"I'm sorry, you're a what?" he sputters.
His shock is just met with laughter before she can say, "What? I'm actually considered a 'lifestyle companion'. More there to provide conversation and be arm candy than anything. What about you?" The girl seems genuinely interested. Her smile doesn't hurt either: it reaches all the way to her eyes, making them sparkle.
"Oh, right, sorry. I'm a professor. Just taking a short holiday to see family, because it all got to be too much. And I got to pick my sub, so the kids'll be safe from bad teaching." He finds himself easily smiling back as he talks. Usually he has to remind himself to do so, but it's almost an unconscious act. She must just have the right personality.
Her eyes lit up even more, if at all possible. "Oooh, a professor. So what do you teach, sir?" She flashes him a cheeky grin, playing off the new information. He chuckles, again, something not usually so easy for him.
"Astronomy," he replies. Usually he'd pick something like history or advanced politics—something that most would find boring. It had the dual impact of shutting conversations down faster and making him more forgettable. But it had been too long since he'd just chatted with someone. Besides, he was well on his way home. The job was untraceable and he was about to retire. The most he'd have to do is give up this specific look, which isn't such a bad compromise for a bit of downtime.
The girl is oblivious to his inner rationing, sighing dreamily before murmuring, "I always loved the stars. The universe is so brilliant. I just never had the patience to get through the physics class I had, so I never thought to even try astronomy. 'Course, if it had been measuring stars, I might have done a bit better." She flashes him that smile again, triggering one in return.
"Nah, you probably just had a rubbish teacher is all. I'm not exactly a physics fan myself, but this one teacher got me into it." He doesn't have any papers to back this up, but thankfully it won't show on this identity's passport. How many teaches bring papers to visit family, anyway? "I'd ask about what you do, but I'm assuming there's some sort of… Service-client confidentiality?"
She nods, leaning back with a sigh. "Usually I just say I'm a temp, but that's been giving me even more questions lately, and I'm rubbish at lying." She opens her mouth to continue, but the loud speaker above them call out a list of numbers following an English and French announcement of, "Now Boarding:" "Oops, that's my seat," she says, mid-announcement. "Lovely to meet you, Professor…?"
"Smith. John Smith." He replies, using the most common name he has. It's used in about half of his aliases. "And the pleasure's all mine, Ms….?"
"Hannah. Hannah Baxter." She sends him another cheeky smile and a wink before saying, "See you on the other side!" With that fond farewell, she vanishes into the crowd.
The plane ride back is short and uneventful, and, while he doesn't see the girl again, a stewardess stops him on the way out. "A young woman in First Class requested this be given to you," she drawls in a thick French accent, "Apparently something you had forgotten?" She holds out a folded piece of legal paper, one corner stained with a lipstick kiss. The name he gave is written clearly on the front in tight, curled writing.
"Ah, yes, sorry. Must've dropped it." He quickly pockets it, leaving with a grin to the woman as thanks.
After that he gets out of there as quickly as possible. He didn't mean to leave an impression, but he had been reckless. It's just another reminder as to why he chooses the professions he does. Lucky for him, this was a low-profile target who gave the law as much trouble as the client. They shouldn't trace it back this far. But still, he should have been more careful. It's not his last case anymore. He can't let his guard down so early.
That night, he takes a bit of a respite. Usually he takes at least a week between jobs, if not a month or more, but something in his friend's voice seemed urgent. That and he wants to just get it over with. One last job for a friend, and then he's set for life: free to pick a place out of the way to relax and hide out. Free to live out his days in peace.
He's in a hotel room again, much higher class this time, nursing one of the travel-sized drinks. Usually he'll settle at home with a brandy to unwind, in the stacks and walls of books that more resemble a library than a flat. But he's got less time to recuperate, so he'll have to make do.
Maybe he'll get a house boat. Or a small house in Europe, but buy a motorbike or trailer to go with it. He's been running for so long that, while he knows that maybe it's time to stop, he really can't see himself settling down. No matter how hard he tries, he just can't see himself living in a proper house. Seriously, who needs doors and… And carpets? At least he won't have to get a mortgage. He's got enough pocketed away from the years to buy a mansion flat-out, cover insurance and a car and everything, and still buy groceries for the next hundred or more years. Most of it's in cash, obviously. And several bank accounts. And some stock. Just in case.
He sighs, shaking his head as he pulls himself from his thoughts, turning on some rubbish television to try and distract himself. Instead, it puts him to sleep.
He wakes up to his mobile, checking the ID an extra time as he wipes the sleep from his eyes. Unlisted number. Great, he thinks, Probably a telemarketer— one who'll get nothing more than a sleepy, mumbled, "Hello?"
"Hello old friend."