Marianne allowed herself the luxury of soaking in the bath, threw on fresh clothing, drank some strong tea, got into her car and returned to where she was needed.

Neither had yet come to grips with how their brief telephone conversation had ended. That the words they had said could not be unsaid, and implicit in them was the end of their affair.

Chapter Thirteen

Simon had anticipated a wait of up to two hours after arriving at Kennedy Airport, before Marianne joined him after proceeding through immigration. The line for foreigners entering the country could stretch, four abreast, like a mile-long snake curving itself to fit into the overheated space, any time of year. And this was the week before Christmas.

Making his way past those who had no option but to put up with inconvenience of that sort after flying the Atlantic, he thought it time something was done about it. Foreigners came to New York on business, but he couldn’t imagine them doing so if they could find an alternative market.

He was still not letting himself think of Marianne. The Scotch he had consumed on the flight, the movie too, had helped blot her out. When the thought of her inserted itself he would go on making himself dwell upon something else, like the seemingly arrogant attitude of New York’s immigration authority, as he had just now.

He had also anticipated sharing with her the suite he’d reserved at the Plaza! Put that thought away, too, he ordered himself as a cab carried him there.

‘You bin to the UK for woik or for pleasure?’ the cabbie inquired.

‘What makes you think I’ve flown in from there?’

‘I’ve seen the tag on your baggage. What am I, blind? Believe you me, a guy in my lina woik gotta keep his eyes skinned, or packa pistol, wid what goes on in this city! You a New Yorker?’

‘Born and bred.’

‘So I shouldn’t have to tell you. You ain’t one of them limeys who wants to know why I got a cast iron screen between me an’ who I’m drivin’. I took a look at you, though, an’ slid it back, like I do when I pick up limeys at Kennedy. I got family in the UK. My mom was a GI bride. Came from a city called Manchester. You ever bin there?’

‘No.’ I thought I might soon be marrying into a Manchester family, Simon wanted to tell him, but you didn’t unburden yourself to a cab-driver, friendly though New York cabbies could be if they hadn’t got out of bed the wrong side that morning.

‘My mom took me to see her folks when I was a kid, but I never bin back. Always meant to, but never made it. Things get in the way, you know how it is.’

Simon did. And the hell with Marianne’s family!