The terminal was surprisingly empty, especially for a Saturday afternoon. An old guy sat on a mini tractor-like floor polisher, hovering over a particularly stubborn stain, several people loitered around ticket machines, there was a short queue at the information desk. I made my way to the check-in which was deserted save for a solitary female behind a counter. Considering myself lucky at not having to jostle with similarly impatient humans I made my way to the counter, handing her my tickets and passport while hoisting my compact suitcase onto the escalator beside her desk.

She watched me with considered eyes through each movement. I placed my hands atop the station and effected my most charming smile: “Good afternoon.”

“Good day to you Sir, how may I help?”

“I would like to check-in please,” at which she raised her carefully constructed eyebrows, her curly dyed red hair rising an equal distance.

“Well let's look see what we have here,” there was a pause, her eyes flicked back up at mine, which were returned with a continuation of my effected smile.

“I wondered whether I might get an aisle seat if I may,” she continued flipping through my documentation, tapping a sequence of keystrokes into her computer before reaching a conclusion.

“Sir”

“Yes”

“I am afraid this flight took off fifteen minutes ago.”

“Ohh,” pausing to collect my thoughts, “why?”

“Well Sir, it was scheduled to leave at 12:30 but was delayed by 45 minutes. Look here it says on your ticket,” holding my e-ticket up and using her pen to point at the departure time, ”see, departure 12:30.”

There was no denying this. Printed in black on white on my battered and creased e-ticket was indeed the scheduled departure time of 12:30”

“What does this mean,” I said a little dazed, trying to fathom what act of oblivious stupidity had led me to this point.

“Well Sir, it means of course you have missed your flight and will miss your connection to the UK. I could try and book you on something else?”

I nodded in the affirmative, still tracking back through my mind as to how I came to think my flight left at 2:30PM. Moments of key tapping passed, her studious gaze avoiding mine, I knew exactly what was going through her head and it wasn't connecting flights – John you moron!

She came back to me with a solution: “Well I can fly you into JFK where you will need to cab over to LaGuardia?”

This sounded hopeful: “When?”

She read from the screen: “The JFK flight leaves at 19:25 and your connection from LaGuardia at 06:15 tomorrow, local time,” this sounded a little torturous; six more hours here then a midnight taxi across New York and more hours waiting for the connection. I did some rough time zone calculations and guestimated that would land me in the UK sometime Sunday evening.

“What would be the next flight I can get from here,” whatever must have been going through her head she kept it all to her self, not even her eyes or facial expression gave her thoughts away.

“Lets see shall we,” she returned to her keyboard.

It might be a surprise to you but inconvenience to my own self was not the primary quandary. I had plenty of books, had a wallet full of dollars and credit cards aplenty. Apart from getting a sore bum from plastic airport seats I really wasn't hugely concerned. My concern was however the girlfriend.

Anna was anticipating my return with some enthusiasm, we had had a fairly substantive argument the night before I left the UK and she was very keen to welcome me back into the fold, I have to say I didn't share her enthusiasm.

Anna had a certain way about her, she was privately educated, cultured within financial constraints, extremely successful in her career while simultaneously performing an admirable job of raising two children almost single handed. Her dead father was still referred to affectionately as 'Daddy' and she still used 'Mummy' when talking to her mother directly – basically she was a bit 'posh'.

By necessity as much as anything else, she lived her life by micro managing the smallest detail, directing those within her control with decisive effectiveness. There in lay our problem. As the detail in this sorry tale has borne witness, I am a bit of an enigma. At the outset of our relationship I guess my laid back attitude, wit and haphazard approach to life was as refreshing for Anna, as her wit and almost inexhaustible ability to control, was for me. Ultimately though I didn't like working to a three month preplanned schedule as much as she didn't like waking up on any given morning not knowing what she had planned by the hour for the next 96 hours. As such, having endured the initial glow of the relationship we were embarking on the slow realisation that we were just not suited, were both probably at the same stage of realisation but for her, this simply represented another opportunity to excel.

For my part I had a huge affection for her, was hopelessly enchanted by her kids but was beginning to yearn for the luxury of spontaneity. In the meantime we were busy banging our heads together trying to work it all out. In Anna's mind we would start resolving our issues with a nice cosy Sunday night in – upon my return - a meal, Norah Jones and a bottle of red wine. Not entirely unappealing in itself but after the week I had endured, as much as I cared for her, and I truly admired her, I was looking forward to a bit of easy solitude and not our claustrophobic relationship. Missing my flight then, was an unexpected opportunity that I was keen to take advantage of, even if it was one created at my own stupidity

“7:25 tomorrow morning sir, ” her voice brought me back to the present.

“Sorry?”

“There is a flight leaving tomorrow morning at 7:25, connecting onwards from Atlanta at 13:00 local time,“ she paused looking at the screen, “gets you into Heathrow for 23:05 local time.”

