"Passengers Williams, Conrad, and Grenville-Temple, Fiona, flying to London on flight EK029. Please contact the Emirates information desk."

Fiona looked up from her phone trying to recall what the clipped, impersonal voice said. Did she just hear her name? She knitted her brow, concentrating, but the announcement wasn't repeated. The only way to find out was to visit the information desk. Reluctant to leave her seat in a quiet corner of the busiest airport of the world, she unplugged the charger of her phone, shouldered her backpack, and braved the masses of travellers.

The long hall of the Dubai flight terminal resembled a huge cathedral, a temple of technology with its polished white stone floors, curved ceiling, and enormous windows. People of all colours and ages populated the terminal like bustling ants, each focused on their own business and ignoring the others.

With a sigh, Fiona dived into the stream of bodies to search for the information desk. To think that before the pandemic, far more passengers had crowded this hub every day was mind-boggling.

After five minutes, she cursed whoever designed an airport like a shopping mall. She didn't want to buy new shoes or a handbag. And she couldn't with her meagre teacher's salary from a poor country. She might go back to the fancy bookstore later but, right now, she only needed to find the Emirates information desk.

One hundred meters and two collisions with stressed, luggage-loaded strangers later, she spotted the bright red sign. Relief loosened the hard knot in her stomach. At least the queue was short. The employee of the airline handed some papers to a dark-haired man, explaining something in Arabic. His wife, wearing a pale pink hijab, walked up and down and hummed a quiet tune to her sleeping baby. When she caught Fiona watching, she smiled. Avoiding the curious glance of the red-haired stranger who was next in line, she then followed her husband down the hall.

Now, only the redhead stood in front of Fiona. He stepped up to the desk while brushing his too-long hair behind his ears. "Hey, I'm Conrad Williams. I think you called my name."

"Ah, yes, Mister Williams. Thank you for contacting us. There was a problem with your booking."

A cheery ringtone prevented Fiona from following the conversation. She searched her bag for the battered smartphone and accepted the call. "Mum?"

"Fiona, my dear, thanks for your mail. I thought I'd call you instead of writing. How are you?" Her mother sounded upbeat, much better than the last time she'd called her. When had this been?

"Nice to hear from you, Mum, but I'm standing in a queue at the airport. Not sure how long I can talk."

"Oh, you're on the way already? When will you arrive in London?"

"I should be there tomorrow morning, if all goes well. How about you? Can we meet?" She hadn't seen her mother since the funeral of her father, four years ago. Of course, the pandemic had further complicated their relationship.

"Ah, I can't hop to London on such short notice, dear. You know how it is."

Fiona knew. Both her parents had been workaholics as long as she could remember. Until her father died of a heart attack. She sighed. "How's work, then?"

Her mother laughed. Fiona wondered when she had last heard that sound. "It's satisfying. You know I love helping people, just like your father did. By the way, I might have met someone." The voice at the other end of the line sounded hesitant now.

Fiona took a deep breath. Nothing would bring her father back, and if her mother remained single, this would just make her unhappy. "I'm glad for you, Mum. Is he nice?"

Another laugh. "Of course he is. He's Spanish, works at the headquarters of Caritas, too. Why don't you drop by when you're in Europe and we go out for dinner together?"

"I might, once I've found out what Grandpa wants from me." The moment of silence at the other end spoke for itself. In her mind, Fiona could almost see her mother's left eye twitch while she ran a hand through her beautiful black curls, inherited from her Zimbabwean ancestors.

A sigh. "Ah, Paul. I haven't seen him since George's funeral. Tell him... no, don't tell him anything. Just call me if you come to Madrid, will you, dear?"

The redhead at the counter took a ticket from the employee, picked up his travel bag, and moved on, a frown on his stubbled face. It was Fiona's turn. "I will, Mum, promise. But I have to go now. Talk to you soon."

She cut the call before her mother could protest and stepped up to the desk. "Hey, I'm Fiona Grenville-Temple. I think you called me?"

The slender woman behind the desk produced a weak semblance of a smile. "Ah, Miss Grenville-Temple. I'm sorry to inform you there was a problem with your booking."

"Damn." Conrad resisted the urge to crumple the replacement ticket he had received.

This wasn't going well. The mousy employee had informed him about a glitch with his booking, and the airline was sorry to inform him there was no room for him on his scheduled flight to Heathrow. He had the possibility of staying in a hotel room and taking the flight tomorrow, or continuing to any other destination in Europe, if there was a seat available.

If he wanted to keep his appointment on October the eleventh, he had no choice but to take the next flight to Europe — to Zurich, Switzerland, in this case. Conrad had never been there. But when he explained to the airline employee he needed to be in Carnac the day after tomorrow, she had only shrugged and watched him with big doe eyes, asking what Carnac was. As soon as he mentioned France, she suggested Zurich as an option, insisting Switzerland was next door.

