The Little Brooklyn Bakery. Julie Caplin

Чтение книги онлайн.

       Chapter 2

      Her heart bumped uncomfortably as the Fasten Seatbelts sign blinked on. Too late now to change her mind. To wonder whether her snap decision had been too hasty.

      All around her people were gathering the belongings they’d spread around their seats on the seven-hour journey, packing up laptops and iPads, turning down corners of books, folding up blankets. Across the aisle through the window she could see lights twinkling, coming into sharper focus as the plane descended. Her ears popped, feeling full and heavy.

      With a thud and bounce, the wheels touched down, the roar of the engines going into reverse thrust as the plane decelerated. She was really here, with a purseful of dollars, an address in Brooklyn and a suitcase packed with a desperately slim wardrobe to tide her through the next six months. Had she even packed a warm jumper? Gloves? Didn’t New York get really cold in the winter?

      Still pondering the ineptitude of her packing, she forced out a tight goodbye to the smiling cabin crew, refusing to give in to the overwhelming temptation to grab one of them and beg to fly back to London with them on their return leg.

      It was tiredness, she told herself, as she tramped up the echoey tunnel, the floor bouncing slightly beneath her feet as the rumble of cases rebounded from the metal walls. Ahead there was so much to navigate, customs, a taxi, meeting strangers and a new home. For the last few hours she’d existed in an almost pleasant no-man’s-land limbo, not needing to think about anything beyond choosing which film to watch, whether to have the beef or chicken and how to break into the plastic packaging of the bread roll.

      Grasping the handle of her cabin bag as if it might give her some kind of magical courage, she followed the trail of people ahead, most of whom were head down with intent, clearly sure of where they were going. She rounded a corner and came into the huge passport area, instantly looking up at the American flag hanging from the ceiling. Nerves shimmered in her stomach. She knew all her paperwork was in order, but she’d heard horror stories about American customs. It wasn’t looking too good. Only a few of the booths were manned and the queue was enormous. As it snaked its way forward she gripped her passport tighter and tried to look innocent, an automatic response to the gun-carrying officials wearing stern, shoot-you-in-a-second-and-not-bat-an-eyelid expressions on their faces.

      By the time it was finally her turn, she felt exhausted but also irritated. The plane had landed nearly an hour and a half ago, her body clock was working on UK time and she was used to European indifference and laconic inspection. This lengthy eye-scanning, finger-printing process at silly o’clock, when her legs ached and she felt positively light-headed, was testing even her considerable reserves of Pollyanna-like amiability. Long minutes passed as the middle-aged customs officer scrutinised her passport with a stone-like expression, his greying eyebrows drawn together but separated by a trough of wrinkles. He looked at her, down at the passport and then back at her. Her stomach tightened. The spaced-out feeling in her head made her sway slightly. He looked back at the passport again.

      ‘Is this for real?’ he asked, his eyes widening as he once again looked at the passport and back at her. ‘Lady Sophie Amelia Bennings-Beauchamp.’ It took her a minute to attune to the heavy nasal American accent and then she nodded with a well-what-can-you-do smile and a tiny shrug.

      ‘D’ya have a tiara in your baggage?’ The direct question held a confusing combination of aggression and curiosity.

      Some imp of mischief made her say, very seriously, ‘Not this time. I tend not to travel with the family jewels.’

      ‘That so, ma’am. Or should I call you your ladyship?’

      ‘Sophie’s fine.’

      He looked appalled.

      ‘Or Miss Bennings,’ she added with a smile, pleased that she’d broken his scary official person’s expression.

      ‘Not Miss Bennings-Beauchamp.’ He pronounced it Bow-champ, leaving her wondering if she should explain that it was really Beecham, but she decided against it. Not at this time of night.

      She leaned forward and whispered, ‘I try and travel incognito. So, I stick to Miss Bennings. It’s easier that way.’