From London With Love

24 | the way we love now

Ophelia was going to murder the check-in assistant.

It wasn't that — Ophelia glanced at the woman's name-tag — Rebecca was doing anything wrong, exactly. She was right; Ophelia's bag was overweight. It was just that Rebecca insisted on smiling while she delivered the news, her candy red nails tapping away merrily on the keyboard.

"I'm sorry," she repeated. "You'll have to pay extra."

"But it's half a kilogram!"

"I'm sorry."

"Please," Ophelia said desperately. "Surely you can waive the fee?"

She was down to her last thirty quid. She had planned to use it to buy an egg sandwich and a book before her flight, but alas — Rebecca was immovable.

"I'm so sorry, ma'am." Her nails clicked some more. "Do you want to take a moment to think about it? Maybe just to the side, there?"

Her voice was pointed. Ophelia could see the line-up of angry passengers forming behind her, and heat flooded her cheeks. "How much will it cost?"

"That will be an additional forty pounds."

Tears pricked at her eyes. Oh, hell. Well Ophelia could hardly afford that, could she? She glanced down at her bulging black suitcase. She'd simply have to part with some of her books.

She tried to cheer herself up. Maybe her books would be picked up by some passing traveler. Yes; that would be fun. They could find new homes on the Italian coast, or an exotic beach somewhere—

"Ma'am?"

Rebecca was still smiling that infuriating smile. Ophelia gripped her baggage handle, trying to resist the urge to punch her in the face.

"Yes," she muttered. "Understood. Thanks."

She stepped to the side, and a harried-looking man charged forward, slapping his passport on the counter. He shot Ophelia a dirty look as she retreated.

She slumped in a chair, putting her face in her hands.

Oh, god.

Tears were coming now, hot and fast. She had that terrible choking sensation in her chest, and she pinched the skin on the back of her hand. No. No, no, no. She wasn't about to sob in this airport; she couldn't let Rebecca have the satisfaction.

Although it wasn't all Rebecca's fault.

Ophelia missed home. She missed who she was before London, before she gave up believing in love and happy endings. And most of all, she missed Andrew.

She swallowed. He had probably proposed to Eleanora, by now. The thought made her entire heart ache, as if someone had crushed the delicate organ between two blocks, like books packed too tightly on a shelf.

This was what heartbreak felt like; not the absence of love, but rather too much of it.

Not that there was any use dwelling on it, Ophelia thought firmly, swiping at her eyes. No. She needed to sort out her books, and then get on the plane. She unzipped her bag, rifling through them. She could leave Thackeray, maybe. And George Eliot. And—

"Attention! Can I have your attention, please?"

She froze, glancing around. Hang on. She knew that voice. It sounded almost exactly like—

"Ophelia! Where are you?"

She stood up, startled. "Andrew?"

Ophelia couldn't see him, though; several other passengers had stopped to stare as well, their gazes cast towards the ceiling, and it took a moment for her to understand. She clapped a hand to her mouth.