September 1985 – New York, JFK Airport

The majority of passengers aboard the trans-atlantic flight had shut their minds off, into the lightest of slumbers - undoubtedly, in their best attempt to ward off the inevitable jet-lag - and, thankfully, it meant none were witness to her tears. It was on account of her childhood that Victoria Harper rarely cried - she may as well have been a motherless child, for the lack of maternal comfort she received. Although Pascal certainly didn't deserve her tears, they - and the sickness in her stomach, born from the emotional turmoil - refused to cease and Victoria was eternally grateful for the darkness that shrouded the plane, both inside and out.

In the row adjacent to hers, the small child that had previously made her objections to their earlier ascent from Paris had been lulled to sleep in her fathers arms and she was oblivious to the familiar horror that their descent into New York would inflict. While many passengers had audibly expressed their irritation at the baby, Victoria had been far too dazed to really hear the intolerable screams. The mere sight of an infant reminded her of the foolish dreams her lovesick mind had hastily concocted - a dark-haired child with a charming French accent and infectious giggle.

How contradictory her flight home seemed to be, in comparison to the high-spirited journey twelve hours previously. After several, long and unbearable months apart from Pascal, her ingenious decision to surprise him awarded her nothing but heartache. His passionate proclamations of love, their tormented farewell on the day her temporary visa expired were the furthest thing from his mind, as he buried himself in another woman. Victoria could only assume that the fresh orchids flown daily were constructed to assuage his guilt. The uncensored images of Pascal played relentlessly in her mind - the arch of the woman's back, his erotic moan... Victoria traced an invisible circle on her left temple and forced her eyes shut, in a hopeless effort to deny his betrayal.

A male voice addressed passengers via the sound-system and those who were previously asleep started to rouse. Victoria automatically clicked her belt into its lock. "Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. It's 19:15 EST and we'll be arriving into New York in approximately fifteen minutes." On professional cue, the air hostesses began their extensive check throughout the cabin and Victoria spied the bright, city lights of her home through the oval-shaped window. "For the consideration of those passengers remained board for the onward flight to Dallas-Fortworth International Airport, we're expected to arrive in Dallas at our scheduled arrival time of 23:45. For those of you leaving us, on behalf of Delta Airlines and the entire crew, I would like to thank you for flying with us and look forward to having you on-board in the near future."

The plane began its weary descent into the hurricane season New York annually battled and Victoria braced herself for one of the coldest winters she had endured in years. The Mediterranean warmth she had so desperately pined for held sanctuary in her heart no more and what the future held, she could only wonder.

Silence hounded the thirty minute drive from their penthouse apartment in the city to the airport. Whenever Conrad Grayson's lips parted to voice at least one of his concerns, his throat dried up and clamped shut. In the same impulsive breath his wife had announced her decision to enter residential rehabilitation, she demanded he have her driven to the airport, in order to catch the first available flight out of New York.

"There's a rehabilitation clinic in California. It's one of the best in the country." The Betty Ford Center had become world-rewnowned for its drug and alcohol treatment. "I figured, if it's good enough for Elizabeth Taylor..." Steph had spun her predictable attempt of humour.

Conrad withdrew mentally - the sudden intensity of the international airport felt alien to his senses and there was so much he failed to understand: Why did she choose a clinic over two thousand miles away? Why the sudden change of heart? Every one of his pleas that she consult with her personal physician about her drinking had fallen on deaf and furious ears. Would her absence be as temporary as the twelve steps she signed up for, or as permanent as she intended her sobriety to be?

He snapped back into the tumultuous reality, when his wife rose to her feet. "Now boarding at Gate 5, the 19:45 to Los Angeles International Airport. That's the 19:45 to LAX with Delta Airlines, now boarding at Gate 5."

"Steph..." How helpless he must have appeared, in that very moment, like a little boy lost without her.

"Goodbye, Conrad." The poignancy of the moment reflected in the serenity of her voice and the wavering, half-hearted smile that flickered across her lips for the first time in weeks. Then, off she walked with suitcase in hand; no kiss on the cheek, no warm, longing embrace and not once did she look back.

Conrad grounded himself to the floor, patiently in wait, he watched with intent until the sight of her platinum blonde curls disappeared from sight. Torn between relief that his wife had finally sought the help she so desperately needed, and sadness that her decision could be the beginning of the end, he battled the hitch in the back of his throat. The foundation of their marriage relied upon her absolute dependency for his love and affection. When that dependency overwhelmed him, overpowered him almost, she directed her desires to an even more attentive master. He pondered whether the 'spiritual awakening' Steph embarked upon would rid herself of that dependency defect - if it did, would their marriage even stand a chance? The absolute uncertainty of his future dawned upon Conrad and it burnt him with unease.

A flood of exhausted passengers from a recent arrival surged through the airport lounge and his reverie was torn. Unbeknownst to Conrad, the raven-hair woman that despondently followed the stream of wanderers through the terminal had all the answers he searched for.