"I'd also like to say one more thing," she said. "Most of the people who work on this airplane, and on all our airplanes, are very good at what they do, and they care about it. What happened this morning isn't about one person. It's about something we built, over a long time, without noticing. That's my responsibility, not theirs. I'm going to fix it."
She stopped. She did not know what else to say. Nobody said anything back. But the old woman in 3C, after a moment, gave her a small nod, the kind of nod you give someone across a church aisle at a funeral, and the man in 1F, the one in the tracksuit, put his headphones back on and then, as if it were an afterthought, raised two fingers to her in a small salute.
The young man in 4D lowered his phone.
"Ms. Morgan," he said. "I recorded that. Most of it. I'm sorry. I didn't..." He looked down at the phone in his hand as though it belonged to someone else. "Do you want me to delete it?"
Naomi looked at him. He was perhaps twenty-six. Expensive sneakers, a hoodie with the logo of a company she did not recognize, a face that had clearly never been in a situation like this and was trying very hard to work out the right thing to do.
"No," she said. "I'm not going to ask you to delete it. It's yours. You saw what you saw." She considered. "But I'd ask you one thing, if you decide to share it. Blur her face. Mrs. Ashworth's. She said something terrible, and she's leaving this airplane because of it. That's enough. She doesn't need to be famous for it."
The young man stared at her.
"She was awful to you," he said.
"She was," Naomi agreed. "And now she has to live with that. She doesn't need ten million strangers helping her." She smiled at him slightly, and it was the first real smile she had smiled since she stepped onto the aircraft. "Up to you. I'm only asking."
He looked at the phone for a long moment. Then he nodded, slowly, and put it face down on his knee.
* * *
The jet bridge was cold and smelled of jet fuel and cold rubber and the faint chemical sweetness of the deicing fluid that had been used on the airplane two days before. Through the gap between the bridge and the side of the aircraft Naomi could see the gray morning and the edge of the wing and a baggage loader backing slowly up to the forward hold. A man in an orange vest was climbing into the hold with a tag scanner in his hand.
She stood with her back to the side wall of the bridge. In front of her, in a loose half-circle, stood Captain Whitaker, Graham Ellery, and Tessa Lindqvist. Behind them, at the aircraft door, the gate agent had been asked to give them a few minutes and was standing just inside the cabin, out of earshot, with a folder.
Graham looked terrible. He was still holding the tablet. His face, which had been red in the cabin, had gone a kind of grayish white, and there was sweat at his temples, and his hands had a slight tremor that he was trying to hide by gripping the tablet harder. He was looking at Naomi with the expression of a man who has been called into the principal's office and has already, in his own mind, been expelled.
"Graham," Naomi said. "How long have you been with us?"
"Nineteen years, ma'am. In March."
"And how long have you been flying the London route?"
"Twelve years. Since we started it."
"You must have flown with my father."
Something moved in Graham's face. "Many times," he said. "He used to ride in the jump seat sometimes. On the old 757s. He'd sit in the back galley with the crew and eat whatever we were eating. He said the crew meals were better than the first class meals." He swallowed. "He was right."
"He usually was, about food." Naomi looked at him. "I'm not going to fire you, Graham."
Graham's eyes came up to hers. He did not say anything. He did not seem to believe her.
"I've read the file," Naomi said. "I know about the commendation letters. I know you're good at this. I know Sovereign members ask for you by name, and I know that in eleven months of complaints in Signature, your name doesn't appear on any of them more than any other purser's. That isn't because you never did what you did this morning. It's because everyone does it. Because we taught you to." She paused. "Do you know what Sovereign members are worth to the airline, Graham? Per head, per year?"
"No, ma'am."