Glenda

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.