Picture Perfect. Holly Smale

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      I have a lot of things to do.

      Documentaries about turbulence to watch, crosswords to complete, key landmarks to look for out of the window, a long and confusing list of American spellings to learn.

      Unfortunately, Tabitha has other plans.

      I’d never realised she liked England so much, but she’s obviously quite attached. As soon as the air steward starts showing us the emergency exits, she starts yelling and doesn’t draw breath for the rest of the journey.

      Apparently women in Ancient Greece made blusher from a mixture of crushed mulberries and strawberries. By the time we land, seven hours later, Annabel is so flushed it looks like she’s made a bath of it and jumped straight in.

      “Tabitha,” she says firmly as we collect our bags from the overhead lockers. She wipes her forehead with her jumper sleeve. “I love you more than life itself, but if you scream again like that on public transport I will leave you in the hold, OK?”

      Tabby blinks at her with wide eyes, hissy-fit over.

      “Don’t give me that look, missy,” Annabel sighs. “I’ve had eleven years of practice with your father.”

      Dad leans over Tabitha. “She’s nailing it,” he says approvingly, tickling her tummy. “That’s my girl. Work that twinkle.”

      My sister squeaks and kicks her little legs like a frog attempting the high jump. An air steward stops by us in the aisle.

      “Oh ma Gahd,” she says, putting a hand on her chest. “Your baby is the cutest. Isn’t she just adorable? I could eat her up.”

      We look at Tabitha with narrow, exhausted eyes.

      Dad put her in a Union Jack onesie especially for the journey. Her red hair is all curly and fluffy, her cheeks are all pink, the toy rabbit I bought her is propped on her shoulder and she’s blowing enthusiastic bubbles like a tiny goldfish.

      Tabby does, indeed, look adorable.

      They were obviously working in a different part of the plane twenty minutes ago. There was an entirely different word for her then.

      “Please go for it,” Annabel says drily. “She goes well with ketchup and a bit of oregano.”

      The air steward’s eyes get very round. “Ha,” she says awkwardly. “Hahaha. You Brits are hilarious.”

      And then she hurries away as fast as possible.

      This is it, I realise as we push ourselves through the enormous, shiny JFK airport.

      It’s like we’ve just hit the restart button.

      It feels like London, except bigger. Glossier. Cleaner. The floors are sparkly and everything is ordered and in neat lines. There’s a twang in the air, and the biggest American flag I have seen in my life is hanging from the ceiling.

      We all stand and stare at it in silence.

      “Well,” Annabel says finally, “at least we don’t need to check that we’re in the right country.”

      “Unless it’s a trick,” Dad shrugs. “That would be pretty funny, right? Welcome to Australia! Hahaha GOTCHA!”

      “You have a nice day, now!” a lady in an airport outfit says chirpily as she walks past.

      “You too!” Dad shouts after her. “Thank you so much! How extremely thoughtful of you! Do you have anything fun planned?”

      She looks in alarm at the airport security.

      Well: safe-ish, anyway.

      Dad СКАЧАТЬ