I give up. We’ll have to have a big chat at some time—but not now.

“Of course you can.” I ruffle his hair. “But, listen. No more chatting to strangers. You know that.”

“That lady wasn’t a stranger,” he points out reasonably. “She had a badge, so I knew her name. It was Cheryl.”

Sometimes the logic of a seven-year-old is undefeatable. We return to our seats and I sit him firmly down next to me.

“Look at your sticker book and do not move.” I take out my BlackBerry and polish off a few quick emails. I’ve just agreed to an entire supplement on Arctic holidays when I pause, frowning. Something has attracted my attention. The top of a head, behind a newspaper. A dark crest of hair. Long-fingered, bony hands turning a page.

No way.

I stare, riveted, until he turns another page and I catch a glimpse of cheekbone. It’s him. Sitting five yards away, a small travel bag at his feet. What the fuck is he doing here?

Don’t tell me he’s had the same idea as me.

As he turns yet another page, looking calm and unruffled, I start to feel a burning anger. This is all his fault. I’ve had to disrupt my life, take my son out of school, and stress out all night, simply because he couldn’t keep his mouth shut. He was the one who went blundering in. He caused all this. And now here he is, looking as cool and relaxed as though he’s off on holiday.

His phone rings, and he puts down his paper to answer.

“Sure,” I can hear him saying. “I’ll do that. We’ll discuss all those issues. Yes, I know there’s a time factor.” Strain appears in his face. “I know this is not ideal. I’m doing the best I can in tricky circumstances, OK?” There’s a pause as he listens, then replies, “No, I’d say not. Need to know only. We don’t want to start the rumor mill.… OK. Right. Talk to you when I get there.”

He puts his phone away and resumes reading the paper, while I watch with growing resentment. That’s right. Lean back. Smile at a joke. Have a good time. Why not?

I’m glaring at him so hard, I feel I might start burning holes in the paper. An elderly lady sitting next to him picks up on my glare and eyes me nervously. I smile at her quickly, to indicate that it’s not her I’m livid with—but this seems to freak her out even more.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “But … is something wrong?”

“Wrong?” says Lorcan, misunderstanding and turning to her. “No, nothing’s wrong—” He catches sight of me and starts in surprise. “Oh. Hello.”

I wait for him to add a fulsome, groveling apology, but he seems to feel this greeting is enough. His dark eyes meet mine, and with no warning I have a flashback: a blurred moment of skin and lips from the middle of that night. His hot breath on my neck. My hands clutching his hair. The color comes to my cheeks and I glare at him even more venomously.

“Hello?” I echo. “Is that all you can say? ‘Hello’?”

“I guess we’re headed to the same place?” He puts his newspaper down and leans forward, his face suddenly intent. “Are you in touch with them? Because I have to talk to Ben, urgently. I have documents for him to sign. I need him to be at the hotel when I arrive. But he won’t pick up when I call. He’s avoiding me. He’s avoiding everything.”

I stare at him in disbelief. All he’s concerned with is some business deal. What about the fact that his best friend has married my sister in a totally stupid knee-jerk gesture caused by him?

“I’m in touch with Lottie. Not Ben.”

“Huh.” He frowns and turns back to the paper. How can he read the paper? I feel deeply, mortally offended that he can concentrate on the sports pages when he’s created such a mess.

“Are you OK?” He peers up at me. “You seem a little … fixated.”

I’m simmering all over with rage. I can feel my head prickling; I can feel my fists clenching. “Funnily enough, no,” I manage. “I’m not OK.”

“Oh.” He glances at the paper yet again, and something inside me snaps.

“Stop looking at that!” I leap up and grab it from his hands before I’m fully aware of what I’m doing. “Stop it!” I crumple the paper furiously and throw it on the floor. I’m panting and my cheeks are blazing.

Lorcan stares at the paper, apparently bemused.

“Mummy!” says Noah, in delighted shock. “Litterbug!”

All the other airline passengers have turned to stare at me. Great. And now Lorcan is gazing up at me too, dark brows drawn together, as though I’m some inscrutable mystery.

“What’s the problem?” he says at last. “Are you pissed off?”

Is he joking?

“Yes!” I erupt. “I am a little pissed off that, after I had sorted out the whole situation with Ben and my sister, you had to go barging in and wreck it!”

I can see the truth slowly dawning on his face. “You’re blaming me?”

“Of course I’m blaming you! If you’d said nothing, they wouldn’t be married!”

