felt Nia withdraw ever so slightly.

“How long did you serve?” she asked.

“Oh, a little under twenty years,” he said.

“Wow, a lifetime.”

“Felt like quite a few lifetimes actually,” he said and immediately regretted it. He was trying to be flippant but had opened the door to a room full of uncomfortable histories. He anticipated the follow up, oft-asked question that accompanied the knowledge that someone had served in the armed forces in the past two decades: whether he had killed anyone? He hated the question because he didn’t like the answer. Neither, usually, did the questioner.

Nia didn’t ask it. She moved a little closer to him in her pod and stared deep into his eyes. She had long ago realised that there was a psychology in understanding a role, embodying a character. You took on that character’s feelings, their joy, their pain, their hopes and fears. In many ways she was a trained empath and she recognised that there was some real pain here. This Tom was a genuinely warm and funny guy, but there was something deeper to his personality. She was intrigued and she didn’t want the conversation to end.

“Look,” he began hesitatingly, wanting to keep the connection going, “Would you like another drink?”

“Yes,” she said. “Let’s split a bottle of red.”

Nia was going to ring for a flight attendant, but Tom unbuckled his seat belt and went in search of the wine.

Nia smiled. Fuck, she thought. She had vigorously protested the wars, had attended some mass demonstrations, and had marched in protest into Trafalgar Square. She couldn’t understand why anyone wanted to join the army.

Tom returned with six small, plastic bottles of red wine. He opened the first bottle and poured the wine into their empty flutes. With the first glass the conversation returned to the light banter they had both previously enjoyed. He asked her about her career. She was now comfortable with the genuineness of his not knowing. Seldom did she encounter people who didn’t recognise her, at least vaguely. She wasn’t a marquee name, but she was still well known. For a few years, earlier in her career she, had been more recognisable, famous sometimes for her work, but almost as frequently for her personal life.

They continued talking as flight attendants passed out menus and then took orders for dinner. Through dinner, Nia talked, and Tom listened intently. At first, she didn’t notice his attention, but as the conversation continued, she reflexively kept checking to see if he was still listening, still connected. He was, and she realised that most of the people she talked to couldn’t wait to interject and move the conversation to focus on themselves. It was refreshing to feel such a connection and it inspired her to add greater depth to her anecdotes. She watched Tom’s eyes, felt increasingly more comfortable and less guarded. She told personal stories and regaled him with some of her favourite tales from her theatre days as they shared the wine, some laughter, and the occasional close head lean-in conspiratorial conversation. Tom liked her sense of humour and