It took me milliseconds to come to a decision: there was no way I would be able to see Anna landing at that time - she needed her beauty sleep in preparation for the day of children and work ahead. For my part I needed to be in Berkshire, where I lived, sometime during Sunday night for work on Monday morning.

“That's great, can I do that then... how much do I have to pay?”

She looked up at me smiling: “There is no charge Sir.”

Suddenly relieved at the prospect of not doing the Sussex run and in some part having that decision made for me, I would have hugged her if I didn't think a watchful guard would have shot me for my troubles. A whole day and night off the radar stretched ahead. There was of course some explaining to be done to Anna, which my subconscious was already working on, but for the meantime I felt unburdened in a way it felt, I hadn't in a long time.

With bags hanging off me or trailing behind I walked back through the terminal thinking on my next action, probably a hotel should be my first port of call. A quick check of my immediate surroundings revealed I was standing about three feet from a large unmanned stand draped in a vivid blue. In large yellow letters just above head height a sign declared 'Hotel Reservations', beneath which were an assortment of colourful pictures that showed off every hotel that had subscribed to this service, in glorious detail. Sat on the blue covered desk beneath these pictures was a classic Bell phone, albeit coloured blue with no dial. Beside the phone a white sheet of laminated paper declared in large black letters: ''Just pick up the handset'.

I did as instructed: “Hi and good day to you, my name is Edwardo and you're through to the Hilton Salt Lake City, Utah's premier meeting and recreation destination. How may I help you?”

The Hilton sounded as good as any, but those long introductions really annoyed me: “Hello, is that the Hilton Hotel?”

“Yes Sir, you're through to the Hilton Hotel, Salt Lake City. How may I help?”

“I am looking for a double room for tonight only”

“That's one night, checking in today and departing tomorrow morning, please wait Sir while I confirm,” slight pause.

“Yes that's fine, how would you like to pay?”

By now I had my credit card at the ready: “Visa”

Ten minutes later I was being loaded into a mini bus by an ancient, moustachioed, shades wearing driver that looked like a relic from the Godfather. Another twenty minutes and I was wandering through humid, labyrinthine corridors looking for my room.

Forty minutes after picking up the phone I sat palms down behind a large, green leather inlaid writing desk, very carefully working out the details of the story I would tell Anna. It goes without saying the truth was not an option – it would be interpreted as a classic symptom for my lack of commitment. Granted I could have been organised enough to catch the flight, but I guess if deeply besotted it might have occurred to me to check the flight times sometime before checking in. A discussion on commitment was one I was keen to avoid, especially as it generally led onto the one about 'love'.

'Daddy' had been a commercial pilot and Anna was possessed of relentless research skills, she would double check every detail, so I needed to keep the 'facts' as simple and as close to the truth as possible.

I rang her home number in the hope she would be out and I could leave a quick cursory message in summary. I had considered the text option but this would have been an obvious indication of my elusiveness.

The line connected and rang out three times. Slightly breathless: “Hello Anna speaking.”

“Hi Anna, it's me...”

“Darling, where are you? Shouldn't you be in the air by now?” She obviously had a better grasp of my flight times than I did.

“Urrmnn...,” suddenly nervous, “there has been a problem...”

“What do you mean?” Some of the verve leaving her voice. After leaving school Anna had spent four years in London studying drama, which served her well.

“It seems that there has been a problem with the plane, there is a technical fault and it has been delayed...”

“Well how long for?”

“Long enough for me to miss the connecting flight out of Atlanta I am afraid.”

“Well what about getting you out via another route, what about New York?” She was building momentum, her considerable intellect starting to wind towards full speed.

“I wouldn't get there till midnight and the next flight isn't till tomorrow morning,” there was a very brief pause.

“But darling, that won't get you into London before eight, you wouldn't get here till.. till almost ten, if at all...” Her voice trailed off, a sudden thought occurring to her, smelling a rat: a Winnie the Pooh shaped rat, how convenient. My hand tightened around the handset, knuckles white. Showtime.

“What kind of technical fault, did they say?” I could hear her moving, knew she was pulling the chair upto her desk, was reaching down to turn on the computer. In minutes she would be connected to Salt Lake airport's website. I was gambling it would be basic, it had been when I checked it a few weeks ago, listing scheduled flights but not real time information. She had all my flight numbers, had hand copied them down from the e-ticket herself, my hope was that she was not inclined to call the airport directly.

“No, they didn't say. I guess they avoid having your average punter sitting in a plane knowing that during pre-flight checks the engine choked on a loose washer...” Wandering through the airport that afternoon I had spotted several delayed flights on the information screens. Most were due to weather, one listed the reason as technical. I could hear her typing on the keyboard.

