He swears that he is.

'I owe you this, Claire,' he says, squeezing my arm. 'I won't let you do this on your own.'

'But won't it be-?'

'Awkward between us? No...I don't think it will.'

I sit up and take a deep breath. Michael takes hold of my hand.

'Book it.'

'You're sure?

I nod my head.

'Great,' he says, excitedly. 'It's the right thing to do. Shorty, what's your credit card number?'

The morning dissolves with the rush of it. We race back to London, grab spare underwear and pa.s.sports and I call up my family from the airport. My mother's not in. I leave a message. A woeful, inadequate message. Sylvie is home and she's furious. This is bulls.h.i.t, she says. You can't do this, she says. This is typical of you, to walk away. She doesn't buy the story. She thinks I've lost my mind. I should have discussed it with all of them first. Why am I in such a rush? Why can't it wait a couple more days? The trail's still warm, what does that mean?

And to top it all offmost important of allif anyone's going to look for him, it should be her her. I'm selfish, she tells me. I'm in cloud cuckoo land. It's cruel of me to raise everybody's hopes like this. I'm just doing it for attention. Do I realise that? Am I even aware of what I'm doing?

I don't get into it with her. I let her cold, flinty voice steam down the telephone line, and tune it out as best I can.

'I need Kay's number,' I say, when she pauses for a breath. 'The friend that she's staying with. I forgot my mobile phone, I left it back at the flat. I don't know her number off by heart.'

Sylvie is adamant. She won't give it to me. Fine, I say. I'll get it from Mum. Mum's gone up to Scotland for a few days, to rest. The stress of it all, the pain of new year; they've both gone to stay with Robert's brother. You're lying, I tell her. Mum wouldn't leave, not now. But it seems that she would and she has.

'What will you tell them?' I say, weakly. 'Where will you say that I've gone?'

A snort, disarmingly like my mother's.

'Easy, I'll tell them you've gone mad.'

She seems to think they'll believe this. She has no problem with this.

'I'll say you've got back with Michael, that he's taken you away. Who knows what your latest crazy plans are.'

My latest crazy plans. Perhaps she's right. I can feel every atom in my body twisting. This is the moment I almost crumble. Half of me knows the story I've just told Sylvie is true, but half of me thinks I made it up. The waitress, the Russian, the tramp ship; the mysterious, unproven affair. I want so badly to walk out of here, past the ticket lines and the check-in queues and the hyped up holidaymakers, and take a taxi back to my flat. I want this all to be over. Because I I can't do this, I'm not capable or responsible enough. At some vital stage, in some small but crushing way, I am duty bound to screw this up. can't do this, I'm not capable or responsible enough. At some vital stage, in some small but crushing way, I am duty bound to screw this up.

Michael is hovering behind me, frowning and tapping at his watch. He has our bag slung over his shoulder: a faded brown carry-all with a creased paper label and a broken zip, held together with a grungy strip of duct tape. For some reason the idea of our clothes being packed together in that same suitcase makes me sad. It's all wrong. It's dated. It's out of time. His pants and my knickers, his shaving foam and my make-up, his jazz CDs and my pulpy Russian novels. But he smiles at me and holds out his hand, encouraging me, beckoning me forward. I give in to the simplicity of Michael. He doesn't have questions, he doesn't have doubts; he's certain what we're doing is right.

A voice, thick and nasal, calls our flight number. I wonder if Sylvie hears it too.

'Aren't you going to wish me luck?' I ask her, quietly.

She lays down the phone and it clicks. She just can't bring herself to do it.

Blast off

If I Were Ever in a Coma

American airports smell of cheap coffee. It's the first thing that hits you when you step off the plane; burnt coffee grounds, bitter and thin, with all of the perfume knocked out of them.

'Coffee, I need a cup of coffee. f.u.c.k, I can hardly stay awake. How much longer is it going to be, now? It's been hours already. It feels like hours.'

The queue at immigration is growing restless. Rows fifty deep, exhausted and fierce, all vying for their turn at the desk. I hang back. I'm in no hurry to get to the front; I have no idea what I'm going to say. What are you doing in Miami? How long are you staying? What is your business in the city? Everyone seems to know the answer but me.

'Have you filled in your form right? Check that it's right. They send you to the back if you get any of it wrong.'

'It's fine, Michael. My form's all OK.'

'Check it, Claire. Check Check it. I'm not queuing up all over again.' it. I'm not queuing up all over again.'

Michael is grouchy from the flight and just to calm him down, I go through the pretence of checking through my form. I'm in better shape than he is. Unusually for me, I managed to grab a few hours' sleep on the plane, I even managed to dream. I dreamt of pelicans and peanuts and old Mr Kazman, and a beach covered over with snow. I was walking on the frozen sand with someone that I knew. Daniel? Michael? Sylvie? Dad? I had my swimming costume on. And a coat.

'This is us,' says Michael, anxiously. 'We're up next. But we shouldn't go through together. You go first.'

