‘You need to leave now or you’re going to be late.’ She sounded a little breathless, almost as though she was trying not to cry, which I knew wasn’t true. I, on the other hand, had given up on any chance of remaining dry-eyed. There was a very good reason why I’d worn waterproof mascara today.
‘Please, look after yourself; you’re my favourite sister,’ I told her solemnly. ‘So don’t go doing anything stupid. No more midnight strolls on the beach. Remember to take your pills on time and do what the doctors tell you.’
‘You don’t have to worry. Sam will look after me.’
I gave a watery smile and climbed into the back seat of the cab. I corkscrewed in my seat as we pulled away from the cottage, watching out of the rear window as my sister grew smaller and smaller. How long would she stand there, I wondered, not seeing me off but waiting for her missing husband to arrive?
Her hope was almost as irrepressible as mine, because I didn’t stop looking for Nick to put in a last-minute appearance until the taxi had left the slip road and joined the motorway for the long drive to the airport. It was only then that I finally admitted he had done exactly what I’d asked of him. He had stayed away.
28
The terminal was too everything: too bright, too noisy and far too busy. Three months of coastal living had softened the sharp edges I needed to survive in one of the busiest cities in the world. I was going to get trampled underfoot in Manhattan. I dodged one passenger with a piled-high trolley only to stumble straight into the path of a besuited businessman who tutted loudly in annoyance as he swerved to avoid me. I hurried from the terminal entrance before I single-handedly caused a domino-style avalanche of falling passengers.
It had been a mistake not to grab a trolley and I lost count of the number of times I murmuredExcuse meandI’m sorryas I wheeled my cases through the crowds. Finally, I managed to slalom my way to the Departures board. It flicked through several screens before reaching my flight. No gate had been allocated, but at least check-in was open.
Weaving through the crowds, I arrived at the row of desks I needed, only to find a great many people had beaten me to it. The line of passengers was enormous, snaking back and forth on itself like a Chinese dragon in a parade.Why on earth hadn’t I checked in online last night?
I paused for a long moment and then peeled away from the chicane and wheeled my luggage towards a nearby café. Ten minutes later I was at a table with a latte and a baguette that I nibbled on half-heartedly as I watched the queue shuffle forward without me. There was no reason to delay joining it, but still I hesitated. Neighbouring tables all around me filled and then emptied, but I never moved.
Playing ‘chicken’ with a flight is a dangerous and curious game and if I didn’t know better, I’d think I was deliberately trying to miss my plane.Enough of this nonsense, I told myself sternly, getting to my feet just as my phone buzzed with a message. I was in such a rush to read it that I tore a fingernail pulling the mobile from my pocket. Guilt and disappointment flooded through me when I saw it was Mum’s name on the screen and not Nick’s. I should have called her by now, but I was stalling over that too.I’ll message when I’m airside, I promised myself as I forced my reluctant feet to take me back to the airline desk.
I took my place in the queue behind a young couple who’d obviously come straight from a registry office. There were still pieces of confetti caught in the woman’s hair and they both kept looking down at their bright, shiny wedding bands and smiling.That could have been you, you know.For once, the voice in my head didn’t sound like Amelia’s. It was mine. I looked away, the way you do from the sun for fear it could hurt you.
Behind me was a family with a mountain of luggage and three young children who’d yet to discover the joy of queueing.
‘Would you like to step in front of me?’ The harassed mum cut her trolley into the space faster than an F1 driver.
Two minutes later I made the same offer to an elderly couple, and then again to a group of girls who were clearly part of a hen party.
Twenty minutes after joining it, I was actually further back in the queue than when I’d started. I was un-queueing, if such a thing even existed.
‘Are you quite sure, my dear?’ queried a middle-aged woman, unable to believe there was no catch in my offer.
‘Yes, I’m… er… waiting for someone and they’re running late,’ I said, embellishing the falsehood by staring across the terminal as though trying to spot my mythical travelling companion. It was a curious lie that felt strangely true. Was that what I was doing? Was that the cause of this feeling of unease that I couldn’t seem to shake off? Was I really expecting Nick to make a last-minute dash through the airport to stop me from leaving, just like they do in the movies or the books I edit? If so, I was even more deluded than my sister.
Eventually, I ran out of people to give my place to. Worse, I think my backward progression had alerted the interest of the airline staff. When I was one of only a handful of people left in line, I had no choice but to go forward when a check-in officer beckoned me up to the desk.
‘You’ve cut it very fine,’ he informed me, his hand already outstretched for my passport. ‘Check-in is about to close.’
I stared down at his outstretched hand for several seconds, as though I was thinking about reading his palm.
He sighed. I guessed it had been a long shift. ‘I’m going to need to see your passport, ma’am.’
The maroon document was in my hand, but I didn’t push it through the opening. Instead, my fingers tightened on its cover, as though this could well end up in a tug of war.
‘Actually, no, you don’t,’ I contradicted. I was aware that, somewhere to the left of me, a female security guard had taken one step closer to the counter.
‘Ma’am, if you don’t give me your passport, then I can’t check you on to this flight.’ He enunciated each word carefully, as though English and common sense might be equally unfamiliar to me. ‘And as I already explained, you’re cutting it extremely close to the wire, time-wise.’
‘Yes. I understand. I just need a few more minutes,’ I said, once again stepping aside and hauling my suitcases with me. ‘I just need to make a quick phone call before I check in.’
‘Ma’am, you’re in danger of missing your flight to New York.’
I nodded. ‘I know. I’m sorry, but I have a really strong feeling that I’m not meant to get on that plane.’
A middle-aged couple who’d been queuing behind me looked up in alarm.
‘Are you psychic?’ the woman asked, with a degree of fear that told me she was not a happy flyer. ‘Have you had a premonition that there’s something wrong with our plane?’
