TWO MONTHS EARLIER...

A wintery breeze was whipping at my hair and clothes when I left the house and the life I'd imagined. Stirred by the wind, swirls of different shades of grey announced another gloomy day. Surprisingly, not a real contrast to the rainy, cold weather expecting me in London.

As soon as the taxi pulled up to the curb, I climbed in and rested my back against the car seat, eyes closed, the smell of bitter cigarettes mingling with the cadence of the windscreen wipers and the Arabic tunes floating from the speakers.

"Hacia el aeropuerto, por favor."

Peering out through the rain-spattered window, I took one last look at the front door and watched it move past the car, getting smaller and smaller behind me. I had to bite my lip to stifle the pang of loss it sent through me.

Goodness, what's going on in my life?

About one hour later, there I was, sitting at the departure gate of a midday flight, with my thoughts still racing in a hundred different directions and my fingers drumming against the armrest in a restless movement. 

Another impatient look at the information board to check on the time and my frustration deepened. Only a few minutes had passed.

A long calming breath and I returned to the book on my lap—only to find myself reading the same paragraphs repeatedly a couple of pages later.

My eyes met the stares of the strange faces seated across from me, one of the passengers flashing me a gracious, polite smile. Carefully avoiding his gaze, I rechecked the information on the wrinkled page clutched in my hands.

Date: Monday, 16 February 

Departure: Madrid Adolfo Suarez Barajas Terminal 4S | 12:05

Arrival: London Heathrow T5 | 13:35

Flight: IB7444

I folded the page again and used it to mark my place before I closed the book for good.

Sucking in a deep breath, I squeezed my eyes closed. Jesus, maybe I should just go back and report in sick. My head pounded, and the ache in my chest was on the verge of rising and becoming tears at any moment.

Hey, you pull yourself together! My ever so critical inner voice gave me a stern, warning finger wag.

All in vain, though. In the end, I couldn't stop the timid tear from making its way down my face.

The announcement of the boarding procedures finally echoed throughout the crowded lounge, and everyone quickly lined up. Exhaling slowly to force the tension away, I placed myself at the end of the queue and verified my seat number once again. 5F.

After making my way down the aisle almost mechanically, I stopped in front of my seat and began the struggle with my hand-luggage, which refused to go into the overhead storage compartment.

"Come, let me help you with that." A friendly passenger seated across the aisle immediately stood and offered his assistance.

Thank you.

Already on my last nerve, I gave up the fight, stepping aside so he could tuck my bag neatly away.

Sinking gratefully into my seat, I thanked him for the kind gesture with a subtle nod and a nervous smile and then gazed down at the book in my hand.

Dark cover, suggestive Venetian mask, the promise of lots of naughty bits. Was I even in a reading mood? No, I most definitely wasn't, so I resolutely got up again to shove it over the bag.

Feeling the warm air in the cabin rising up to my cheeks, I took the opportunity to shrug off my coat—which, apparently, isn't always an easy manoeuvre, especially when you're struggling with it in a packed aisle of an aircraft. To make matters worse, before I could stow it away, my scarf slid off my neck landing in a heap at my feet.

Oh, come on. Seriously?

Letting out a sigh of frustration, I reached to pick it up.

"I got it." A deep voice reached me one second before our hands met, my senses catching the scent of masculine cologne.

"Oh." My aisle neighbour again, coming to my rescue. Nice man, I remember thinking. But I'm not certain if I even thanked him for his politeness.

I probably didn't.

Boarding was finally completed. We were all set to go when I pressed my head against the back of the seat, desperate to shut my eyes and shove it all out of my mind.

"Your seat belt is... insert the metal fitting into the buckle, adjust to fit... with the loose end of the strap–"

Eventually, my thoughts wandered away, and it felt as if I were immersed in water. I heard voices and sounds that seemed to come from a far distance, but everything was so indistinct I couldn't understand a single word.

Turning my head toward the window, I cast a blank look outside and gave up; I couldn't follow any of what was being said.

The plane was already lined up on the runway and the aircraft engines roared. The take-off was imminent. I was so numb I didn't feel the vibration from the wheels, which usually makes me so nervous.

As the plane gained speed and left the ground tilting its nose up, I gripped the armrest firmly. With the events of the past few days swirling in my mind and churning in my gut, I shut my lids tightly, hoping that sleep would come and take me away soon...

*

The wheels touched the runway, and a small bump brought me back from my dozing. The plane had landed in London.

After that, the usual sound of seat belts being unfastened, people switching on their mobile phones and not so patiently rushing to collect their belongings from the overhead compartments.

Coat, scarf, hand-luggage. I was ready to disembark too.

As soon as I claimed my suitcase, I caught the Heathrow Express to Paddington, and from to there the Tottenham Court Road underground station. I'd stay in Bloomsbury, right off Oxford Street, as I always did.

