Page 1 of The Puck Stops Here

IN THE BEGINNING

CHICAGO, O’HARE AIRPORT, 21 DECEMBER

Astrid Sinclair merrily hummed along to Dean Martin’s ‘Let it Snow’ as she sauntered through O’Hare airport… Okay, so sauntered didn’t quite capture the shoulder-barging, bag-negotiating affair that was truly going on.

The place was rammed. Stuffed with grumpy passengers thanks to the DELAYED status littering the screens overhead. Caused by the – yes, you guessed it – snow.

So much snow, good old Dean would be proud.

And so was Astrid. Because it meant she wasn’t going anywhere just yet. And every minute spent on US soil was another minute out of the UK where her mother, her mother’s fresh squeeze, and an endless sea of questions about her daughter’s ‘latest failed relationship’ awaited.

And that was a topic-cum-man Astridneverwanted to explore again.

Especially when it wasthattime of the month, her PMDD – Premenstrual Dysphoric Disorder for those in want of a mouthful – choosing to visit right along with Santa.

So yup, she was more than happy to enjoy the sprinkling of Christmasthisside of the Atlantic for as long as humanly possible.

‘Do you have to?’

‘Excuse me?’

Some guy was giving her the evils. The woman next to him wasn’t looking too chipper either. Though theydidhave two toddlers in tow and a screaming bairn strapped to said woman’s bosom. Astrid winced.Rather you than me.

‘The whole humming thing?’ the guy said. ‘It’s a bit much…’

She backed away, zipping her lips with her fingers and tossing an imaginary key over her shoulder as she went. He probably thought she was bonkers, but she wasn’t about to join in the frenzy. If her journalistic idol Gay Talese could make Frank Sinatra with a cold work for his creative juices, she could make a snow-crazed airport do the same for her. All she needed was a teeny tiny space to squeeze her butt and her laptop into and the words would flow.

But finding such a teeny tiny space in one of the country’s busiest airports amidst the city’s worst snowstorm in decades was proving to be as rare as unicorn poop – the stuff of pink magic.

‘Miss?’

A woman burst through the heaving bodies, a bona fide puff of saidpink.

Pink hair, pink lippy, pink clothes – pink!

Blinded, Astrid leapt back, taking out a crisp-looking guy in a suit who soon perked up when she gave him the dazzles –a smile she had perfected thanks to a lifetime of clutzy mishaps.

She waved him away as Ms Pink closed in once more…

‘We have 10 per cent off at Just Desserts!’

She thrust out a fuchsia pink flyer in an equally pink talon-tipped hand.

‘What’s that?’

‘A dessert bar just around the corner.’ The woman smiled, her sparkling warmth as welcome as the DELAYED stamp on Astrid’s flight. ‘We do cocktails too!’

‘Now you’re talking…’

Astrid snapped up the flyer and scanned its contents, her eyes bugging out at the array of cocktail-themed cakes and cake-themed cocktails –yum!

‘Doubt I’ll get a seat though; every man and his wife must’ve set up camp in there.’

‘You could be lucky,’ the woman said with a wink, her bright pink hair too unicorn to ignore, and Astrid laughed.

‘I’ll check it out. Thank you.’

Ms Pink wasn’t wrong. Round the corner, standing loud and pinky-proud in the middle of two thoroughfares, was Just Desserts. Not only that, but smack bang in the centre was her bright and shiny luck – a table, freshly cleaned and gleaming.

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