Nicci French: Blue Monday

Heathrow Terminal Three was crowded. It always is. In the middle of the night, on Christmas Day, in February when days are greyest and in June when they are fresh and green, in times of plenty and of recession, in times of grief and celebration, people are always travelling somewhere. Queues wound back from check-in desks: families with too many bags, little children with feverish cheeks sitting disconsolately on giant suitcases, single people looking cool and unencumbered. A tiny black woman pushed a cleaning machine slowly across the floor, her eyes fixed on her task as if she did not notice the heaving crowds, the cross men with big stomachs straining their shirts.

Frieda examined the Departures board. The flight left in two and a half hours. Check-in hadn’t yet opened, although already a queue was forming. She went to the kiosk selling coffee and pastries and bought herself a carton of porridge, thick and creamy, then sat herself on a soft bench from where she had a good view.

Sandy was late. She had never travelled with him, but she guessed he was the kind of person who always turned up at the last minute, unflustered. For someone who was leaving the country for an indeterminate length of time, he didn’t have much luggage – or maybe he had arranged for all of his things to be shipped over; all of his beautiful clothes and his medical tomes, his heavy-based pans and his tennis and squash rackets, the pictures that used to hang on his walls. He walked up to the check-in desk with two modest bags, and his laptop slung over his shoulder. He was wearing black jeans and a jacket she couldn’t remember having seen before. Perhaps he had bought it especially for this trip. His face was unshaven, thinner than when they had last met. He looked tired and preoccupied and, seeing this, her heart stirred. She half stood, but then sat down again, watching him as he handed over his passport. She saw him speak, nod courteously, place his bags on the belt that carried them away.

She had imagined this moment and played it over in her mind. How she would put a hand on his shoulder and he would turn. How, seeing her there, his face would light up with gladness and relief. They wouldn’t smile; some feelings are too great for smiling. Yet when he left the desk, she still didn’t move. He stood for a moment, as if he didn’t know where he was going, then straightened his shoulders, settled his face into an expression of purpose and moved swiftly towards Departures – long strides as if he was suddenly in a hurry to be gone from there. Now she could only see his back. Now he was disappearing into the throng of passengers who were pressing themselves through the departure doors into the cavernous overlit hall beyond. Frieda knew that if she didn’t move, he would be gone from her – gone into his new world without her. It would be over.

She stood up. A curious feeling was gathering in her chest, one of a grave sadness and fixed resolution. She understood that she belonged here – in this cold, windy, crowded, moderate country; in this teeming, dirty, noisy, throbbing city; in the little mews house on a hidden cobbled street that she had made into her refuge; in this only place where she almost belonged. She turned and made her way, going home.

This is the first book of a series, and the start of a new journey for us. We would like to thank Michael Morris, Dr Julian Stern and Dr Cleo Van Velsen for their generous help and advice. They shouldn’t necessarily be held responsible for our interpretation of that help and advice.

Tom Weldon and Mari Evans have been a source of support and loyalty for more years than any of us probably likes to remember; to them and the dynamic team at Penguin, we owe a huge debt of gratitude.

We’re constantly grateful for the unstinting care and support of our agents, Sarah Ballard and Simon Trewin, also of St John Donald and everyone at United Agents. Sam Edenborough and Nicki Kennedy of ILA have protected and looked after us throughout our years of writing together.