To Vegas! Because, even if there are retinal scans and fingerprint thingies, they will think it’s an error on their side before they think I am a killer posing as my identical twin. Occam’s Razor in action.

Chapter Ten

We breeze through Heathrow. It’s quiet at this late hour, with no queues for security. No one looks twice at my passport and I feel myself beginning to relax. Even the sight of a whole group of other travelers in face masks trying to decipher some tiny poster about how the virus breakout in Italy has worsened doesn’t really bother me. I stop to buy a book for the flight and my eye is drawn to the dark red and black cover of a novel called It Wasn’t Me. “Amy Monaghan at her chill-creating best,” the jacket review promises. This is the novel Amy from my book club has just had optioned by Sky. It is about a woman trying to prove she’s innocent of the murder she is accused of.

The cashier wishes us “happy hols.” Tom leans in and whispers, “God, I hate it when people say hols.”

I turn my head to kiss him full on the lips in agreement. “Me too. Now, let’s go get a cocktail.”

I have never been first class on a flight before. Business class, yes. I travel a bit for work and it is one of the small perks that tries to make up for the soul-destroying reality of getting off a plane and knowing you won’t see any of the country you are visiting. That your meetings will be conducted in a sterile office block that could be anywhere, always in English, and they will serve you insipid tea because it is “what Brits like.” It’s not. I love chai, and that coffee in France you can stand a spoon in, and a fluffy frappe in Athens. But you can’t say anything and instead must sip the dishwater like it’s a delicacy while you thank them profusely for their misguided hospitality. Now I have experienced first class I will never want to sit in the cramped confines of economy again.

Half an hour into the flight and Tom puts down his book—some intellectual-looking literary thing that has won too many awards to count—turning himself to look at me across the vast distance between the seats. He leans over to say, “I have to ask you a serious question.” His eyes are heavy with the enormity of what he is about to ask and I hold my breath as I wait for a life-changer. “Do you want to do the whole mile-high club thing?” I had expected something profound and so I laugh at the unexpectedness of his question. He grins. “Thank God! I was crossing my fingers that you didn’t jump at the chance!”

“It’s just that airplane toilets are so…” I grope for the word.

“Janky?” he suggests.

“Exactly.” We smile at each other.

“So now that’s sorted, I’m going to have another drink.” Tom politely motions to the air steward and settles back into his seat to continue his book.