"Mr. Wittmann," she said warmly, recognizing Arthur from the passenger list. "Wonderful to have you with us again. Can I bring your usual champagne?"
"You remember my usual?"
"Of course. And congratulations on your granddaughter's bakery. You mentioned it last time."
Arthur looked genuinely delighted. "You have a remarkable memory."
"We like to take care of our guests."
She brought his towel, arranged his glass, and asked whether he wanted a second pillow. Then she turned toward Marcus. Her smile faded by degrees, as though someone were lowering a dimmer switch.
"Towel?"
"Yes, please. Thank you."
She extended it without the tongs, the folded fabric resting on the edge of her gloved fingers. Marcus accepted it. Clare's gaze moved briefly over his face and suit, then to his tablet.
"Will that be all?"
"I believe I have a drink pre-order as well."
"We'll get to beverages shortly."
She was already moving away.
Marcus looked across the aisle. Arthur had noticed the difference too; his expression tightened for a moment. But neither man spoke. There were still twenty minutes until departure, and Marcus was willing to allow the possibility of an ordinary oversight.
Beyond the window, a ground crew member gave a hand signal to a passing vehicle. Marcus reopened the airline's report, where a line on the first page celebrated improved satisfaction among top-tier travelers. He made a note in the margin: How do we define satisfaction when service is inconsistent within the same cabin?
At the back of first class, Clare laughed warmly with a couple celebrating their anniversary. She brought them two drinks without being asked. Marcus watched the effortless attentiveness, then looked at the empty glass holder beside his seat.
An oversight, he told himself one last time.
By the time boarding was complete, nearly everyone in first class had a beverage. Arthur sipped champagne while reading a message from his granddaughter. The anniversary couple posed for a photograph, their glasses catching the light. A flight attendant passed down the aisle with fresh napkins and a bowl of warmed nuts.
Marcus still had nothing.
He checked his booking confirmation. Seat 2A. Flight 347. New York to San Francisco. Platinum Elite.
Pre-selected chef's tasting menu. Macallan 18, subject to standard availability. He had booked directly through the airline weeks earlier and received a second confirmation the night before.
After waiting several more minutes, he pressed the call button.
Clare appeared, looking at the illuminated button as though it had personally offended her.
"Yes, sir?"
"I think my beverage may have been overlooked. I ordered a Macallan eighteen when I booked. Could you check whether it's available?"
"We're low on premium spirits today."
"I understand. If it's unavailable, that's fine. I only want to be sure."
"Our system sometimes makes promises the aircraft can't keep."
Marcus turned the tablet toward her. "The order was confirmed on yesterday's service list."
Clare did not look closely at the screen. "I can bring orange juice or water."