glee towards the yoghurt pot. Her mother smiled, resigned, and shook her head. ‘You pickle.’ She pressed a soft kiss on the top of the child’s candyfloss-soft curls and put her on her lap, moving the yoghurt pot in front of them, giving her the spoon.
With a calm measured look, although her eyes were still full of anger, the woman stared back at Sophie. ‘You asked if I was alright?’ Her eyes sparkled with unshed tears, her head tilted defiantly.
‘Yes, did you want a hand? It looks like hard work.’ Sophie smiled at the little girl, who seemed a lot happier now. ‘She’s gorgeous. Although I don’t envy you the mess. Do you want me to get you some more napkins or anything?’
‘Gorgeous and mine,’ said the woman, looking alarmed, wrapping a protective arm across the little girl’s chest.
‘Yes,’ said Sophie warily. Surely this woman didn’t think she was a child-snatcher or something?
‘Although that doesn’t bother you, does it, Sophie? Sharing things?’ The woman’s tone turned weary and her shoulders slumped, an expression of pain darting across her face.
Sophie’s smile froze into place. Something about the woman’s tone suggested she should have some inkling of what was going on here. How did she know her name?
‘I was just trying to help.’ She regretted even making eye contact now.
‘You? Help?’ The woman let out a bitter laugh. ‘I think you’ve helped enough. Helped yourself to my husband.’
‘Sorry?’ Sophie’s hand stilled as she paused to take another sip of coffee.
‘Are you proud of yourself? Miss Rich Bitch with your flat in Kensington and Daddy’s country estate in Sussex. I looked you up. Lady Sophie Bennings-Beauchamp.’
Sophie’s mouth dropped open. This woman had done her homework. None of her colleagues at work had any idea. She kept her passport well out of sight from prying eyes. In fact, Kate was the only one who had seen it and at the time, she’d been professional enough not to say a word.
‘I don’t use—’ she protested automatically because she always did, but the woman interrupted.
‘Nice cushy life. No wonder James would rather spend half his life with you. No washing hanging everywhere. No babies crying in the night.’
‘James?’ Sophie stiffened. Even as she opened her mouth, she knew her words sounded like every last cliché in the book. ‘What’s he got to do with this?’
‘James Soames. My husband. Lives in London four nights, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday. Comes home to his wife and daughter in Newbury Friday to Monday.’
‘But he goes to Cornwall.’ Sophie’s legs felt leaden as if she were weighted into her seat. ‘He’s in Cornwall now.’
‘No, he’s not, you stupid cow. He’s mowing the lawn at 47 Fantail Lane in Newbury and then he’s going to build a swing for Emma.’
Her heart bumped uncomfortably as the Fasten Seatbelts sign blinked on. Too late now to change her mind. To wonder whether her snap decision had been too hasty.
All around her people were gathering the belongings they’d spread around their seats on the seven-hour journey, packing up laptops and iPads, turning down corners of books, folding up blankets. Across the aisle through the window she could see lights twinkling, coming into sharper focus as the plane descended. Her ears popped, feeling full and heavy.
With a thud and bounce, the wheels touched down, the roar of the engines going into reverse thrust as the plane decelerated. She was really here, with a purseful of dollars, an address in Brooklyn and a suitcase packed with a desperately slim wardrobe to tide her through the next six months. Had she even packed a warm jumper? Gloves? Didn’t New York get really cold in the winter?
Still pondering the ineptitude of her packing, she forced out a tight goodbye to the smiling cabin crew, refusing to give in to the overwhelming temptation to grab one of them and beg to fly back to London with them on their return leg.
It was tiredness, she told herself, as she tramped up the echoey tunnel, the floor bouncing slightly beneath her feet as the rumble of cases rebounded from the metal walls. Ahead there was so much to navigate, customs, a taxi, meeting strangers and a new home. For the last few hours she’d existed in an almost pleasant no-man’s-land limbo, not needing to think about anything beyond choosing which film to watch, whether to have the beef or chicken and how to break into the plastic packaging of the bread roll.
Grasping the handle of her cabin bag as if it might give her some kind of magical courage, she followed the trail of people ahead, most of whom were head down with intent, clearly sure of where they were going. She rounded a corner and came into the huge passport area, instantly looking up at the American flag hanging from the ceiling. Nerves shimmered in her stomach. She knew all her paperwork was in order, but she’d heard horror stories about American customs. It wasn’t looking too good. Only a few of the booths were manned and the queue was enormous. As it snaked its way forward she gripped her passport tighter and tried to look innocent, an automatic response to the gun-carrying officials wearing stern, shoot-you-in-a-second-and-not-bat-an-eyelid expressions on their faces.
By the time it was finally her turn, she felt exhausted but also irritated. The plane had landed nearly an hour and a half ago, her body clock was working on UK time and she was used to European indifference and laconic inspection. This lengthy eye-scanning, finger-printing process at silly o’clock, when her legs ached and she felt positively light-headed, was testing even her considerable reserves of Pollyanna-like amiability. Long minutes passed as the middle-aged customs officer scrutinised her passport with a stone-like expression, his greying eyebrows drawn together but separated by a trough of wrinkles. He looked at her, down at the passport and then back at her. Her stomach tightened. The spaced-out feeling in her head made her sway slightly. He looked back at the passport again.
‘Is this for real?’ he asked, his eyes widening as he once again looked at the passport and back at her. ‘Lady Sophie Amelia Bennings-Beauchamp.’ It took her a minute to attune to the heavy nasal American accent and then she nodded with a well-what-can-you-do smile and a tiny shrug.
‘D’ya have a tiara in your baggage?’ The direct question held a confusing combination of aggression and curiosity.
Some imp of mischief made her say, very seriously, ‘Not this time. I tend not to travel with the family jewels.’
‘That so, ma’am. Or should I call you your ladyship?’
‘Sophie’s fine.’
He looked appalled.
‘Or Miss Bennings,’ she added with a smile, pleased that she’d broken his scary official person’s expression.
‘Not Miss Bennings-Beauchamp.’ He pronounced it Bow-champ, leaving her wondering if she should explain that it was really Beecham, but she decided against it. Not at this time of night.
She leaned forward and whispered, ‘I try and travel incognito. So, I stick to Miss Bennings. It’s easier that way.’
