Page 85 of Where Do We Go From Here?
‘Coffee sounds great,’ Wendy says. ‘You should probably eat something too.’
‘I’ll get something on the plane if I’m hungry,’ Fiona says. ‘Though I might grab a last proper croissant while we’re here.’
They buy croissants and cappuccinos and perch on bar stools where they can watch the stream of travellers pass by.
‘I kind of like airports, actually,’ Fiona says.
‘I know what you mean. So do I. Well, except for all that security nonsense. That always makes me feel guilty, like I’m hiding something.’
‘Me too!’ Fiona says, pulling a face. ‘What’s that all about?’
‘These croissants are stale,’ Wendy says. ‘I think they must have been made before the Christmas break.’
‘Yeah,’ Fiona agrees. ‘They saw us coming.’ Then, ‘People are better looking in airports, aren’t they?’
Wendy glances around. ‘Maybe,’ she says. ‘Perhaps they’re happy because they’re going on holiday?’
‘Or suntanned because they just got back.’
There’s a pause in the conversation during which a man – red faced, sweaty, overweight– sits down next to Wendy with a pint.
‘Though there are exceptions, obviously,’ Fiona says pointedly.
Wendy follows her gaze and rolls her eyes. ‘You’re mean!’ she murmurs.
She glances at the man’s pint, sees the condensation rolling down the side, and wishes she’d ordered beer instead. And then she sees Fiona looking at it with a raised eyebrow and is glad she didn’t after all.
‘So,’ Fiona says, pushing her half-eaten croissant away.
‘So!’ Wendy says, mimicking her daughter and doing the same.Now, she thinks.Now is when it happens.Whatever she says, keep calm.
But, ‘I think I’d better get going,’ is all Fiona says.
‘Oh, OK,’ Wendy says, hiding her surprise, and offering a sad smile. ‘Let’s get you posted back to Blighty, eh?’
They stand and return to the turnstiles. ‘Passport? Boarding pass? Purse?’ Wendy prompts. ‘Nothing else is that important as long as you have those.’
‘Yep. Got it all,’ Fiona says, patting her pockets.
Mother and daughter hug. The time for any major discussion has run out, and that is probably just as well. It’s nice to end the visit on a relaxed note.
She decides she’ll reward herself with a little glass of wine the second Fiona’s out of sight, and then she’ll get her taxi back home. Her nerves are completely frazzled.
‘Thanks, Mum,’ her daughter says. ‘It’s been lovely.’
‘No, thank you for saving my Christmas!’
‘You’ll be OK, won’t you? I mean, with New Year and everything coming up?’
‘Of course I will,’ Wendy says. ‘And you enjoy yours. Try to get up to some mischief! Make up for your boring Christmas with little old me by going out dancing or something!’
‘OK, Mum, I will.’
She squeezes her mother’s forearms and breaks away, turning towards the turnstiles, but then pauses and looks back. ‘Oh, Mum?’ she says, and Wendy – who’d been about to walk away – has to interrupt her own movement to turn back.
‘Yes?’
‘There’s a couple of things I promised I’d say before I leave and I haven’t managed to get around to it.’