“There is no point me hiking across the States to fly out of New York to save an hour or two, I'll be knackered... the next flight to Atlanta isn't till tomorrow morning. I am going to catch that, it connects onward to London at 13:00...”

“Right,” the warmth in her voice now swapped out for a hard chill, “and I suppose that gets in at midnight, so I am not going to see you then am I.”

“It's not looking likely Anna, am really sorry, but what can I do!” Silence. Typing on keyboard had ceased. My heart felt heavy, I felt her defeat.

“I really need to see you Johnie... we have a lot to talk about. We need the time together.” If the relationship was going to work, that was probably true, but talking with Anna meant being talked at with little opportunity for feedback. She was a women used to getting her way and was more than a little perplexed by her boyfriend's inability to conform as required.

“I know, I know, why don't I drive over on Thursday night and work from yours on Friday?”

“But that's next week Johnie, I won't have seen you for almost two weeks!” When we first met, probably the second thing she said to me in that confident manner of hers was that she didn't want an emotional relationship and that she only had a couple days each week to spare, which had sounded very appealing to me. Her tune had changed about one month into the relationship. The tone of her voice though was upsetting, I knew she really did need to see me, but the runes had already been cast and sadly, I really couldn't face seeing her straight off the plane.

“Look Anna, I am really sorry, there is not much I can do. I will call you Monday night.”

She still had one card left up her sleeve: “Gemma and Jack are going to be so disappointed, they thought you would be here before they went to bed.” The card was an ace, and struck a blow right to my heart. I had hit it off with her children immediately and had been emotionally sucked into their world as much as I had Anna's.

“I am really sorry Anna, there is nothing I can do. I will ring you Monday and will be there Thursday... OK”

“Ok... bye,” the phone disconnected.

I had tears in my eyes - oh how we struggle in relationships for want of knowing what a good one is!

During the later part of the conversation it had suddenly occurred to me just how I had come to think with certainty that my flight had been scheduled for 2:30PM. A quick check confirmed - I had entered the details erroneously into the calender of my mobile phone, thereafter trusting that which my phone told me. Life really is like a box of chocolates.

Check-in at the Hilton had included a pass to the executive lounge. This contained a number of blood red leather sofas neatly set around a large brick walled fireplace. A small bar sat just to the left. Careful consideration and a nice little two seater was located, away and sideways to the main area. The next nine hours were spent in the company of my own, a never ending glass of Coors and the intriguing prose of Melvyn Bragg in his 'The Adventure of English' – an apparently true biography of the English language containing more plot twists and dark Catholic deeds than a Dan Brown blockbuster.

Eventually, just one hour into Sunday I tottered back to my room and seven hours after that found myself in the aisle seat of a Boeing 747, homeland security safely negotiated with little more than cursory wave past.

I had originally been seated in the centre section but had been approached by a bra-less mother in a tight partially buttoned shirt. In a plaintive home counties English accent she leaned towards me and enquired whether I would mind swapping, as a member of her family had been located in an aisle seat a row forward. It would be helpful in managing their children if they could all sit together. The deal was made and I moved my stuff and headed towards my new seat, which happened to be occupied by her well groomed husband - I guess he would have been sent in if the person causing seating upset had been female.

The couple had three children, the oldest of which lowered herself with a deep sigh into the seat on the other side of the aisle. I would guess she was about nine or ten with blonde hair clipped back behind her ears that hung straight down just above her restless shoulders. As I now occupied the seat vacated by her father my status seemed to have been elevated to family friend, therefore entitling her to all sorts of benefits. These included attempting to share my headphones once she ascertained my music choice was acceptable and requesting aid in colouring in the drawing pack provided by the airline. Her crowning moment of glory was to be had while standing in the aisle next to me with a small concerned hand on my armrest. We were at the critical moment of 'Seabiscuit' - at the top of her voice, as all other noise faded “Why are you crying?”

The doorbell rang, bringing me back to the present. I traced my thumb across the solid lines of the key, the blue fob dangling from my palm. Anna and I had continued banging heads for another nine months which culminated in January 2006 with my moving to Sussex. This last act was supposed to salve all her insecurities, it just made things worse and we separated, ironically, just weeks after I moved there.

Four months later in April of 2006 I met Prideesh at a book club and it seemed from almost the first instant – 'oh you're the one', a feeling of absolute certainty that you will only know, if you have ever experienced it. I moved back to Berkshire in July of 2006.

I first realised I still had the key during that night of freedom in the Hilton Hotel, it was tucked into a pocket of my computer bag next to Melvyn Bragg's book. It would have been a simple task to have reception post it back to the address on the fob, but had kept it as a keepsake for everything that had happened, not just for the journey, or even the door - it just seemed symbolic for a moment in time. As I opened the door to Prideesh's smiling face I let the key slide into my pocket, I would sit it in the corner cabinet of my study, alongside this life's other mementos.