A Twist of Fate (7 page)

‘I don't like that idea.'

‘I understand. It wouldn't be excessive, just something to make you a little drowsy, to take the edge off and hopefully help you sleep on board.'

‘I don't like changing my perception. I know it sounds weird, but I'd rather face it head on.'

‘You're doing very well. I was going to ask you if you had your stuff together, but …' She smiled apologetically. My stuff was at the bottom of the Indian Ocean.

‘I have this.' I held up a small paper bag containing the ragged jeans and shirt I'd worn on the island.

‘Would you like me to take that for you?' She held out her hand for it.

‘No!' I shook my head fiercely and clung onto it. ‘That's … fine … thank you. I've got it.'

‘Well then … it's time to head out. All right?'

I nodded and stood. The weight in my stomach started to turn over. My hands were clammy. I rubbed them on my jeans. ‘Is … he … is Paul …?'

‘He's on his way.'

‘Is he all right?'

She turned with a laugh. ‘Seems to be. I've never known anyone so laid back. You'd never guess what he's been through.'

‘No. He's like that.'

An awkward silence fell for a moment – not that I noticed it as awkward, but she probably did. I was thinking about Paul. She probably wondered why I'd gone quiet.

‘Well, this is it. Let's go.'

I nodded and tried to smile. Yay, I was going home, and all that. I stood up and looked around to check I had everything. Of course I did. There was nothing to search for.

Emma ushered me out and we drove straight out onto the tarmac of the taxiway. The grey military plane stood before me. I didn't know what kind it was and felt stupid. Paul would know. He'd probably be able to tell me the engine size, wingspan, and specifications, and I'd take comfort from that.

The fact that the aircraft looked nothing like a commercial jumbo helped. I got out of the car and looked around for Paul immediately. He was standing at the bottom of the steps to the plane, laughing with a few others, including Lt Bradshaw. I disliked her even more.

I was guided over. The sun beat down and I suddenly got that British end-of-holiday feeling again, when you know that when you step off the plane at the other end, it will probably be grey, drizzly, and grim. In itself, that was a further comfort. If it had been overcast and oppressive, like it was when we had boarded the plane at Malé airport, I might have found this harder.

It seemed as if I was going to be urged onto the plane without even saying hello to Paul, but just as I walked past, he turned to me and called my name. It was like taking a sudden, comforting drink of the most gorgeous hot chocolate.

He approached. ‘How've you been?'

‘Yeah, OK.'

‘Back to reality then,' he smiled.

‘Yeah.' Was that all I could say? ‘Yeah'?

His eyes creased a little. ‘You all right with this?' He nodded to the plane.

‘Of course. Why, aren't you?'

He scoffed. ‘I'm all right, but I want to get it over and done with. Haven't seen you. It's all been a bit weird, hasn't it?'

I nodded. ‘Yes, but …'

‘What?'

‘Well, you know.'

‘No, I don't. What?'

I averted my eyes. ‘We have to get back to normal at some point.'

‘Normal?'

‘Yes. You've got your life to get on with and I've got mine.'

Paul didn't speak but kept looking at me with those piercing blue eyes. I had to look away.

‘Right,' he said flatly.

‘I'm getting on now,' I said without glancing back at him, and hurried up the stairs. Getting on the aeroplane was easier than absorbing the tension between us. The tension I'd created. Cutting off my nose to spite my face. I'd always been good at that. Cautious Callie.

The cabin wasn't large, and the bog-standard military décor made economy look luxurious. I moved as far back as I could, and Emma came to sit beside me. I turned to look out, wishing I could be on my own. Paul was shaking the hands of people on the base. When he came to Bradshaw she reached up and kissed him on the cheek. Cow.

As he made his way up the steps, my stomach churned. I must have given a little sigh. ‘Are you OK? The sedation is still on offer, you know,' offered Emma.

Since seeing Paul again, I'd barely thought about the flight – not that I was prepared to tell this stranger of my preoccupations. ‘No, it's fine.' My eyes flitted to the front. Paul had boarded, as relaxed as ever. He looked just like he had when I'd first seen him, sauntering down that other aisle, spreading warmth with his smile and low, rumbling voice. The only thing he now lacked was his obscenely large bag.