Which was a fact. Another fact was that the next flight to Paris was fully booked. And if he waited until tomorrow, he would miss his dawn appointment with Amanda Lewis.

So, instead of flying to London, where a rental car awaited him for the drive to mainland Europe, he accepted the ticket to Zurich, to the obvious relief of the young woman behind the desk. Which left him with the job of finding out how to travel from Zurich to Carnac.

He stopped to admire the modern airport architecture and took a calming breath. No need to stress about something he couldn't change. He had a long history of dealing with unexpected changes of plans, after all. His whole life was a change of plans. To think he ended up as a hired helper in shady businesses instead of working in his beloved field of archaeology... and he had graduated with flying colours, too. Well, there was no use in fretting over spilt milk. Instead, he bought a coffee and a sandwich at Paul's and settled at a small table in the French bakery's dining area. At least the airport offered a decent Wi-Fi connection.

Half an hour later, and still well ahead of boarding, he had worked out his options. To his surprise, the train ride from Zurich to Carnac took only five hours, whereas the journey time from London amounted to at least eight hours by train - longer by car. Wondering why his boss-to-be sent him to London in the first place, he opened his mailbox to reread Amanda Lewis' travel instructions.

I bought a ticket to London, where you can either rent a car or take the train to Carnac in Brittany, France. While a flight to Paris might be shorter, I don't trust the French. They'll probably be on strike as usual, and I cannot accept any delay.

Well, there he had the reason. Miss Lewis seemed to be a biased person. Perhaps the booking glitch played out in his favour in the end. He might even reach Carnac a few hours early, if all went well, and he didn't even need to add another flight to his journey to hop from Zurich to Paris.

Satisfied, he logged into the site of the Swiss national railway to book a ticket.

Fiona found a seat in the departure lounge for the flight to Zurich and opened her laptop. She needed to tell her grandfather her flight plan had changed and she might arrive in London later than expected. In her inbox, a message from Nkosilathi awaited.

Hey Fiona, you're probably already in Great Britain when you read this. Whatever your grandfather wants of you, I just want to tell you, girl, you got this. Good luck and take care.

Your friend, Nkosi.

She typed a quick response, smiling at the thought of her worried friend.

Hey Nkosi, thanks for the pep talk. I'm still in Dubai but will give you an update once I know more. All the best, and give my greetings to Elaine and the kids.

Fiona

Her finger hovered over the send button for a moment. Should she tell him about her fears that Grandpa Paul might be close to dying? Or was this just her wild imagination, and he had a much less alarming reason to call her? Nkosi would probably tell her not to over-dramatise things. She pressed send.

Her fellow teacher had become such a wonderful friend and an important part of her life. Sometimes, she wished there could have been more than friendship between them. But first, he was already engaged, and with a wonderful woman too. Fiona would never think of intruding in their relationship. And second, she had sworn to herself she'd not get close to a man again. Not after Damian. That epic disaster had left her feelings bruised and her self-esteem in the basement. Perhaps even deeper.

She pushed the thoughts of her cheating ex aside and glanced around the hall. The seats in the waiting area were mostly taken now, with boarding imminent. Two rows farther down from her place, a blonde woman had stacked several bags with a duty-free logo on the seat beside her and ignored the pleading glances of an elderly man leaning on his walking stick. Fiona shook her head and felt relief when the stranger found a place at the end of the row.

Now, a young man stopped in front of the blonde and talked to her. Fiona wondered where she had seen him before. The rather long and red hair was a giveaway. This was the stranger from the information desk. What had been his name? William? Or Wilfred?

The blonde blushed a deep red and removed her bags to make room for the redhead. Fiona shook her curls. Just another womaniser, and of course the blonde was happy to have his attention. She devoured his every word and didn't complain when he placed a hand on her knee.

Disgusted, Fiona pulled out Grandpa's letter to reread it for the umpteenth time. The paper had already frayed at the edges, but she still couldn't imagine what was urgent enough to pay her flight to London.

The roaring of the plane's engines multiplied while the giant wheels thundered over the runway and the bird took up speed. Conrad's fingers cramped around the armrests of his seat and he closed his eyes, counting and breathing through his face mask. It was his bad luck that instead of the nice, opulent German girl from the waiting area, now an elderly Arabic man occupied the seat beside him. His attempt at a chat had been cut short and he had to deal on his own with his anxiety during takeoff and landing.

His fear of flying was not bad enough to stop him from doing his job, of course. But if he was brutally honest with himself, it got worse each time he sat down in an airplane seat.

The rumbling stopped when the wheels lost contact with the runway, but Conrad wasn't ready to relax. Not until the plane stopped banking.

"Are you alright, sir?" The soft timbre of the stewardess' voice and her peppermint-scented breath on his cheek made him pry open an eye.

