She waited on the pavement for a few minutes. There was still a chill in the air: the sun hadn’t yet risen above the Sierra Blanca. Her plane left at ten o’clock, and Thomas’s at a quarter to four. He was going to drive her to the airport, then fetch his things from the Parador. It felt as though nothing odd or unpleasant had ever happened between them. The divorce was just a bad dream. Everything was the way it always had been, and now they were going home to the children and the flat on Kungsholmen. There’d be loads of washing to do and they’d have to remember to get some milk. Her parents-in-law would be waiting for them on the island and … Suddenly she felt short of breath. Her chest was tight and the sounds of traffic faded. She fumbled for her suitcase and sat down on it gingerly, leaning forward so she could breathe better. His hire car glided up alongside her. ‘What’s up?’ he asked, jumping out. ‘Aren’t you feeling well?’ She waved a hand dismissively. ‘No, no,’ she said.