Just when you think your day can't get any worse—it does. With suitcase rolling behind me, I arrived at the hotel in pouring rain, soaked. With clumsy wet fingers, I began a furious search for the hotel confirmation receipt, which seemed to have vanished into thin air, right in front of the imperturbable blonde at the check-in desk.

I tried to track it down in my mind: the flight and hotel papers, which I'd printed that morning, were folded together and I had them in... I'd tucked them inside the...

Where's the bloody book?

Damn it. I'd left it on the plane!

Oh well, good thing we are living in this wonderfully technological era. I grabbed my phone, accessed my email account, and there they were. All my lost information hanging in cyberspace.

Already in my room, I unpacked absolutely nothing, threw myself on the bed and closed my eyes; I was a wreck, in a state of extreme physical and mental exhaustion. It'd only take me a few minutes before I felt my muscles relaxing, my nervous system giving in, and my consciousness entering suspension mode...

*

My heart rate kicked up when an incessant muffled buzzing sound broke the silence and brought me back from my sleep. Tired and drowsy, I rushed to get my purse, which was on the sofa, hidden under my coat.

Shit!

8:10 pm. Three missed calls. All from Alex.

"Christ, what the hell happened?" Alex's voice burst through the phone, immediately after I slid my finger across the screen and clicked on Reply.

I couldn't tell if I sensed anger or concern.

"Sorry. Everything's fine. I lay down for a little while and fell asleep." My tone was flat and even.

"Fuck, Sofía, you landed hours ago! Is it too much to ask that you grab the goddamn phone and–"

"Set things up. I'll call in five minutes to kiss Charlie Goodnight." Without further words, I turned off the phone.

After talking with my son via Skype, I checked my e-mail account to see if any schedule adjustments had been made to my meeting the following day. I'd been awarded a mobility grant sponsored by a European Commission exchange programme for higher education, and in the next two weeks, I would be a visiting scholar at King's College. At a glance, there was nothing new or important in my inbox. Only one message caught my attention:

- - - - - - - - - - - 

From: Matthew O'Brian <[email protected]>

Sent: Monday, 16 February 2015 18:25

To: Sophie Thompson <[email protected]>

Subject: Book

Dear Ms. Thompson,

I have the book you forgot on the plane. I took the liberty of looking inside and found your name and contact there.

Should I leave it at your hotel desk or do you want me to send it somewhere else?

Sincerely, Matthew O'Brian

- - - - - - - - - - - 

That was unexpected, particularly because these days such goodwill is not to be found most of the time. Perhaps it had been sent by someone from the airline company, I reasoned.

I checked the domain name but <@wpcc.uk> rang no bell. Anyway, I was glad there were still some kind souls out there, and replied immediately:

- - - - - - - - - - - 

From: Sophie Thompson

Sent: Monday, 16 February 2015 20:33

To: Matthew O'Brian

Subject: RE: Forgotten book

Dear Mr O'Brian,

Thank you for your email. If it's ok with you, I'd appreciate if you could have it delivered to my hotel.

Yours sincerely,

Sophie Thompson

- - - - - - - - - - - 

*

After another bad night's sleep, I made a quick phone call to say good morning to Charlie and rushed down to have breakfast. I wanted to arrive earlier than scheduled on my first day.

On my way up to get my things and then leave for work, the concierge handed me a big envelope that had just been delivered. I opened it, and there it was – my lost book.

Held to the cover with a paper clip, a handwritten note:

Dear Ms. Thompson,

As agreed, here's your book. I also hope you're feeling better this morning.

Kind regards,

Matt O'Brian

Better? What was that supposed to mean? 

I was already running late, so I rushed to my room, grabbed my bag, and headed off to the lift. 

Better? What the hell...?

The intriguing note filled my thoughts throughout the entire tube trip, and the question of who had been observing me would not leave me. Damn, how annoying: I couldn't remember a single face from the day before!

Already inside the Virginia Woolf Building, I was received by the colleague who had been appointed to help me integrate into the Faculty. She was very friendly and informal from the beginning, which always helps in such circumstances. She showed me around, took me to the different departments and introduced me to a few people.

After being taken to my temporary office, we sat down and discussed the activities that had been assigned to me for the following two weeks. Basically lecturing, assisting in the preparation of a conference and finishing a paper that I would have to present at one of the parallel sessions of the conference.

I finally settled in and began to work. However, by the middle of the afternoon I ceased making the effort and admitted defeat: I was restless and couldn't stay focused. I couldn't get the damned note out of my head.

It would be polite to thank Mr O'Brian for the book, right? On the other hand, it would also give me the opportunity to ask him about his enigmatic observation...

- - - - - - - - - - - 

From: Sophie Thompson

Sent: Tuesday, 17 February 2015 15:40

To: Matthew O'Brian

Subject: Thank you

Dear Mr O'Brian,

I am pleased to acknowledge receipt of...

