The Guilty Couple(81)
The clock on the dashboard says 2.55 p.m. My aim was to arrive two hours before check-in so I could wait for Dominic and Grace to arrive but it took me so long to get out of the garage there’s only twenty minutes until check-in closes. They might have passed through security hours ago for all I know. I might already be too late.
‘Here we are,’ the taxi driver says as we pull into the drop-off place and I unclip my seatbelt. ‘That’ll be a hundred quid please.’
I open the passenger side door. ‘I’ll just go and get it. My friend’s waiting for me inside with the cash.’
‘You’ve got sixty seconds. I don’t want to get towed.’
I leap out of the car and run across the zebra crossing and through the revolving doors to Terminal Five. Frantically, I search the suspended electronic board for the check-in zone for a British Airways flight to Dubai but the yellow and white lettering blurs as I look from one flight to the next. I can’t find it. It’s not here. Did Dominic change the flights? Have they already left? My heart leaps as I spot it – British Airways, Dubai, Zone B – and I frantically search the signs. Where’s B? Which way is B? And then I’m off again, running as fast as I can, weaving between idling couples pulling trolleys and noisy families trying to keep hold of their suitcases as they corral their wayward kids.
Zone B. I’m here, and it’s so busy I don’t know where to look. There are hundreds of people, queuing up in zigzag lines, loaded with luggage, shuffling slowly towards the check-in desks. Where’s Grace? Please don’t say I’m too late. There are dozens of blonde teenaged girls but none of them are mine. None of the red-haired women are Nancy either. None of the six-foot-two men are Dom. Chatter, laughter, shouts, announcements and the thunder of hundreds of suitcases being pulled across lino; the noise fills my ears as I ricochet from one queue to another, searching faces, analysing height, trying to identify the backs of people’s heads. I can’t find them. I’ve missed them. They’re not here, but they might still be at security. If they haven’t passed through it yet, I could shout Grace’s name. She could slip Dom’s hand and come running. It’s the only hope I’ve got.
I speed up the nearest escalator and run until I reach the tables where travellers empty their toiletries into clear plastic bags. There’s no sign of Dominic, Grace or Nancy so I approach the boarding pass gates and step from left to right, desperately trying to see beyond the archway to the lines of people queuing up for the X-ray machines, shuffling forwards as they remove their coats, belts and boots. I can’t see Grace but I know there are dozens of other queues, all out of sight.
As I rise up on my tiptoes to get a better view a security guard, in black trousers and a blue shirt with epaulettes on his shoulders, approaches me. ‘Everything okay, madam?’
‘My … my husband and daughter are going through security.’ I gesture beyond the gates. I don’t imagine for one second that he’ll let me through but I have to try. ‘And my daughter’s got my boarding pass. It’s in my handbag. I gave it to her to hold when I popped to the toilet. Could you let me through? I’ll come back to show you the pass.’
The guard’s face is steely. ‘I can’t let you through without a boarding pass I’m afraid. Have you tried ringing your husband?’
‘My … my phone’s in the bag too. Please, if you could just—’
‘You need to go to the information desk …’ he points back towards the escalator ‘… on the ground floor and ask for assistance there.’
He moves away before I can reply and I feel myself slump. If I do as he suggests, I’ll have to tell them the truth: that I think my ex-husband is attempting to abduct our daughter. Even if they take me seriously what can they do? They can’t drag Dominic and Grace out of the departure lounge unless the police are involved and I’ve got no idea if, or when, they’ll arrive. They might not even be at the lock-up, searching for Jack’s body. They might think my call was a hoax.
The only option left to me is to buy a ticket to Dubai and get myself on the plane. But what with? I haven’t got my purse.
In tears, I head for the escalator. As it slowly descends I scan the ground floor for any sign of the police then jolt as someone overtakes me, knocking my shoulder and grazing the backs of my legs with her bag. She carries on down the escalator without so much as a backward glance.
‘Hey …’ I shout after her but the admonishment dries on my tongue. Running through the airport, hand in hand and dragging their suitcases behind them, are Dominic and Grace. I race down the remainder of the steps and sprint towards them.
‘Grace! Grace! GRACE!’
My daughter’s pale, tear-stained face twists in my direction and, as our eyes meet, her expression switches from empty despair to shock.
‘Mum!’ She wrenches her hand from Dominic’s, abandons her suitcase and sprints towards me. ‘Mum! Mum!’
She is on me in an instant, long slim arms gripping my waist, her head buried under my chin.
‘I couldn’t get out,’ she says into my chest. ‘He took my phone. He locked me in.’ She looks up at me and her eyes widen with fear. ‘Mum! You’re bleeding!’
‘It’s okay. I’m fine. I’ll explain everything—’
Dominic descends on us before I can finish my sentence. He keeps one hand firmly locked around his and Grace’s suitcases, and pulls at her shoulder with the other. His eyes flick towards me and a frown settles between his eyebrows. It’s the first time we’ve been face to face in over five years and he’s aged: his skin is rugged and lined and his hair is flecked with grey, but his eyes are as cold as ever. They have the same sheen of anger and disgust I saw when I told him our marriage was over because I’d fallen in love with another man.