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‘Are you nervous?’ Tara asked. ‘I get nervous when I fly, which explains the yarn … and why I’m so chatty. I’ll shut up after take-off.’ She scooped up the lip balm. ‘Here you go. Love that brand, by the way. So moisturizing.’
‘Thanks.’
‘No problem.’
Tara was more than charm and a winning smile. She was a winner. Her eyes sparkled with intelligence. One day she’d lead the free world or the World Bank, whichever recruited her first. If Roman couldn’t love her …?
‘We ask that you please fasten your seatbelts at this time and secure all baggage underneath your seat or in the overhead compartments.’
Tara stuffed the ball of pink yarn in a duffle bag underneath her seat. ‘Goodness, look, your passport!’
Samantha’s passport was under Tara’s foot, stuck to the sole of her smart loafers. For God’s sake! Why couldn’t she hold it together? She and Tara reached for the passport at the same time, but Tara was quicker. It was stuck to her foot after all. ‘British … nice. Do you have family in Trinidad? Or were you on vacation?’
Samantha wondered how to play this. Tell the whole truth or a slimmed-down version of it? Her brain was buffering. Why couldn’t she think? She had to come up with a plan. Was it too late to text Hugo for advice? The short answer was yes. It was too late to phone a friend or come up with any sort of plan. Tara had found yet another one of her belongings, a short note inked on hotel stationery.
‘Flight attendants, prepare for take-off.’