The sight before him let him forget his anxiety and catapulted him back into the most charming version of himself. "I just don't fancy takeoff and landing. But I bet I'll be fine in your capable hands." He sent the dark-haired beauty in her beige uniform a wink — and was rewarded with a dazzling smile, revealing a row of pearly whites between plush, cherry-coloured lips matching her cute hat.

"Would you like to drink something? It might ease the tension and allow you to enjoy the flight."

"Sure, if you think it will help. What do you suggest as a remedy in my case?"

Her smile became even broader. "Let me surprise you. I'm sure you will feel better soon." She straightened when the man beside him addressed her and said something in Arabic. The smile faded to the usual professional mask as she answered in the same language and then hurried down the aisle. Had his neighbour scolded her?

At least the plane's movements had subsided now, and Conrad could pretend he was sitting in a car or train seat. Something without several miles of thin air between him and the solid ground.

Minutes later, the flight attendant returned with two glasses of water for the elderly couple and a flute of bubbly for himself. What a pleasant surprise. He lifted the glass — actual glass — to her in a toast and took in her well-formed curves, emphasised by her smart uniform. She outdid the German girl by far.

With the alcohol hitting his system, Conrad tried to catch up on some sleep. It worked, but only until dinner was served. He didn't feel hungry, but his personal angel in uniform convinced him to try the vegan substitute for chicken curry, courtesy of his future employer. He straightened his seat and poked the pieces of tofu in a runny sauce, but his stomach cramped at the mere thought of airline food. And when the plane hit some turbulence, he was definitely done for.

Conrad pushed his tray away as far as he could and lowered his seat to continue his interrupted sleep.

To Fiona's surprise, the chicken curry was quite good. She was halfway through and looking forward to the little chocolate tart when the seatrest in front of her slammed back, splattering her with the remains of her meal.

"Hey, what do you think you're doing?"

The bright yellow sauce now dotting Fiona's mauve blouse would leave horrible stains. Her outcry had been heard, though, and a pale, stubbled face appeared beside the seat rest, the reddish hair tousled and sweaty.

"What's the problem, lady?"

The stranger from the waiting hall. It was just her bad luck she had to sit behind another macho who thought everyone should roll over when he showed. Fiona fumed and opened her seatbelt to rush to the lavatory and clean up herself, but not without giving the man part of her mind. But before she stood, the flight attendant approached.

"Could you please sit down and tighten your seatbelt? We're crossing a zone of turbulence. Thank you so much, madam." She turned to the passenger in front of her and gave him a honey-dripping smile. "Are you fine, sir? Can I bring you something?"

Fiona didn't catch his answer, but the woman floated away without another glance at her. She rubbed at the stains with a finger dipped into her water cup. The South African woman beside her offered her a napkin, together with friendly advice muttered in an unknown dialect. Fiona thanked her, glad for the support, even if this didn't help with the curry stains.

As soon as the trays were collected and the seat belt sign switched off, she hurried to the lavatory to attempt salvaging her blouse. It wouldn't do to show up like this at Grandpa's. Perhaps she could change in Heathrow, before driving into town? But it would be embarrassing to walk through the airport of Zurich looking like a tramp. With a lot of effort and a dozen napkins, she limited the damage to the best of her ability. Of course, her top was wet now and almost see-through.

With a sigh, she slipped it on again and studied herself in the mirror. The dark rings under her eyes would tell everyone she needed sleep. Otherwise, she looked fine. Just the few drops of curry on her glasses had to go. At least they were easier to clean than her blouse. A knock at the lavatory door made her flinch.

"Is everything fine in there?"

Fiona braced herself and opened the door. The dark-skinned male flight attendant took in her wet blouse with a barely suppressed smile.

Embarrassed, Fiona crossed her arms and nodded. "Wonderful, thank you."

He shrugged and let her pass. When she reached her seat, his female colleague was chatting with the William-guy again. The man was a tosser, but his laugh was infectious.

Ignoring him, she squeezed back into her seat. With his backrest reclined to the maximum, this was impossible without hitting her knee and sending a jolt through his seat. The flight attendant sent her a scalding glance.

Fiona shrank back and, for a moment, fought the welling tears. The whole situation brought back the Damian story again, despite her claim to be over it. Too much about the redhead reminded her of her ex. His easy-going manners, the way he made women melt under his gaze. Damian had sworn she was the only one for him — forever. Until the day she caught him with one of her classmates. And in the row afterwards, she learned this wasn't his only affair. It certainly helped her to decide about moving to Zimbabwe once she finished teacher training and got her certificate.

The woman beside her pulled a package of tissues from her bag and offered them to Fiona. She accepted, glad to have something to take her mind off the story. "Waita hako," she voiced her thanks in Shona. To her surprise, the woman understood.

Fiona spent the rest of the flight chatting with her seat neighbour from South Africa — even if both of them had only patchy knowledge of the Zimbabwean language. When they arrived in Zurich, she said goodbye to her new friend and moved to the transfer hall, happy to see William-whatever join the customs queue. At least she would never have to deal with him again.