***
Sophie hands the flight attendant her breakfast tray across Mike O’Brien’s head and rolls out a blueprint across the flip-down table. She scans the plans of London’s Millennium Pavilion, remembering inking every line, every vertical, diagonal and horizontal. A Point One pen for the glass and the finer details, Point Three for the interior structure, and the heftier Point Five for the concrete exterior structure.
She has to get this job. The teenage summers given up to advanced calculus courses at the expense of the art courses she’d preferred, the seven years of study and internships, the slog jobs making coffees and photocopies, then the better jobs, then winning the commission to design the Millennium Pavilion, and – she still can’t believe it’d actually happened – the call from Richard Niven’s New York office to come for an interview. Everything she’d ever done had led to this moment. Her life was about to change. She could feel it. All she had to do was ace the interview and the presentation. No pressure.
The plane drops suddenly and veers sharply to the right before levelling out. Sophie looks out the window. Blue sky, clouds and miles of white-tipped water. Just another ordinary day.
The intercom bell dings.
‘This is your captain. Sorry about that, ladies and gentlemen. An, um, an instrument problem has arisen and I’m afraid we need to divert to the nearest airport, in Gander, Newfoundland, to have it checked. It’s nothing serious, but regulations state we must have it looked at before continuing on our onward journey. We’ll give you more information once we land. The seatbelt signs have been switched on, so please buckle up. Apologies for the inconvenience. We’ll have you on your way as quickly as possible.’
An instrument problem? Seriously? Sophie glances at her watch. Nine forty-five. The interview wasn’t until tomorrow, but still. She’d planned everything so carefully to get there early so she’d have time to practise her presentation and get a good sleep.
‘Don’t worry, hon,’ Mike says, patting her on her knee. ‘These kinda things happen all the time. Nothin’ to worry about.’
‘It’s not that. I have an important meeting to get to.’
Bob leans across Mike’s girth. ‘Don’t worry, sweetheart. You’ll make it. We’ll be outta here in a shot. Like Mikey here says, nothin’ to worry about. We’ll be in New York by lunch, you can bet on it.’
‘Right. Thanks.’ She shuts her eyes, willing the butterflies bashing around her stomach to settle. Just a minor hiccup, Soph. Nothing to worry about. Take a chill pill.
Half an hour later the aeroplane begins its descent. Sophie peers out the window. The flat, grey roof of an airport building a fraction of the size of Heathrow comes into view below, a grey island in an ocean of trees. About twenty aeroplanes, parked in an orderly row, gleam like silver arrows on the tarmac.
The plane bounces onto the runway and breaks to a gradual stop. Sophie watches out the window as it taxis towards the queue of aeroplanes. Her eyes travel over the bright logos. British Airways, Alitalia, Delta, Virgin, United, Northwest, and others she can’t identify. Another plane, a Lufthansa, glides in to land, while far above, the sun glints on the silver wings of an airliner circling in the September sky.
She glances at Mike who is straining to look over her shoulder. ‘There are over twenty planes out there.’
The intercom bell dings again.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, you must be wondering if all these aeroplanes around us have the same instrument problem as we have. The reality is that we’re here for another reason. We have received a report through our communication lines that there is an armed threat at the World Trade Center in New York. We’ve been advised that international airspace over North America has been shut down and all flights diverted to the nearest airports. We’re to stay on the plane until further notice.’
The World Trade Center? Richard Niven’s office was only a few blocks away. Sophie pulls her phone out of her bag and taps out the number for the office. Nothing. She tries again. Not even a dial tone. She looks out the window. A faint breeze rustles through the green-black evergreens in the distance. The metallic aeroplanes waver under the bright sun like a mirage in a desert oasis. A blackbird lands on an aeroplane wing. It opens its beak, but the song is silent through the thick glass.
Norwich, England – 27 July 1940
Dottie Burgess leans her elbows on the vanity table, watching her sister pucker her lips into the mirror and slick on red lipstick.
‘Can I try?’
Ellie laughs at the reflection of her sister’s inquisitive face in the mirror. Sharp-chinned and curious, just like their cat, Berkeley Square. ‘You’re not even twelve yet.’
Dottie reaches out for the lipstick. ‘Please?’
Ellie twists the tube closed and slides on the brass cap. ‘No. It’s my last lipstick and Buntings hasn’t got any more in stock right now.’ She waves the brass tube at her sister. ‘This might have to last me till the end of the war.’
‘Milly’s mum’s started using beet juice. Her fingers are all stained red from it.’
‘Well, that’s just silly, isn’t it?’
‘Milly’s mum says “Needs must”.’
Ellie taps Dottie on her nose with her powder puff. ‘Here, have a go with this. Powder your nose.’
Dottie leans into the mirror and dabs the powder puff over the three freckles on her nose. ‘I thought that meant you had to go to the loo.’
‘It does. It’s a euphemism.’
‘A eupha—eupha—’
‘Euphemism. You say it so you don’t have to say “toilet” or “loo”. It’s more polite.’
‘But it’s a fib. Father McAuley says fibs are a sin.’
‘Well, it’s only a little sin. Say two Hail Marys and you’ll be fine.’
Dottie hands back the powder puff and picks up the large white-bristled brush with its gleaming mother-of-pearl handle. Edging onto the stool beside Ellie, she unclips her pink plastic hair buckle and drags the brush through her long brown hair.
Ellie watches her sister in the mirror. Dark hair and eyes. So like their mother. Wilful like their mother too. Ellie had loved watching their mother, Winnifred, brush her long, chestnut-coloured hair with the same brush in the evenings. One hundred strokes. Always one hundred exactly. They’d count together.
‘Here, Dottie. Let me do it.’ She stands behind Dottie and runs the brush through the fine brown strands until her sister’s hair gleams.
‘Is George picking you up?’
‘If he’s finished his shift at the ack-ack guns in time. Otherwise I’ll meet him and Ruthie at the hall.’
Dottie frowns into the mirror. ‘I don’t like this war.’
‘Nobody does, honey.’
‘Don’t you worry about George being by the guns? He’s awfully brave, isn’t he?’
‘George is very brave indeed. There’s no need to worry about him. He’s very careful. He’s lucky he didn’t have to go over to Europe with the others. I feel much safer knowing he’s here, don’t you?’
‘I