He was shown to a seat further forward than mine but before he sat he glanced back at me as if to check I was all right. I smiled briefly then dropped my head, remembering my intentions. We were going back. I was going back to my parents and Rupert. He'd be going back to hard hats and cement.

Emma began to chat. I smiled and nodded occasionally. I'd always been able to do that – give a semblance of attention to the dronings of whoever I was talking to while actually thinking about dinner that night, or TV that night, or sex that night. Right now I was trying to think about what I'd say to Rupert when I got back. I pulled out my phone during a lull in conversation and glanced at his text. ‘ur amazing. This has shown me that u were meant 2 come back 2 me.'

Perhaps he was right. I thought of my parents' faces when they saw me again; I thought about them giving me a hug I never wanted to end. I tried to think about the hug Rupert would give me. It might be a bit one-sided.

I could see the top of Paul's head. I suppose I wouldn't see much more of it after this. It was best that way. Make a short, sharp break of it. He'd want to get back to his friends anyway. I pictured rowdy nights in the local and endless games of pool. Not my thing. Rupert, on the other hand, had a soft spot for old black and white movies and snuggling up on the sofa on a Saturday night watching
The Dam Busters
. Cosy comfort. That, I knew.

I squeezed my eyes shut. Bad move. Whenever I did that I could see nothing but Paul's hard body over mine and the low murmur of his voice as he urged me towards orgasm.

‘Callie.'

Emma said my name gently. I opened my eyes and turned to her. A man in his mid-forties, good-looking and competent, was standing beside her chair, smiling down gently. ‘Hello, Callie. I'm Captain Tim Marchant. I'm piloting you back home. I just wondered if you had any questions for us.'

His face and smooth home counties voice eased any nerves I might have had. I trusted men like this. I only really knew men like this. ‘Should I?'

His smile deepened. ‘No. But I wanted to reassure you. This is an incredibly safe aircraft with an impeccable flying record, and I and my co-pilot have forty years' experience between us. You're in the safest hands.'

‘I don't doubt it,' I smiled. ‘Thank you. How long will the flight take?'

‘About eight hours. I'd try to sleep.'

‘I will.'

The pilot gave me another effortlessly assured smile and headed for the cockpit.

‘I need to tell you that there are a lot of people desperate to see you when you get home,' said Emma.

‘Oh God.'

‘We've kept the media behind a fence, but your parents will be there.'

‘Media?' I didn't at first know why she'd mentioned it.

‘The crash has dominated headlines. There were many British families affected. And then when they found survivors … Well, you know what people are like. They love a tale of happiness to emerge out of tragedy.'

My heart started to race. ‘I hadn't thought about the media at all.'

‘Don't worry. They won't be let anywhere near you until – if at all – you are ready. But I should warn you that there's a lot of interest in you. That's why we need to be extra careful.'

‘Right.'

Only now did it all start to overwhelm me. Only now did my nerves start to jangle again. And then the engines engaged and we began to taxi. I felt my hands grow clammy and my jaw clench and unclench. Emma silently took hold of my hand. I squeezed it, grateful for the comfort.

As the engines roared, propelling us towards take-off, I struggled to steady my breathing. I couldn't look, but felt the familiar lift as the plane rose into the air. Poor Emma. I'm surprised I didn't break a finger or two as I squeezed her hand desperately.

The pilot gave a running commentary as we rose and reached a cruising altitude, for my benefit, I suppose. It helped. His creamy public school tones reminded me of my father during an arduous bout of revision, focusing me and reinforcing my strength by his sheer self-belief and no-nonsense attitude. I took a deep breath. I could get through this like I got through my A-Levels. But then, Paul's voice could reassure me too, he just lacked the Charterhouse tone.

We flew on. It seemed to be going well. I thought about seeing England again, about looking down at the tidy quilt of fields set out below. The neat regularity of traffic along the M3, the warmth of my mother's embrace when I rushed towards her. For a moment, I almost forgot Paul.

After an hour or so the blue outside faded into a dull grey, and with it my courage grew dimmer. I shifted uncomfortably in my seat and kept my eyes squeezed shut, trying to block out the whir of the engines, a constant reminder that I was 30,000 feet in the air, and that I knew what it was like to plummet from such a height.

