However, in this reality where she was steeped in British awkwardness, she slipped her headphones off and with a pinched smile said, ‘Sure.’

Instinctively, she scoped the cabin again for exits. Even at 36,000 feet Jemima was always looking for a way out.

‘So you a big fan of old Johann Sebastian?’ Chance asked, ‘I could hear it through your headphones, the music from that bank commercial, right?’

‘Sorry. I can turn it down if it’s too loud. It’s my favourite piece of music. Helps me to… block out the drone of the plane,’ she said.

‘Oh, if that’s what you need I’ve got something much better,’ Chance said as he surreptitiously looked around the cabin before handing Jemima a slender hip flask, ‘100mls of liquid gold.’

‘Oh, no, thank you,’ said Jemima raising a hand.

Chance thrust the flask into it.

‘Come on. It’s a long flight,’ he nudged.

‘I know,’ Jemima replied looking down at the thin flask.

Cautiously, she put it to her lips as though it were a vial of anthrax. The syrupy alcohol slipped down her throat. She had to concede, it was good.

‘Tequila.’ Chance grinned. ‘Picked up some good shit in Mexico.’

Jemima took another micro-swig. The airline pillows were too small to put over Chance’s face so mild inebriation might be the only antidote to ten hours next to him.

‘So, what takes you to London?’ Chance asked scooching over one seat.

Jemima withered. Was this a chat or a talk show interview?

‘It’s home,’ she said.

But the words caught as they came out. Yes, she loved her little flat and was looking forward to its familiar solitude but thoughts of LA just weren’t going away. Beaches, beautiful skies and a clean slate awaited. Her mother would have no objections. Jemima relocating would give her another part of the world to visit. It was Simi and Meagan who would need convincing. But as Jemima considered the reality of putting such a distance between her and her two best friends, it made her heart ache.

‘What about you?’ she said redirecting the conversation. ‘What takes you to LA? Surfing?’

Chance laughed looking down at his scruffy T-shirt and jeans.

‘Right. You are looking at Australia’s best, worst surfer. Honestly, I suck at it. In your face, stereotypes,’ he said winking at Jemima.

‘Sorry,’ she said, quickly.

As a black woman, she knew how grating even positive prejudices were, yet here she was laying one on this guy with a trowel.

‘So, what do you do?’ she asked turning back to Chance who, if he were offended by her presumptions, was being kind enough not to show it.

‘Occupational therapist. I help people recover from injuries and stuff. Got a little practice in Stokey,’ he said, taking another sip of tequila.

Jemima froze.

‘Stokey?’ she quizzed, her voice ascending half an octave.

Stokey was what the locals called Stoke Newington and was where she lived!

‘Yeah, above the coffee shop on Apone Parade.’