- - - - - - - - - - - 

God, what a horrendous line. It sounds like a frigging letter sent by the IRS Service Centre! I deleted everything and started again.

I am writing to inform that I have received...

Bugger! This is not getting any better! I pressed on Delete again. Well, damn it. In the end, I stuck to my usual half-serious-half-teasing way:

- - - - - - - - - - - 

Thanks for not keeping my book. It was very kind of you. I will also take the liberty of asking you: what do you mean by better?

Sincerely,

Sophie Thompson

- - - - - - - - - - - 

Before I left work, I checked my inbox, but there was no reply. The anticipation was killing me; I felt I was being put on hold and found myself huffing in annoyance – crazy, right?

Back in the room I took a long shower and prepared myself a red tea, my favourite. The TV was on, and I zapped between channels; the BBC was reporting on the severe weather across the UK and the hundreds of schools that had had to be shut. I left it there.

After talking to Charlie, I opened my email account and, finally, I found the reply I had been waiting for all day:

- - - - - - - - - - - 

From: Matthew O'Brian

Sent: Tuesday, 17 February 2015 20:10

To: Sophie Thompson

Subject: RE: Thank you

Dear Sophie,

I apologize if I seem intrusive. The thing is, I couldn't help noticing you at the gate, and you didn't seem that well. I helped you with your bag on the plane, remember? Anyway, you're indeed a very lucky person. Apparently, your book didn't fall into the wrong hands :-)

And besides, no, I don't think I want to keep it. And I'm glad I can help you return to such – well, let's call it inspiring – readings.

Regards, M.

- - - - - - - - - - - 

I remembered being helped, of course, but no, I couldn't picture the man's face. My memories from that particular morning were rather fuzzy. 

You don't think you want to keep it? Inspiring readings? I glanced almost offended at the erotica best-seller lying on the desk. What a witty sense of humour you think you've got Mr O'Brian! And without giving it any thought, I reacted:

- - - - - - - - - - - 

From: Sophie Thompson

Sent: Tuesday, 17 February 2015 20:35

To: Matthew O'Brian

Subject: RE: RE: Thank you

Are you by any chance making fun of me? What do you find so amusing?

- - - - - - - - - - - 

I regretted it immediately. I was definitely overreacting. My mouth sometimes gets ahead of my head, the filter simply doesn't seem to work, and there I was, scolding a complete stranger, someone who had actually helped me. Twice.

Well, I'd had a momentary psychotic break, I'd completely lost it, I admit. Done. Gone. Forget and move on.

Shortly after that bizarre moment, the telephone rang. It was from the reception front desk.

"Good evening, Ms Thompson. You've got a call on hold, shall I put it through to you?"

"Yes, of course." It was probably someone from work. Though they had my personal number. Odd. I waited a few seconds. "Evening. Sophie Thompson here."

"Hi there, Ms Thompson. How are you?" On the other side of the line, an unknown, breathy deep male voice.

"Fine, thank you. Yourself?"

"It's really nice to finally hear your voice." His words were threaded with a hint of amusement.

"Who's calling?"

"It's me. Matthew O'Brian."

My heart fell straight to the pit of my stomach. "Ah."

"No, Sophie, I am not making fun of you. I apologise if I gave you the wrong impression. I was just–"

"Just a moment, please."

I covered the receiver with my hand and quickly tried to put my thoughts together.

Oh, good Lord, what is this? 

How should I know? Probably some loony...

What're you going to say?

No idea. No bloody idea.

Is this guy insane?

Probably.

Why is he calling?

Is there 'psychic' written on my forehead or something?

What a nerve! And you're so screwed!

No shit?

Now go! Get it over and done with the guy!

Sure, but how?

"Yes, Mr O'Brian, thank you once again. It was really kind of you, you know, take the trouble of coming here and all that. Very much appreciated. Well, I must really go now," I babbled so foolishly.

"But, Ms Thompson–"

"Yes, it was nice to hear you too. Have a pleasant evening, Mr O'Brian. And goodbye." And I hung up on him, just like that.

Well, if he had any doubt that I might have a screw loose, that I was not quite right in the head, I guess his worst suspicions had just been confirmed. He certainly must have run for the hills the moment I put the receiver down.

But that was the least of my worries, really. Gradually, as my erratic heartbeat slowed down, the bitter realisation dawned on me again: after what had happened that weekend things would never be the same. Which was sad, overwhelming, and scary at the same time.

Hoping that mix of pain and anger would soon morph into numbness, I crawled into bed, pulled the comforter up over my head and cried until I could cry no more. In a desperate attempt to make some sense out of it, to sort out where I had failed to read the signs, I played everything all over again in my mind...

❧ ❧