‘You all right, Callie?'

Immediate comfort. I opened my eyes to see Paul leaning over our seats, his stare intent on me, concern evident on his face.

‘She's fine. But I'm here if she needs me.' Emma directed her words towards him. Paul ignored her and asked me again. ‘Callie? How are you?'

I nodded. If he could do it, so could I. I'd be fine.

He pursed his lips and headed on to the toilet, seeming reluctant to let go of his hold on the seat back.

In the short time that he was gone I started to feel the light rumble of turbulence give the fuselage a little shake. My heart was beating fast, my skin grew clammy. Please, no, please not again.

Emma took hold of my hand but now it was an annoyance and I pulled away. The captain came on to the tannoy and started talking us through it, as calm as ever, reassuring us that it was very mild turbulence and we'd be through it soon. This time it didn't help.

‘Scuse me, I'd like to sit there.'

Paul had returned and was leaning over Emma, asking her to move.

‘Oh, it's all right, I'm looking after her. We just need to get through these few bumps.'

‘No. I said I'd like to sit there. Move somewhere else, please.'

He spoke politely enough but his tone left her in no doubt of his intentions. Emma turned to me. ‘You don't want me to move, do you?'

I shrugged.

‘She does.'

With a little tick of displeasure, Emma picked up her book tetchily and got up to sit in another row. Six feet three inches of warm, rock-solid man sank into her seat, giving that same rumbling sigh he'd done the first time he'd sat near me on a plane.

He said nothing but turned to look at me. I felt the tattoo of my heart settle. Our legs fell together. He was the same Paul; hard, steady, gorgeous. His hand lay on the seat rest. Strong fingers. If I could grip those fingers they'd hold me no matter what. Without thinking, I reached out my hand to him and he enclosed it completely in his. I could hear his breathing; deep, steadily regular, and slow. I tried to match it, evening my breath in and out. My eyes closed and I grew weary. I nestled down in the seat and let my head fall to the side. It came across the solid flesh of his arm. I inhaled and smelt his aroma, the same rich, heady smell I'd adored on the island. I drifted, and sleep came and went from me, but I stayed there and my mind took me through a series of the most indulgent erotic flights of fancy, all with him, him on me, over me, in me, always in me.

I had a blanket over me, which I shifted. It half covered Paul as well. He put the arm rest up. Our hands, still entwined, rested on his thigh; the firmest thigh I'd ever felt. I opened my hand a little and rubbed the tips of my fingers over him. He released his hold and let me. I stroked him firmly, needing to feel that strength, that innate physical competence that reassured me everything was going to be all right.

The hum of the engines dulled as I nestled against him, and I let myself drift. I wasn't fully asleep and was aware enough – I didn't want to miss this moment of being with him, what could be our last.

‘Callie,' he murmured, a soft affirmation of our togetherness. I hummed against him.

His hand moved to my thigh. It was large enough for him to place it fully over my upper leg. I was so relaxed, so peaceful with him there, and my body responded to him whether I wanted it to or not. I let my legs fall apart, instinctively trying to draw him closer to me. At first he didn't respond. His hand remained on my thigh, but he made no attempt to draw it closer. My frustration gave rise to a little whine, which I muffled against his neck.

At last I had it. His hand slid down and those knowing fingers rubbed between my legs. My skirt had ridden up but I was still frustratingly concealed from him by my knickers and leggings. It was me who fixed that. I scooched my bottom off the seat and wriggled the impeding garments down. Reason vanished. I wanted to feel him again. I wanted him to make me come again, for what could be the last time.

Paul gave one of his gorgeous moans as his fingers made contact with my wet heat. How could I not be wet when he was so close? He drew desire from me just by breathing.

I didn't open my eyes. In my mind, we were back on our island, back in our perfect, undisturbed world, where nothing mattered but us. He stroked down through me, gliding a long finger along until it found the opening and pressed. My right hand, seemingly possessed of its own will, darted over and gripped his wrist firmly, holding him there. Two fingers were inside me and I ground onto them, working his hand myself, making him fuck me with it. His fingers were rich with my juice as I at last let him pull them out to return to my clit, which he now rubbed in rhythmic circles, massaging the flesh around it over and over.