“What is it?”

“The World Trade Center in New York. Apparently, a plane flew into one of the skyscrapers. A big passenger jet. The upper floors are on fire.”

“How terrible. How sad. All those poor people.”

Suddenly the girl at the front screamed and pointed. “There’s another one. Look!”

And they watched in horror as a second passenger jet flew in a direct line at the second tower, striking it in a fireball.

“It can’t be an accident,” someone said.

“It must be a terrorist attack.”

“The news said it is most likely that idiot Osama bin Laden,” said a man’s voice from the back of the room.

“Oh God. How many more of them might there be?”

Caroline couldn’t speak. She was finding it hard to breathe. My son is in New York, she thought. She hadn’t ever checked where exactly Desiree’s penthouse was in the city. Surely not in the financial district where the towers were. Surely somewhere suitably safe and far away . . .

She pushed her way past more people who now blocked the doorway, rushed to her desk and fumbled in her purse for her telephone book. Her hand was trembling so much that she found it hard to dial the number.

“I’m sorry. All circuits are busy,” said a mechanical voice. “Please try again later.”

Caroline sat beside the phone all afternoon, fighting back tears of frustration as the “all circuits are busy” message was repeated over and over.

“Of course, your son is there, isn’t he?” a co-worker said, putting an arm around her. “No wonder you’re worried out of your mind. I would be, too. But I’m sure he’s okay.”

Caroline wanted to tell her to go away, to leave her alone, but she knew the woman was just trying to be kind. She continued at home every fifteen minutes, all night, until at about three in the morning the call went through.

“Hello?” said a sleepy woman’s voice. “What is it?”

“It’s Caroline Grant.” She gasped out the words. “Is Josh there? And Teddy? You’re all safe?”

“Oh yes. We’re fine. We’re up in the nineties. Miles away. Josh tried to call you yesterday, after it happened, but nobody could make phone calls. Unbelievable, isn’t it? Surreal, watching those towers fall.”

“Awful,” Caroline agreed. “Can I speak to Josh, please?”

“He’s still asleep. Hold on a minute. I’ll wake him for you.”

Caroline heard her saying, “Your wife is on the phone, from London. You’d better wake up.”

Then a long pause and Josh’s voice. “Hey, Cara. We’re fine. I tried to call you. Everything’s okay here. The kids were quite upset when they saw it, but they’ll be all right.”

“Can I speak to Teddy?”

“He’s still asleep. Let him be, Cara. We’re trying to downplay it as much as possible. No TV. Let life go on as normal. Talk to you later, okay?”

And he hung up. Caroline stood staring at the phone, fighting back anger. She put down the receiver and heaved a shuddering big sigh of relief. They were fine. Her son was fine. She swallowed back tears. News programmes on TV had been broadcasting almost incessant updates. The Pentagon hit. Another plane crashing in a field in Pennsylvania. All flights cancelled. All transportation stalled. Saudi nationals responsible . . . and it was Osama bin Laden.