Page 75 of The Two Lives of Lydia Bird

‘That one,’ I say, gripped.

‘But it’s full, I’m afraid,’ he says, arranging his features into a sympathetic smile.

I’m crushed. I’ve known about the flight for less than thirty seconds, and already it’s a missed opportunity.

The attendant checks his watch. ‘The next flight after that is at two nineteen, but it’s to Goa.’

He looks at me as if that might be a deal breaker, but whether it’s Delhi or Goa makes no difference to me. ‘Is there a seat?’

A few more taps, a thoughtful twist of his mouth, and then a decision. ‘There is.’

My credit card is out of my bag and on the desk before I speak again. ‘I’ll take it.’

For the smallest of microseconds, his ultra-professional expression falters. ‘You’re sure now?’

‘Do I look like someone who isn’t sure?’ I ask. ‘I have a suitcase and my passport right here.’

‘And your visa is in order?’

My heart sinks. ‘I need a visa to go to India?’

His sympathetic expression is laced with irritation now. ‘Of course, but you can obtain it easily online.’

I have my phone in my hand, hopeful again. ‘Now? I could do that now?’

‘You certainly could, madam, but it takes two days to process.’

I could cry. In fact, I think I’m horribly close to it as I slide my credit card back into my purse.

‘Thanks, anyway,’ I say, shaking my head. ‘But I need to get away tonight.’

He looks genuinely regretful as I wheel my case away, probably at the loss of commission.

The next desk is one of the major holiday operators with their own airline, so I drag my case up to the bored-looking girl behind the desk and, wiser from my India disappointment, I try a new, more targeted tack.

‘I’d like the next available seat on the next available flight to a warm country that doesn’t require a visa, please.’

Her eyes open wide behind her cat’s-eye glasses.

‘Right,’ she says, clicking her mouse to bring her computer to life as she shoves the sandwich she’d been eating in her drawer. Looking up at the clock on the wall, she makes a clicking noise behind her teeth, thinking.

‘You could just about make the Majorca flight, the desk closes in ten minutes,’ she says. I know I said the next seat on the next flight, but I’ve been to Majorca in the past and it summons Freddie memories I don’t need right now.

‘What’s next after that one?’ I ask.

She gives me an ever so slightly cynical look over her glasses before she checks, as if she half admired my opening boldness and I’ve let her down by being picky.

‘Ibiza at twenty past one.’

‘I was hoping for somewhere a bit less touristy,’ I say.

‘Have you been there before?’

I shake my head.

‘It might surprise you. There are different sides to the island, it’s not party central outside of San Antonio. Or you could always hop over to Formentera if you’re looking for somewhere a bit more hippy.’

I’m caught in indecision as she taps her long dark-blue fingernails on the keyboard again and narrows her eyes.

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