Half the World Away - страница 32

with him, to read an extra bedtime story, but it is never enough.

And there are endless questions – What if you can’t find Lori? What if the aeroplane goes wrong? The missing Malaysian plane has been all over the television. We rarely have the news on but they seem to imbibe it from somewhere. What if it rains? I’ll get wet. Where will you sleep? How long will you be? Three weeks, that’s all. What if you get lost? This is probably the heart of the matter, or a close second to How can you abandon me?

So by the time we get to the airport, I’m actually looking forward to five minutes’ peace. In comparison, Finn is a piece of cake. Initially sad, but once I’d promised I’d be back in a little while, we’d all have a holiday and go on an aeroplane (all the while ignoring the look of astonished outrage on Nick’s face that I hadn’t cleared it with him first), he was mollified.

But, of course, as we reach the drop-off zone my stomach churns with apprehension and I feel a visceral urge to stay close to the boys, not to walk away, not to leave them. What was I thinking of? I can’t go. Tom could manage on his own, couldn’t he?

Squashing my panic, I’m brisk and cheery and we all hug and I tell them in turn, ‘I love you and I’ll see you very soon.’

Nick says, ‘We could park up,’ and I say, ‘No, you go. I’ll be fine. I’ll let you know when we land, yes. You both be good for Daddy,’ I add. Isaac’s eyes are watering. I pretend not to notice. A meltdown now would be horrendous. ‘In you get, go on. Bye-bye.’

They climb back into the car and I wait on the pavement with my suitcase. The boys crane their heads round and wave with both hands as Nick toots the horn, parp parp parp-parp parp, and drives away.

I make my way to the check-in desks. There is no sign of Tom but I didn’t expect him to be on time and promised myself I would not get wound up about it. What is irritating is that there is no place to sit while I wait. So I wander up and down dragging my case for the next twenty minutes, weaving in and out of travellers, until he appears.

He has a short-sleeved linen shirt on, a yellow colour that might not suit everyone but with Tom’s sallow complexion it’s perfect, and olive green cargos. Doc Martens too, brown boots. Like father like daughter.

The airport is stifling and I’m too hot with my long-sleeved cotton sweater and jeans. Maybe the plane will be cooler.

We check in our bags. I remember Lori’s being overweight but both ours are within the limit. We go through to security. The long queue snakes left and right up to the scanners but it moves quickly enough. We don’t make small talk as we shuffle up to the front. I am filmed in sweat. We remove belts and watches, jackets. Place laptops and phones on the tray.

They search me thoroughly. I have to take off my shoes and a woman pats me down, checks my waistband, hairline and around my bra.

Coupled with the heat and the crowds, the overpowering stench of perfume from the duty-free mall that we’re forced to walk through makes me want to heave. Imagine working in that every day – the glare of the lights, the lack of pure air, the chemical smells.

‘We’ve an hour,’ Tom says. ‘I’ll use the Wi-Fi.’ He points to the desks.

‘I’ll meet you at the gates,’ I say. ‘I’m going to get a bite to eat.’

Around me, as I unwrap my sandwich, there are groups of holiday-makers, families and couples, some business types in suits with laptop bags, and a stag party in matching football shirts with rude names on the backs: Twat, Dickhead, Arsehole. Hilarious.

I chew slowly, hoping to settle my stomach, and take small sips of tea.

Two girls come in, backpackers by the look of them, clothes in clashing prints, bracelets, piercings and tattoos. I wonder where they’re headed, have a stupid urge to go and make conversation, tell them to be sure to keep in touch with people back home, to pass on the numbers of new friends or lovers, to take care and stick together.

‘Look at the state of that,’ one of the stag party says. ‘You’d have to be desperate.’ The girls hear, we all hear, and one of them turns bright red, like she’s been scalded. A surge of anger and something like shame flames hot inside me and I turn around and raise my voice to the man, ‘Keep your nasty little comments to yourself, you sexist shit.’