The Two Lives of Lydia Bird(81)

I stand in the departures lounge and gaze at the board, bewildered. It’s only now that the first fingers of doubt begin to tap lightly on my shoulder. Truth is, I feel a bit unhinged, standing here in the middle of the airport on my own with a hastily packed suitcase, a half-empty bottle of pink pills and my passport. No one knows I’m here. I could turn round and go home, no one would be any the wiser. It’s tempting; I consider it. Everywhere I look there are couples and families, tired kids on iPads and hen parties making a beeline for the bar. I definitely don’t want to go anywhere there might be hen parties. I don’t know what to do so I stand still and let everyone move around me, surrounded by snippets of conversations, traces of duty-free perfume.

‘Okay, love?’ someone says, and I turn to see a security guard. ‘You’ve been standing there a while now,’ he says. ‘Need some help?’

He has a lived-in sort of face, as if he’s seeing out the last few years before retirement. I expect he’s asking me if I need directions to my check-in desk, but our conversation may as well serve a bigger purpose. He doesn’t know it, but he’s just become second-in-command on this ship.

‘I do, actually,’ I say. ‘Where would you go if you could go anywhere right now?’

Ted, whose name I know from his name badge, looks at me oddly, thrown by the question.

‘Home?’ he says.

I half laugh, desperate, because it’s the absolute wrong answer. ‘No, I mean abroad. If you could fly somewhere right now, where would you go?’

He eyes my suitcase and then me, assessing. What’s he thinking, I wonder? On the run from the police? Jilting someone at the altar? I belatedly hope I haven’t asked the least suitable person in the entire building for help; this guy could probably detain me. His hand rests on the radio on his belt, his thick gold wedding ring tucked into a well-worn groove on his finger.

‘Well,’ he says slowly. ‘I’d probably go for somewhere with a good internet connection so I could let someone know where I was when I got there.’

It’s fatherly; terribly endearing to this fatherless girl.

‘I will,’ I say, and then nod at the departures board again. ‘So, where?’

Ted sighs as if he’d really rather me turn round and go home instead. ‘You might be better seeing what’s actually available. Head over to the sales booths rather than the check-in desks.’

He points me in the direction of kiosks lining the far wall, illuminated in reds and yellows. ‘Oh, I see,’ I say. There’s quite a lot of them, a dozen or more, so I throw a different question at Ted. ‘A number between one and twelve?’

He rolls his eyes. ‘Six.’

Six. It’s as good as any. ‘Thank you, Ted,’ I say, feeling a bit awkward, as if I should hug him or something. ‘I should, er … you know. Go.’

He steps aside and waves me along. ‘On your way then,’ he says. ‘And don’t forget to call home.’

I nod. He’s right; I should call Mum at least, but I daren’t yet for fear of her talking me out of it before I even get off the ground. Tomorrow is soon enough – Mum’s more than busy right now trying to get home from the Lakes to see her new granddaughter.

Right. Six. I approach the wall of kiosks and walk along, ticking them off in my head as I go. Kiosk one, United Airlines. I don’t think I can go to the US without visas and all that gubbins, so that would be a non-starter anyway. Two, Air France. Bit too close; I can’t guarantee Mum wouldn’t come and get me. Besides: Paris. Three, Qantas. Too far away. I want to get away, but not as far as I can possibly go. Four, Emirates. Hmm. I don’t think the bling and glitz of Dubai is what my soul needs right now. Aer Lingus is at five; another no-go purely on proximity. Okay. Kiosk six glows orange and red, welcoming me. Beckoning me, almost. Air India. Nerves grumble low in my gut. I’d sort of imagined myself heading out to the Balearics or Portugal, but something about the thought of India feels suddenly appealing. It’s far enough away to put me out of Mum’s reach, and it’s different enough to be exactly what I need – not that I knew it until this very second. I’ve never imagined myself travelling anywhere alone, let alone somewhere as unknown to me. Some of the desks have been closed up for the night, but as luck would have it, there’s a guy perched at the kiosk who looks up and catches my eye.

‘You need some help?’ he asks, smiling at me. It’s welcoming, and I move nearer.

‘I think I’d like to go to India,’ I say, ever so slightly slower than usual, as if I’m testing the words out.

‘Excellent,’ he says. ‘Where in India were you planning to fly to?’

‘Oh,’ I say, feeling foolish. ‘Right. Well, where can I fly to soonest?’

If my answer surprises him, he’s professional enough not to show it. He taps his keyboard and I wait, crossing my fingers under the desk that he doesn’t tell me there are no imminent flights.

‘There’s a flight to Delhi in two hours and twenty-seven minutes,’ he says.

‘That one,’ I say, gripped.

‘But it’s full, I’m afraid,’ he says, arranging his features into a sympathetic smile.

I’m crushed. I’ve known about the flight for less than thirty seconds, and already it’s a missed opportunity.