Nigel tended to get his way because he always had statistics on his side. Besides, she knew, bless him, that he meant well, he had the best interests of his family at heart. So white it was. But one detail Nigel had overlooked, and which she teased him about mercilessly in the first weeks after they had got the new car, was that it would not fit in the garage of their house, near Hove Park, in the city of Brighton and Hove.
Well, that wasn’t strictly accurate. It did fit in the garage, but if you drove it in, it was impossible to open the doors, so the only way out would be through the sunroof — one of the options she had insisted on.
So the car became something she ribbed Nigel about, mercilessly. The big white elephant stuck on the driveway. But, she had to admit, it was comfortable, and inside you felt indestructible, like being in a tank.
It was Sunday night. The following Sunday, she thought, as she lay back against the headboard, flicking through the Style section of the Sunday Times, they would be luxuriating in that huge bed, beneath the soft, plump duvet, in Switzerland. Heaven! She could not wait, and her mind was too preoccupied with trying to remember all the things they must not forget to pack to concentrate on reading anything.
She kissed Nigel goodnight, switched off the light and snuggled down against the pillow, thinking, hiking boots, shorts, suntan lotion, nose block, sunhats…
The only downside to the holiday was the journey. She had never been happy about flying, even though Nigel had given her all the statistics, demonstrating to her that being in a commercial airliner was actually the safest place in the world — safer even than your own bed. But he could not convince her.
. . books, Kindle, swimsuits, insect repellent cream, first-aid kit…
There was a familiar rustling sound beside her. Nigel would never go to sleep on a Sunday night without having read the news and financial pages of every single one of the broadsheets. Every Sunday evening of their marriage she had fallen asleep to that sound.
Scrunch, she heard. Scrunch, scrunch, scrunch. Then the thud of a discarded supplement landing on the floor on his side of the bed.
Scrunch, rustle, rustle, rustle, rustle.
Then a different sound.
A strange, deep, pulsing thump, thump, thump in the distance. Getting closer and louder.
Suddenly she was engulfed in a vortex of swirling air. She saw a propeller spinning in front of her eyes.
She screamed. Her eyes snapped open. She snapped on the light, gulping down air.
Nigel, fast asleep, stirred and murmured, ‘Wasser? Wassermarrer?’
The bedside clock said 3.15 a.m.
‘It’s OK,’ she said, upset at having woken him: he had an early start every workday and needed his sleep, especially on a Sunday night so that he was fresh for the week ahead — and the week before going on holiday was always a stressful one for him. ‘I’m sorry — just had a nightmare.’
She kept the light on for some minutes, lying there. It was a still, early June night. There was a faint scratching sound outside — a cat or an urban fox rummaging in a rubbish bag. Slowly, her breathing calmed. She turned out the light, and fell asleep again a short while later.
The next night, Monday, Annie had the dream again. It was exactly the same, only this time the propeller was even larger, and came even closer. Again her screaming woke Nigel, and it set Zak off screaming too; but she managed to calm her son down by recovering his ‘night’ teddy, which had fallen on his bedroom floor, and he went back to sleep with one of its paws in his mouth.
On Tuesday night she had the dream again. This time the propeller came even closer still. And this time she snapped on her bedside light and she told Nigel. ‘This is the third night running. I think this dream is telling me something.’
‘What do you mean? Telling you what?’ he asked, more than a little grumpily. Then he looked at the clock. ‘Shit, 4 a.m.’
‘I think it’s a premonition,’ she said. ‘It’s telling us we shouldn’t fly.’
‘Oh, for Christ’s sake, Annie, it’s you being afraid of flying! You have a bad dream every time before we fly.’
‘Not like this one.’
‘Can I go back to sleep?’
‘Go back to sleep.’
On Wednesday night, although she had been frightened to turn the light out for a long while, Annie slept a deep, dreamless sleep and woke refreshed, feeling positive and optimistic. Even Zak, for a change, was in a happy mood, gleefully pushing his big yellow digger truck around the floor, and making the accompanying sound effects.
After she had dropped the two children off at their nurseries, she returned for the first client of the day, Samantha Hardy, the wife of a work colleague of Nigel, who also lived locally, and chatted to her excitedly about their holiday. Samantha told her about a wonderful restaurant near Geneva she and her husband had eaten in, and promised to text her the name that evening when he got home.
On Thursday night Annie dreamed she was in a cloud. Cold, grey tendrils brushed her face, icy air thrashed her blonde hair around her face, making it feel as hard as whipcords, and chilling her body to the core. She was shivering with cold and fear. In the distance a thump, thump, thump became increasingly louder. Louder. Louder. THUMP, THUMP, THUMP, THUMP. The roar of an engine rising to a crescendo. She was rocking from side to side and screaming, trying to keep her balance. Then the propeller was right in front of her face, thrashing, thrashing, coming at her, thrashing; suddenly the air gripped her in a vortex, spun her, hurtled her straight into the propeller.
‘Darling! Darling! Annie! Annie! Darling! Annie! Annie!’
Nigel’s voice, panicky, distant.
Darkness.
Then a light came on.
A warm, bright glow. She blinked.
She was in bed, Nigel staring at her in alarm. ‘Darling. Annie, darling, it’s OK. Calm down. You were having a nightmare, it’s OK.’
Zak was screaming across the landing.
She was shaking, her heart thudding; she could hear the roaring of her blood in her ears. She was soaking wet, she realized. Drenched. Rivulets of perspiration streamed down her face, mingling with her tears. ‘I’m sorry,’ she spoke in gulping sobs. ‘I’m sorry, Nigel, I can’t get on that plane on Saturday. Even if we get there safely, I’ll spend the whole week worrying about the flight home. I just can’t do it. I had the dream again. It’s telling me something.’
Her husband slipped out of bed, stomped out of the room and, uncharacteristically losing his temper, bellowed at Zak to shut up. It only made Zak’s screaming worse. Annie followed him in, found Zak’s night teddy on the floor again and gave it to him. Moments later he was calm once more. Then she stood for a while and stared at the little boy, thinking how deeply she loved him and Chloe. The thought of something happening to her — to her and Nigel — of never seeing them again. Of orphaning them. It was unbearable.
‘Planes don’t have propellers these days, Annie,’ he said. ‘Not large commercial planes. They haven’t for years — they’re all jets.’
‘I know about dreams,’ she replied. ‘I’ve read a lot. You dream in symbols. The propeller is the symbol. And anyhow, what about bird strikes? You read about those sometimes. There was a plane that had to land on the Hudson River in New York after a multiple bird strike. Do you remember, a few years ago?’
‘Yes, vaguely.’