Suddenly, the driver stopped the car.
‘There!’ Mr Foster cried. ‘We’re stuck. I knew it.’
‘No, sir,’ the driver said, turning round. ‘We made it. This is the airport.’
Without a word, Mrs Foster jumped out and hurried through the main entrance into the building. There was a mass of people inside, mostly disconsolate passengers standing around the ticket counters. She pushed her way through and spoke to the clerk.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Your flight is temporarily postponed. But please don’t go away. We’re expecting this weather to clear any moment.’
She went back to her husband who was still sitting in the car and told him the news. ‘But don’t you wait, dear,’ she said. ‘There’s no sense in that.’
‘I won’t,’ he answered. ‘So long as the driver can get me back. Can you get me back, driver?’
‘I think so,’ the man said.
‘Is the luggage out?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Good-bye, dear,’ Mrs Foster said, leaning into the car and giving her husband a small kiss on the coarse grey fur of his cheek.
‘Good-bye,’ he answered. ‘Have a good trip.’
The car drove off, and Mrs Foster was left alone.
The rest of the day was a sort of nightmare for her. She sat for hour after hour on a bench, as close to the airline counter as possible, and every thirty minutes or so she would get up and ask the clerk if the situation had changed. She always received the same reply – that she must continue to wait, because the fog might blow away at any moment. It wasn’t until after six in the evening that the loudspeakers finally announced that the flight had been postponed until eleven o’clock the next morning.
Mrs Foster didn’t quite know what to do when she heard this news. She stayed sitting on her bench for at least another half-hour, wondering, in a tired, hazy sort of way, where she might go to spend the night. She hated to leave the airport. She didn’t wish to see her husband. She was terrified that in one way or another he would eventually manage to prevent her from getting to France. She would have liked to remain just where she was, sitting on the bench the whole night through. That would be the safest. But she was already exhausted, and it didn’t take her long to realize that this was a ridiculous thing for an elderly lady to do. So in the end she went to a phone and called the house.
Her husband, who was on the point of leaving for the club, answered it himself. She told him the news, and asked whether the servants were still there.
‘They’ve all gone,’ he said.
‘In that case, dear, I’ll just get myself a room somewhere for the night. And don’t you bother yourself about it at all.’
‘That would be foolish,’ he said. ‘You’ve got a large house here at your disposal. Use it.’
‘But, dear, it’s empty.’
‘Then I’ll stay with you myself.’
‘There’s no food in the house. There’s nothing.’
‘Then eat before you come in. Don’t be so stupid, woman. Everything you do, you seem to want to make a fuss about it.’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry. I’ll get myself a sandwich here, and then I’ll come on in.’
Outside, the fog had cleared a little, but it was still a long, slow drive in the taxi, and she didn’t arrive back at the house on Sixty-second Street until fairly late.
Her husband emerged from his study when he heard her coming in. ‘Well,’ he said, standing by the study door, ‘how was Paris?’
‘We leave at eleven in the morning,’ she answered. ‘It’s definite.’
‘You mean if the fog clears.’
‘It’s clearing now. There’s a wind coming up.’