I don’t need to go to the gate for another hour, so I head to the bar – the posh one by the designer shops. It sells caviar. Not that I’ve ever had caviar, or fancy trying it today. But the wine will be delicious. The good stuff. Better than the pub …

Oh, shit.

A memory hits me like a punch in the nose.

I’ve had this exact conversation before. Not in my head, though. With Jack, when we were here together on our way to Thailand. He’d been tetchy; very quiet compared to usual. I’d presumed he was one of those people who relaxes once their suitcase is all checked in. My dad’s like that, you see.

‘Let’s just go to the Wetherspoons,’ Jack said. ‘I know a nice quiet corner.’

‘But we can sit up on those trendy bar stools and pretend we’re stinking rich,’ I insisted. ‘I might even pop into Chanel, you know; ponder about buying a jacket and casually inspect the handbags.’

‘Chloe, can we please just go to the pub.’

‘You can’t see the planes taking off from that pub, though.’

He tensed up like Frankenstein with a pole up his arse.

‘Fine,’ he said, barely moving his lips. ‘I’ll go to the pub and you can get yourself a fancy glass of champers, and I’ll meet you on the plane.’

‘What?!’

‘Okay, the gate. I’ll meet you at the gate. But …’

‘But what?’

‘I never get to the gate early, so it might just be best to say let’s meet on the plane.’

‘No!’

Jack rubbed his eyes and inhaled: a slow, deep breath.

‘Oh, hun,’ I realised. ‘Are you … scared of flying?’

He exhaled, kept his eyes closed.

‘It’s okay. There’s nothing to be afraid of. Did you know you’re much more likely to die in a car crash than—’

‘You think I don’t know all that?’ he barks. ‘I’m fucking terrified. Happy?’

‘No. Why would that make me happy?’

‘Ssh.’

‘Don’t shush me.’

‘Chloe, I need to go and have a pint. On my own.’ And he walked off.

I stood there outside the shop selling Harrods merchandise, trying not to look like a stood-up codfish. Had this come out of the blue? I thought back to the queue for check-in. I’d been pretty low key, scrolling through Instagram, WhatsApping Beth, our Kit, my mum. Then, going through passport control, I became super chatty. I told tales of family holidays, like that time in Gran Canaria when my dad was mistaken for a famous footy player. My mum totally played along to see if we’d get special treatment (we didn’t). I’d thought Jack was listening to me, but was he preoccupied instead? Worried the flight we were about to board was doomed?