679

I was a very good stewardess. I told Edward I was polite, friendly and certainly not on the inside.

Starting off on short European routes, I soon switched to a carrier heading East and finally settled on a Hong Kong route. It took me far, far away.

During my first months of work, a mixed gang of West German and Palestinian terrorists hijacked an Air France plane on its way to Uganda and demanded the release of jailed terrorists. Israeli troops stormed the plane and killed seven of the hijackers. The news described it as the first major defeat of international terrorism.

We were given training. A marine came in and told us what to do if we were faced with a similar situation. Told us how to poke them in the eye. A negotiator came in and told us how to keep them calm. The airline CEO came in and said we probably wouldn’t be faced with the situation at all and no one should worry.

I asked Edward if he’d been sucked in. He said he’d hardly admit it in a letter.

He said don’t ask questions and I won’t be told lies.

He asked me to tell him which flights I worked as he’d hate to burn up another sister.

I asked about Francesca. He said she’d lost heart with direct action and had qualified as a vet. She’d moved to Firenze, where she cured the pets of wealthy animal lovers for exorbitant sums of money. He wondered what had happened to commitment.

678

Edward asked if I could forward his letters to Beth as she returned all his. I said she returned all mine too.

677

I am an ex-stewardess now. A cold one. With no blanket and no nuts.

676

I wonder if Beth would like Tommy Tempo? Perhaps I should have sent her a tape. I could’ve typed on the envelope so she wouldn’t know it was from me and thrown it away without opening it.

675

The radio’s quiet now. Perhaps Tommy is on a break.

674

Or my batteries are flat.

673

. . . Have I done that? I lose count.

672

. . . then.

Edward wiped the sick off his mouth and walked down 14th Street. Past a big apartment building. Inside one of them the lights were off but someone was home.

A breeze carrying traffic noise and Edward’s footsteps filtered through the apartment’s ventilation and did its best to dilute the whiskey fumes and cigarette smoke that had settled around the room.

The apartment’s occupant, pilot Graham Johansson, was wishing sleep would come more easily.

The phone rang. The answering machine took the call.

“Penny? I hope this is the right number. This is John Heron, Emma’s husband. I’m ringing from England and I wanted to know if you knew where Emma was. Did she say anything to you? Could you give me a ring when you get this message? Sorry, I don’t even know what time it is there.”