“Uh-uh.” He shakes his head adamantly. “Incorrect. Ben’s mind was made up.”

“Lottie said it was because of you.”

“Lottie was wrong.”

He’s not going to back down, is he? Bastard.

“All I know is, I’d sorted the situation,” I say stonily. “I’d managed it. And then this happened.”

“You thought you’d sorted it,” he corrects me. “You thought you’d managed it. When you know Ben as well as I do, you’ll realize that his mind flips direction like a fish. Previous agreements count for nothing. Agreements to sign crucial, time-sensitive documents, for example.” There’s a sudden irritation in his voice. “You can pin him down all you like. He still slips away.”

“That’s why you’re here?” I glance at his briefcase. “Just for these documents?”

“If Muhammad won’t come to the mountain, the mountain has to cancel all his plans and get on a plane.” His phone bleeps with a text and he reads it, then starts typing a reply. “It would really help me if I could talk to Ben,” he adds as he types. “Do you know what they’re doing?”

“Couples’ Quiz,” I reply.

Lorcan looks baffled, then types some more. Slowly, I sit down. Noah has descended onto the floor and is making a hat out of Lorcan’s newspaper.

“Noah,” I say, without conviction. “Don’t do that. My son,” I add to Lorcan.

“Hello,” says Lorcan to Noah. “Nice hat. So, you never told me. What are you doing here, exactly? Joining the happy couple, I assume. Do they know?”

The question takes me off guard. I sip the water, my mind working hard.

“Lottie asked me to go out there,” I lie at last. “But I’m not sure if Ben knows yet, so don’t mention that you’ve seen me, OK?”

“Sure.” He shrugs. “A little odd, asking your sister to join you on honeymoon. Isn’t she having a good time?”

“Actually, they’re thinking of renewing their vows,” I say in sudden inspiration. “Lottie wanted me there as a witness.”

“Oh, please.” Lorcan scowls. “What kind of shit idea is that?”

His tone is so dismissive, I find myself getting irritated.

“I think it’s rather a nice idea,” I contradict him. “Lottie’s always wanted a ceremony by the sea. She’s quite a romantic.”

“I’m sure.” Lorcan nods as though digesting this, then looks up, deadpan. “What about the ponies? Is she having those?”

Ponies? I peer at him blankly. What on earth—

Matching ponies. Great. So he did hear me yesterday morning. My face fills with blood, and just for an instant I feel myself losing my cool.

The way to deal with this, I swiftly decide, is to be direct. We’re grown-ups. We can acknowledge an embarrassing situation and move on. Exactly.

“So. Um.” I clear my throat. “Yesterday morning.”

“Yes?” He leans forward, with mock interest. He’s not going to make this easy for me, is he?

“I don’t know exactly what you …” I try again. “Obviously I was talking on the phone to my sister when you came into the room. And what you heard was totally out of context. I mean, you’ve probably forgotten what I said. But just in case you haven’t, I wouldn’t want you to … misinterpret anything.…”

He’s not paying me any attention. He’s taken out a notepad and is writing on it. So rude. Still, at least that means I’m off the hook. I offer the water bottle to Noah, who sips absentmindedly, his attention fixed on his newspaper hat. Then I look up as Lorcan taps me on the shoulder. He hands me his notepad, on which are lines of writing.

“I believe I have a good memory for words,” he says politely. “But please correct me if any of it is wrong.”

As I read the lines, my jaw drops in dismay.

Small. Seriously, tiny. The whole night was such an ordeal. I had to pretend I was having a good time, and all along … No. Terrible. And afterward wasn’t much better. I feel ill at the very thought. In fact, I might throw up. And then Lorcan will never love me, and we’ll never get married in a double wedding on matching ponies.

“Look,” I manage at last, my face puce. “I didn’t mean … that.”

“Which bit?” He raises his eyebrows.

Bastard. Does he think this is funny?

“You know as well as I do,” I begin icily, “that those words were taken out of context. They didn’t refer to …” I trail off as a growing hubbub attracts my attention. It’s coming from the desk. Two air hostesses are remonstrating with a man in a linen shirt and chinos, who’s trying to squash a suitcase into the hand-baggage measuring stand. As he raises his voice angrily to answer, I realize it’s familiar.

He turns, and I quell a gasp of shock. I thought so: it’s Richard!

“Sir, I’m afraid the case is clearly too big for the cabin.” A woman from the airline is addressing him. “And it’s too late to check it in now. Might I suggest that you wait and catch a later flight?”