It was the same suit that Rashid was wearing as he sat in the BA Business Class lounge at Paris Charles de Gaulle airport. At no little inconvenience to him, his company had booked him a flight to Paris as the cheapest option, requiring him to board a separate plane to London, with a four-hour wait in between. He’d had a shower, read the papers and drunk enough spicy tomato juices to make him feel distinctly queasy, and he still had two hours left to kill. He settled near the TV, where he could watch the news for distraction. He was sorely tempted to get terribly drunk, but didn’t want his first return to England for years to be clouded by alcohol’ he wanted to return to his spiritual home with dignity. Yes, with dignity. The very thought made him sit up straighter, and his profile stiffen with distinction. That was how Veetie Trueman first saw him, wielding his FT like a shield against the grimy masses and looking like a Roman statesman, like someone who belonged.

Veetie was acutely conscious that she, by contrast to the elegant gentleman sitting in the armchair, looked like a scruffy interloper on entering the Business Class lounge,

suit crumpled at the back from sitting stiffly in ,AOt Parisian cab, and the collar of her white shirt /iking at her pale neck. She was obviously ill at ease with the supercilious reception staff, handing over her boarding card timidly as though she expected them to refuse her entry, and was struggling with two ungainly cases and a document bag that she was ill-equipped to manage along with her own substantial handbag. Rashid barely noticed her, glancing up only briefly at the noise made by her untidy, clattering entrance.

‘You can’t bring all those bags in under your hand-luggage allowance, dear,’ said the BA representative patronizingly.

‘I know,’ replied Veetie tiredly, as though she’d had to give the explanation before. ‘They’re not all mine. They’re my colleagues’ - they’ve taken our client for a drink and asked me to look after their bags. They’re joining me here later.’

The receptionist handed back Veetie’s boarding card sniffily, saying, ‘You can leave excess bags over there,’ nodding towards a rack set in the wall, ‘but at your own risk.’

Veetie tried to wheel the cases over to the rack, but one fell over, causing her to stumble awkwardly. Rashid, with natural gentility, got up politely. ‘Here, let me help with those.’ He lifted both cases easily and put them in the rack. ‘Shall I put that bag in as well?’ he offered, indicating the document bag.