She squeezed my hand. ‘I’m so proud of you. You know that, don’t you? Everything you’ve achieved these past few months. I know it hasn’t been easy.’ And then she pointed. ‘Oh, look! I knew he’d come. There you go, sweetheart. This is it!’
And there he was. A head taller than everyone else, and walking a little tentatively through the crowd, his arm braced slightly in front of him, as if he were wary even now that someone would bump into him. I saw him before he saw me, and my face broke into a spontaneous smile. I waved vigorously, and he saw me, and gave a nod.
When I turned back to my mother she was watching me, a small smile playing around her lips. ‘He’s a good one, that one.’
‘I know.’
She gazed at me for the longest time, her face a mixture of pride and something a little more complicated. She patted my hand. ‘Right,’ she said, climbing off her bar stool. ‘Time to have your adventures.’
I left my parents at the bar. It was better that way. It was hard to get emotional in front of a man who liked to quote sections of the managerial handbook for LOLs. Sam had a brief chat with my parents – my father kept breaking in with occasional nee-naw noises – and Richard asked after Sam’s injuries and laughed nervously when Dad mentioned that at least he’d done better than my last boyfriend. It took three goes for Dad to convince Richard that, no, he wasn’t joking about Dignitas, and a terribly sad business it had all been. That might have been the point at which Richard decided he was actually quite glad I was leaving.
I extricated myself from Mum’s embrace, and we walked across the concourse in silence, my arm linked in Sam’s, trying to ignore the fact that my heart was thumping and that my parents were probably still watching me. I turned to Sam, faintly panicked. I’d thought we would have more time.
He looked at his watch and up at the departures board. ‘They’re playing your tune.’ He handed over my little wheeled case. I took it and tried to raise a smile.
‘Nice travelling threads.’
I looked down at my leopard-print shirt, and the Jackie O sunglasses I had tucked into my top pocket. ‘I was going for a 1970s jet-set vibe.’
‘It’s a good look. For a jet-setter.’
‘So,’ I said. ‘I’ll see you in four weeks … It’s meant to be nice in New York in the autumn.’
‘It’ll be nice whatever.’ He shook his head. ‘Jesus. “Nice”. I hate the word “nice”.’
I looked down at our hands, which were entwined. I found myself staring at them, as if I had to memorize how his felt against mine, as if I had failed to revise for some vital exam that had come too soon. A strange panic was welling inside me, and I think he felt it because he squeezed my fingers.
‘Got everything?’ He nodded towards my other hand. ‘Passport? Boarding pass? Address of where you’re going?’
‘Nathan is meeting me at JFK.’
I didn’t want to let him go. I felt like a magnet gone awry, being pulled between two poles. I stood aside as other couples stepped towards Departures together, towards their adventures, or extracted themselves tearfully from each other’s arms.
He was watching them too. He stepped back from me gently, and kissed my fingers before releasing my hand. ‘Time to go,’ he said.
I had a million things to say and none I knew how. I stepped forward and kissed him, like people kiss at airports, full of love and desperate longing, kisses that must imprint themselves on their recipient for the journey, the weeks, the months ahead. With that kiss, I tried to tell him the enormity of what he meant to me. I tried to show him that he was the answer to a question I hadn’t even known I had been asking. I tried to thank him for wanting me to be me, more than he wanted to make me stay. In truth I probably just told him I’d drunk two large coffees without brushing my teeth.
‘You take care,’ I said. ‘Don’t rush back to work. And don’t do any building stuff.’
‘My brother’s coming to take over the brickwork tomorrow.’
‘And if you do go back, don’t get hurt. You are totally crap on the not-getting-shot thing.’
‘Lou. I’m going to be fine.’
‘I mean it. I’m going to email Donna when I get to New York and tell her I’ll hold her personally responsible if anything else happens to you. Or maybe I’ll just tell your boss to put you on desk duty. Or send you to some really sleepy station in north Norfolk. Or maybe make you wear bulletproof vests. Have they thought of issuing bulletproof vests? I bet I could buy a good one in New York if –’