Chapter 11 Nick and I spent most of the flight to New York exploiting the airline’s offer of complimentary mini bottles of wine and excitedly toasting our future together. But it wasn’t until we landed at JFK airport, and were herded through passport control as though we were new arrivals at Guantanamo Bay, that I felt the first pangs of regret. ‘Behind the line, ma’am,’ a female official shouted, when my toes inadvertently compromised the boundary line. I’d visited New York twice before, but as Matthew had so readily pointed out, it was only really for a few days, just to help with the new office set-up and to train matchmakers. Back then I’d found the caricatured patriotism and deep suspicion for anyone without a US passport entertaining. However, having left Rupert, my friends and my memories behind to start a new life, right then—albeit with Blossom Hill–enhanced emotions—I needed to feel welcome. I huffed. ‘Sorry,’ I said, stepping back just behind the line, like a petulant teenager.
