Paul went to the bathroom, splashing cold water onto his face, shaking out his limbs, which had begun to prickle with nervous energy. Just the thought of seeing Yvette again was unscrewing things in his brain. Blocks that had been tightly, essentially, in place.

Returning to the living room, he said: “I . . . I’m going to pop out.”

Steph looked up, frowning. “Where?”

“To look for Frey.”

“But where?”

He didn’t answer. He reached for his sneakers but the laces wouldn’t tie: His fingers moved too fast for his brain.

“I’ll come with you,” she said, standing.

He raised his head. “No! No, you should stay here for when the family liaison officer comes.”

Steph gazed back at him through bloodshot eyes, pressing the scarf into her throat. Her cheekbones had already been sharpened by lack of sleep and food. He remembered the first time he’d ever seen her, almost twenty years ago: The curve of those cheekbones had stirred something in him, even though his head had been a dark, angry mess. He’d been going on a holiday that Glover had urged him to take, during the leave he would never return from. To break the exhausting cycle of his thoughts, Paul had struck up a conversation with the industrious woman serving drinks in the first-class lounge. He’d found himself observing her as he’d nursed a beer, watching her move expertly around the room, swerving chairs and tables without having to look. She had let him waylay her from her tasks, chatting to him with a touch of shyness but no obvious impatience. When he’d asked her about working in an airport she’d said it was like being in a bubble. That had appealed to Paul. He’d wanted to stay in the air-conditioned bubble of that lounge, pretending the rest of the world didn’t exist.

Later, when she’d returned to her work, he’d heard her making an announcement about frequent-flyer cards over the loudspeaker. She’d paused halfway through, and when she’d resumed he’d detected suppressed laughter in her voice. Paul had spotted her through the door to the staff room, holding the microphone to her grinning mouth while shaking her head at the colleague making her laugh. He’d felt he was glimpsing a different side to her and he’d smiled properly for the first time in months. Leaving his number on a napkin had just been part of the escapism. He’d never expected her to call, never expected to see her again, beyond that bubble.

He still loved it when Steph got the giggles and her usual composure would melt. Freya brought it out in her—they could lose it over something incomprehensible to anyone but the two of them, starting up again every time they caught one another’s eye. His breath trapped in his throat as he thought about it now. When had been the last time?