At first I tried to maintain awareness of where I was, up there suspended in space, looking down at the strings of city lights threaded far below. But it’s a long flight and soon the duty-free magazines and attendants jostling in the aisles turned the world outside into an illusion. Before long I surrendered to the comfort of the airtight capsule and a glass of wine, then slept for most of the flight. The journey to the airport had been tense. Paul came to collect me and insisted on driving Fifi. We discussed the weather, the flight times and the traffic problems on the M25—anything safe and civilised. We were no more than polite strangers. He actually looked relieved when he left me at the check-in desk. He said he would take the car back to the flat and return in seven days’ time. I said he was welcome to use it in the meantime. He said he hoped I would enjoy the holiday, that I certainly needed it. I clenched my fists inside my pockets and thanked him for driving me down. ‘My pleasure,’ he replied.