The officer barely looks at me while he stamps my pa.s.sport but he seems to be taking his time with Michael: asking him questions, listening to answers, flicking back and forth through his travel doc.u.ments. I cast my eyes around the arrivals hall while I wait for him. I don't recognise it, not exactly, but it all feels weirdly familiar. Perhaps we queued up at that same desk on the way in all those years ago. Perhaps we walked down these same corridors going out. Just the four of us. A family with a missing limb, a missing heartbeat; a family diminished and altered.

'Was there a problem?'

'No. Uh...no problem. He was giving me a hard time, that's all. I told him I was a musician, he was worried I was coming out here to work.'

After baggage claim and a cup of the bitter coffee, Michael seems a little cheered up.

'So,' he says, rubbing my neck. 'I have this idea. Did I tell you my idea, yet?'

I shake my head.

'OK, the thing is, we could could check into a hotel, but that would be expensive, right? We don't know how long we're going to be here. Could be a week, could be a month, maybe longer. We should try to save as much money as we can.' check into a hotel, but that would be expensive, right? We don't know how long we're going to be here. Could be a week, could be a month, maybe longer. We should try to save as much money as we can.'

'What are we meant to do, sleep on the street?'

'No, see, I have this friend, an acquaintance really. There's someone I know in Miami.'

'You didn't say anything.'

'Didn't I? No. Well, his name is Huey.'

'Where did you two meet? Are you in contact? Did you tell him about us coming out here?'

'No. But he'll be cool with it, though. We hooked up at a jazz festival in New York a couple of years ago. He has an apartment out on South Beach. He said if I was ever in Miami...'

'You should stop by?'

'Exactly.'

'Michael, people say say things like that all the time, but they don't actually mean it. We can't just drop in on him out of the blue.' things like that all the time, but they don't actually mean it. We can't just drop in on him out of the blue.'

'You're right, you're probably right. But what the h.e.l.l, it's worth a try.'

Michael gets out his diary and heads for the payphone. He shrugs his shoulders while he dials. I would never have the guts to do something like this, to impose on someone like this.

'We're all sorted,' he says, rubbing his hands together. 'He's going to meet us at his apartment in an hour.'

'You're sure?'

'Absolutely, Huey's cool. He's very easy going, you'll like him.'

There are a dozen more questions I want to ask, but I'm wilting now, I want to lie down. A bed, a floor, a mattress in someone's flat. Really, how bad can it be?

'So, you're OK with this? You're sure you don't mind?'

'No, Michael,' I say, 'I don't mind.'

It's early evening in Miami, but it's still hot and sticky outside. A mini winter heatwave has gripped the city pushing temperatures up into the nineties. The dense humidity takes hold of me as we exit the terminal, making me feel nauseous and sick. We climb into a taxi, Michael stowing our luggage safely on his lap, me clinging hard to my stomach. I clutch it tighter as we move out onto the Dolphin Expressway. Six lanes of traffic, cram-packed with cars, it makes me feel anxious, claustrophobic. Everywhere I look the picture seems wrong to me and I can't seem to make any sense of it. The billboards advertising cheap legal services and plastic surgery, the bikini-clad girls on the back of Harleys. I'm overwhelmed by the smells, the look, the style of this place, even Michael's face seems wrong out here. His cheeks rough and pasty, his blond hair in wisps, his skin drained of colour in this sunlight.

'Are you all right?'

'Yeah. Uh-huh.'

'Are you sure?'

I nod. Michael peers at me closer.

'Uh, Claire?'

'What?'

'You might want to do something about that.'

'About what?'

'Right there. On your lip.'

'What, what what on my lip?' on my lip?'

'Moustache.'

He says this all hushed, all quiet, the way my grandparents used to say the word cancer cancer. I've been in such turmoil the last few days, the last few weeks, the last thing I've thought to do was wax my lip. It must have taken seed on the plane. I have dark body hair, on my legs, on my face; Jewish girl's hair, from my father. I am mortified that Michael would mention it. Right here. Right now. Just as we're driving past Star Island.

'It's not too much,' he whispers. 'Just a little bit. Should I not have said anything?'

I can't answer. Can't speak.

'It's just that...you know...remember?'

'Yeah. Oh G.o.d, I remember.'

This was just before we got married. The moment I realised the two of us might have a real chance. A personal thing, an intimate thing. Michael catching me in the bathroom with a tub of hot wax.

'What are you doing?'

'Nothing,' I said.

's.h.i.t, what's that goo on your face?'

I confessed to him, I had to, and we laughed. He swore blind to me that he'd never noticed it. Not once.

'So you'll be the one, then?' I said, afterwards.

'What one?' he said, all confused.

'I can rely on you?'

'To do what?'

'To tend to my moustache, if I'm ever in a coma.'

'What coma?'

'You know. If I got ill. If I was...I don't know, brain dead or something. I mean, it would just keep on growing, it could easily get out of hand.'

'Well...what about the nurses? Wouldn't they take care of it for you?'

'No. I mean, you couldn't be sure they'd get round to it. There'd be so much else for them to do.'

Michael grinned and patted my hand.

'You've thought about this a lot, haven't you, Shorty?'

Yes. I had to confess, I had.

'OK, then. I swear.'

'You promise promise?'

'No question about it.'

'Cross your heart?'