If he’d missed his flight, he would have called or texted or emailed, wouldn’t he? He may not have known she’d be waiting at the airport, but he did know she’d be waiting. She tried calling him again. Nothing. She looked around the terminal. Most of the crowd had gone, aside from a few passengers at the car rental stalls and a man in a grey coverall vacuuming the strip of carpet by the front doors.

‘Where is he, Mum?’ Mia asked.

‘I’m not sure, monkey. But he’ll be here. It’s fine. Everything’s fine.’

With her eyes trained on the glass doors, Kate reached out and found Mia’s hand. She held it tightly. They continued to wait. Five minutes passed, then fifteen more.

The last time they spoke was over Skype, the morning John’s flight was due to leave London. Kate and Mia were sharing an armchair in the living room, leaning over the screen of the MacBook. Seventeen thousand kilometres away, John sat on the bed in his hotel room. It was a typical suite, wallpapered in soft greens with a minibar to his left and a room-service menu to his right. His passport, wallet and phone were stacked neatly on his suitcase by the door.

‘Are you all set for the flight?’ Kate asked.

‘I’ve got the three things all seasoned travellers should carry,’ he said. ‘Earplugs, valium and Haruki Murakami.’

‘Is valium drugs?’ Mia asked.

‘Yes, honey,’ he said. ‘But the good kind.’ He laughed, but their connection was weak and time-delayed. The screen froze and skipped, making the laugh sound like something out of a fever dream.

John was three years older than Kate but looked five years younger. He had a youthful head of hair and neat, symmetrical features. He was naturally trim and athletic. On the screen, his face seemed to have a little more colour than usual. It was summertime in London, after all.

Mia slid forward onto her knees so her face was centimetres from the screen. ‘When you get on the plane make sure you sit behind the wing,’ she said. ‘That’s the safest place to sit if it crashes.’

‘Business class is right up front,’ he said.

‘Uh oh. In most crashes the first eleven rows get pulverised.’

‘Mia, your father doesn’t need to hear about being pulverised,’ Kate said. ‘How do you even know what pulverised means?’

Mia shrugged. ‘Internet.’

‘She figured out how to switch off the parental lock again,’ Kate said. ‘Our daughter the hacker.’

John leaned back on his elbows and looked over to his left, beyond the screen of his laptop. Kate was struck with an odd and completely unfounded impression that he wasn’t alone. She put it down to paranoia.