1
Sometimes, the tiniest thing can kickstart a chain of events that changes everything. For me, that dull Sunday morning in June, it was the simple act of sleeping through my alarm. Or rather, sticking one arm into the chilly air outside my duvet, whacking the button so hard the clock bounced off my bedside table, and promptly falling straight back to sleep.
I was dreaming. Of golden fields and summer skies. Turquoise butterflies dancing amongst the wildflowers as I strolled past. The hazy heat and sense of all the time in the world felt like oxygen to a soul I hadn’t even realised was gasping for breath.
When I finally jolted awake, it took a few seconds to process that the jarring noise was my phone ringing. Head still too foggy to feel more than a vague twinge of trepidation, I fumbled to answer it.
‘Hello?’
‘Emmie? Emmaline? Are you okay?’
‘Yes. Who is this?’ I croaked, squinting in confusion.
‘It’s Barb.’
I scrabbled up my pillow to a semi-sitting position. Why on earth was Barb from the Travel Shop calling me at this time? At any time, for that matter. The only calls I’d got in the past month – make that six months – had been a reminder to book a dentist appointment and some scammer pretending my laptop had been hacked.
‘Yeah, so I got your number from Jonny in the office. Like I said, we’re wondering if you’re okay. Only there’s a queue starting to form, and you know what Mandy’s like without her coffee.’
A queue? What was she talking about?
‘We thought we’d better check if it was a problem with the traffic. Or maybe you were ill, or your van had broken down or something?’
‘Um, no. I’m not ill.’
‘There’s not an emergency?’
‘No.’ Leaning over the side of the bed, I found my clock, only then registering the hint of daylight peeping around the edge of the blackout blinds.
I stared at the display as Barb carried on chattering about how it was unheard of for me to be late, and she hoped I didn’t mind her calling, but they were starting to worry.
Six-fifteen.
What? How had this happened?
And why was I still slumped here, Barb’s words buzzing in my ear like a mosquito, instead of fixing it?
Eventually, she paused for breath, and I managed to form the kind of answer I hoped would make her stop.
‘I’m okay. Something came up, but it’s sorted now. I’ll be there by eight.’
‘Eight?’ Barb exclaimed, prompting a sudden increase in background babble. ‘Maybe try for a bit earlier, eh? Security will never forgive you for causing a caffeine-withdrawal riot.’
‘The food court sells coffee.’
‘I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that.’
I hung up, made a feeble attempt to flip back the duvet and found that, despite my being hideously late, my limbs refused to get up. I lay there, immobile, for what felt like eternity.
I tried to remember if this had ever happened before, vaguely recollecting one time as a teenager when my mother said I’d best stay at home, after a night throwing up, more to avoid passing on my germs to customers than any concern for my well-being. Even on my days off, I woke before six.
I didn’t know whether to be more worried about oversleeping, or how it had left me paralysed, as if someone had slipped lead weights into my duvet cover during the night.
The most I could summon up was a prickle of fear about why I seemed to feel barely anything at all.
Eventually, after what turned out to be only about ten minutes, the guilt of what Mum would have said if she’d found me like this was enough to propel me out of bed, and into action.
Parsley’s Pasties had been a fixture of the tiny Sherwood Airport for over three decades. My mother, Nell Brown, had run it for nearly all of that time with rigorous efficiency and seemingly unfailing stamina. That was, until she’d suddenly stopped twenty months ago, crumpling to the floor the second she’d shut shop for the day, as if her own death had to fit around the business. After two weeks to mourn, which was probably thirteen days longer than Mum would have approved of, I had donned my green apron and got on with being solely responsible for providing incredible coffee and mouth-watering pasties. These drew staff from every inch of the airport, along with theregular travellers who knew that queuing up at our unassuming kiosk was worth risking a late boarding call.
