She took out a wide notebook, bought from Smithson's for five pounds from her laptop bag, and a Christian Lacroix ballpoint pen and began to write.

A connoisseur of expensive branded items, she cursed herself for not having a simple wool sweater right now.

The cold air on board the Norwegian irritated their already frozen body. She sat all day at Heathrow Airport, didn’t eat anything, warmed herself with tea and cried, drying up only during phone calls to say goodbye and warn that she had flown to Denmark, forever, so that they would no longer look for her, but only write letters and come to visit. .

– Bring me a cup of tea with lemon, please. – With thin fingers with peeling varnish, she grabbed the flight attendant running like a hare by the hard textile sleeve so that she almost broke her nails.

She turned around with bulging eyes at the frightening-looking passenger. It was as if she couldn’t come to her senses, but not because of Glenda’s appearance that stopped her, but because of something more serious.

After pausing for a second, a middle-aged flight attendant with a very thin waist muttered something incomprehensible towards the nearly broken nails of the girl with the notebook and ran away.

– What a nightmare, there is no such service even on Ryanair, the cheapest airline at this time of year. They even give out blankets there, unlike this fabulously expensive business class on the damn Norwegian.

The indignant Glenda turned to her neighbor, who was sleeping nearby, hoping for a sympathetic cry, but he only shuddered from the unpleasant sounds and continued to snore.

Sighing with hopelessness, a disgruntled girl with long black hair and a face pale from almost a day of sobbing, buried herself in a clean lined sheet of paper.

The nib of an expensive pen wrote by itself. She did not have to make an effort to draw out the history of the last days on the notebook that had so kindly accepted her; everything went like clockwork.

The first lines of her worthless life, suffering and self-pity appeared on the white canvas.

“Beautiful and young, I sold myself like the last prostitute from King's Cross. On October seventh, two thousand and seventeen, Glenda Miller, rich and lonely, moves to live in Denmark to forget and start life anew.

I have nothing to lose. No apartment, no car, no family, no relatives.

My father died two years ago, and the guy is a thing of the past.

I miss you so much, dad.

You know, right after you died, I got a job at the Guardian. Only this helped me forget and start coping with everything alone.”

Warm streams flowed down my cheeks, numb from the cold and burning. An involuntary shudder ran through the body huddled in the chair.

“And a month ago I caught a really serious case for the first time. I finally grabbed the opportunity to become a great reporter. I could have saved England, I was on the trail of the criminal, but I still don’t know his face. And a week ago he left me an anonymous note giving me the choice to shut up or die.”

Here she interrupted and, mercilessly pressing the button to call the waiter, grumbled loudly:

– Will someone finally bring me tea today?

A moment later, the dark red business class curtain moved aside, and the same out-of-breath stewardess appeared in the aisle. White curls were hanging down on her forehead, and her mascara was running a little in the corners of her eyes. This happens when at the end of the day a girl corrects her makeup, but it no longer stays elastic, but treacherously spreads over her skin.

– Your tea, madam. I'm sorry for the delay.

Mentally complaining about the imperfection of the service staff, their appearance, forgetfulness and terrible service, Glenda was silent for a while, but then grabbed the paper cup with rapture. A moment later, she noticed that the woman’s hands were shaking and there was perspiration on her face and neck.

– Something happened, um… – she read the badge on the bright scarlet jacket – Anna?

– No, miss. – the flight attendant said, clearing her throat. – Just buckle up, please, there's a little turbulence.

Anna quickly ran away to the economy class cabin, and closed the short curtain behind her.

Glenda looked under her, since her seat was next to her, but saw only the legs of the flight attendant running away.

Then she looked out the porthole. Rain flooded the sky, and a thunderstorm broke it into small fragments. It is not surprising that in this cold and thoughts about fate, she had no time for the weather outside the window. Oddly enough, my hands still reached for the strap. Click, and now she is safe.

The tea turned out to be barely warm, as it happens in a roadside cafe, where water is still heated in a kettle, and electricity needs to be saved.

“And how much the hell is she getting paid?” – Glenda cursed to herself, but then stopped short.

The plane shook quite a bit.

“Okay, let’s say God punishes me for misplaced anger. Anna is not to blame for anything… Except for the cold, belated tea.”

Glenda calmed herself by swallowing a lemon with a crust. “Vitamin C is a very useful thing. At least I won’t get sick from the Norwegian winds.”

Christiane Lacroix again merged with her thin hand and the girl continued to write.

“Father, I sold my soul to the devil: I was so close to unearthing the dirtiest case in London, but they offered me money to leave me behind. It was a note from a criminal with an offer for a million pounds, just a minute.

And I would refuse, I’m not a corrupt bitch. Oh, sorry.

You never liked me to swear.

So, it’s all Gerard’s fault – my future husband. Can you imagine, that evening I returned home, and he was licking between the bitch’s legs. Do you remember Linda, my childhood friend?”

Glenda was seething with anger.

“Understand, I had no choice but to take this money to get out of damn London. I loved him.”

The disposable paper handkerchief was already completely wet and turned into a sticky lump, but a new series of tears required help. Luckily, a napkin was provided with the tea.

Glenda blew her nose and began to write further.

Suddenly the ink completely spilled onto the paper.

Suddenly the light in the cabin went out treacherously. People's faces were illuminated only by flashes of lightning. The pale yellow highlights were reminiscent of a post-mortem photograph. For a moment it seemed to her that the passengers were covered in blood. The wild horror of what she saw shook her being.

The plane took a giant leap. For a matter of seconds, Glenda lost consciousness. When I woke up, the light in the cabin was on again, and the morning sun was already shining outside the window. The storm front was successfully passed. Fortunately, the impact on the shelf was barely noticeable.

– Apparently, there is something wrong with the neck vessels. I read in a medical encyclopedia that this happens. You can lose consciousness and even fall asleep if the carotid and vertebral arteries are compressed. – she turned with relief to her seatmate who had woken up. To Glenda's surprise, he answered.

– Yes, miss. You could have sprained your neck here. I read it too, albeit in other sources. – he straightened up, as happens when you suddenly remember that this is an important person in front of you, or you just want to show off in front of a young woman. – Iver Larsen from Copenhagen. Nice to meet you. – a man of about forty-five with a beautiful Greek nose extended his right hand as if he had only dreamed of doing this the entire flight. Surprisingly, he wasn’t so kind when landing, he didn’t even help her carry her bags upstairs.