I woke up on my own on Tuesday September 11, 2001. It was a beautiful autumn day with a bright blue sky, sunshine and a riot of colours that cascaded over the road. I looked at my tummy. It felt huge and I gently rubbed it. I felt very peaceful and happy with my place in the world.
Seven months pregnant, I would have preferred to spend the day in bed, but I had to get to work at Channel 4 Television where I was the senior human resources manager. I had a month to go before maternity leave.
I rolled over and grabbed my mobile from the bedside table. My husband, Simon, was in New York on a business trip and I liked to know that his plane had landed safely. I listened to the message. Of course he was okay. He was always okay.
On my way to work I could smell the beginning of autumn in the air and the blue of the sky was spectacular. It hinted of wonderful things. I suddenly felt a “what a fabulous life this is” moment. I was pregnant, I loved my husband deeply and everything was perfect.
At midday, just as I was collecting my things to go for lunch, Simon rang. He had showered and was ready to leave for a conference. It was in the Windows on the World restaurant at the World Trade Center.
My mind was on other things: “I need to talk to you about the Mamas & Papas buggy we want. I phoned John Lewis and it’s not in stock and I’ve looked on the internet and I can’t find anywhere that sells it . . .”
Even I could sense my irrational panic. Simon calmed me down. Simon always calmed me down. I trusted him to take care of me.