Lost (Arielle Lockley Series Book 2) (23 page)

Come on, come on. Land already.

‘Cabin crew to their seats,’ the Captain announces as we descend further, making our way down to JFK airport.

We must be over Queens now, nearly ready to land, but I can’t see out of the window from my seat. With Giles booking my ticket at the very last minute and me only just making it to the desk before check-in closed, I’ve been dumped in the worst seat going. Most people have slept on this flight, wasting their window seats, and I’ve watched them.
This has been the worst eight hours of my life.

A few minutes later we bump down on the runway, taxiing our way to the terminal. Already people are reaching for their phones and are unbuckling their safety belts; I’m sitting rigid in my seat. My neck feels tense, and I’m terrified at what’s going to happen when I get off this plane and have to face up to whatever messages were left for me whilst I’ve been in the air.

‘Welcome to New York!’ the Captain booms once again as the plane turns off the runway, freeing it for the next plane to land. ‘The local time is 11.35 p.m. It’s a cool four degrees Celsius outside. Please wait until we’ve come to a complete stop before you unfasten your safety belts, and please take care when opening the overhead lockers. Make sure you take everything with you – check the front seat pockets and the space around you – and have your passports and I-94W form ready, if needed, for when you leave the plane.’

I’m so relieved that because we travel to the States quite a lot, I have a long-term multiple entry visa stamped in my passport. It’s valid for another year, and I would have been in a world of trouble if it wasn’t – I would not have been on this flight.

‘On behalf of myself and your cabin crew, I’d like to thank you for choosing to fly with us today. We hope you had a pleasant flight, and that you have a safe onward journey. We hope to see you again soon.’

Are we there yet? How far is it from the runway to Terminal 7?

‘Nervous flier?’ the balding man next to me says with a sympathetic smile, seeing me grip the arm rest. ‘The worst of it is over now,’ he jokes.

I grimace in response. Let him think what he wants.

‘Cabin crew, please prepare for arrival. Cross-check.’

Finally
. I unbuckle my belt and am out of the aisle and by the door before it’s even been opened.

‘Miss, can you take your seat, please.’

As if I’m going back to my seat and letting other people push in front of me.

‘I need to get off.’ I smile, try to look normal, look sane.  

Maybe she sees something in my eyes but, whatever it is, she doesn’t question it and I’m the first one off the aircraft when the door opens. I am gasping for air, and I stand for a moment to gulp it in, before walking as fast as I can towards the terminal building so I can get in the immigration queue.

I’m super grateful that I have my Gold Executive members’ card so I can use the fast track security line and just get out of here. It seems that we’ve landed at the same time as a million other planes and I desperately need to clear immigration swiftly and get a taxi to take me to Piers.

I really hope that I can get my passport and biometrics checked and just be on my way without any further questions. I’m not sure I could keep my cool long enough not to arouse suspicion if I’m questioned in depth about why I’m here.

I take a steadying breath and make my way to the agent in his booth after queuing for about thirty minutes, which is a lot quicker than the first time I came to New York as a student. We spent four hours queuing then. That’s a painful reminder about how my life has changed since I met Piers, Piers who... Stop it, Arielle. Get yourself through immigration, and don’t think like that.

A few minutes later and with a nod of the agent’s head, I’m out of there and in the Arrivals Hall where scores of people are waiting for their loved ones, even at this late hour. It’s now nearly one in the morning here, so it’s six a.m. at home. I am dead on my feet and ready to drop.

I move to one side and finally switch on my phone, but I daren’t look at it. I clutch my chest, hoping that it will stop the acidic bile that’s rising up inside me, but it doesn’t.

I steady myself and take a look at my screen to see that I’ve got several missed phone calls from my parents, Giles and Tabitha, as well as a few numbers I don’t recognise. There’s also a notification alerting me to new voicemail messages.

With shaking hands, I dial my voicemail number to hear that I have four new messages. The first one is from my mum, asking me to phone her before I speak to anyone else. The second one is from Giles, asking me to call him back urgently. Cruelly, he doesn’t give me an update about Piers.

‘You have a third new message. New message.’

I take a deep steadying breath.

‘Arielle,’
an icy voice snaps.

It takes me a second to figure out that it’s Tabitha because it doesn’t sound like her. Tabitha is full of warmth when she calls me; Tabitha does not snap at me, does not sound like she hates me.

‘I thought you were my friend, I thought I could trust you
.
How could you tell the paparazzi where to find me?’
she says in clipped tones, which is worse than if she was yelling at me.
‘Only
three people knew where I was heading, and since Will is with me, I don’t think it was him. I thought you were my friend,’
she says sadly.
‘You’re just like the rest of them. Please don’t contact me ever again.’

It hits me immediately who’s done this to Tabitha:
Lydia
. That’s why my phone wasn’t where I left it. Sure, Piers might have called me, and Ob might have sent me a text, but the phone moved because she picked it up and put it back in the wrong position. She looked at my messages, and there’s no wonder she left as soon as she did. She wanted to sell Tabitha out as quickly as she could.

‘You have a fourth and final message. New message
.’

The robot woman parrots this at me in her mono-tone, not giving me a chance to fully process what Lydia has done to Tabitha and how I can make Tabitha believe me that I didn’t sell her out to the newspapers, and that I never would do that to her.

The voice switches to the voice of someone I don’t know, an
American
female voice, and I feel even sicker. I slump down on to the floor, feeling utterly exhausted, only semi-aware of the looks from people around me who must be wondering why I’m sitting in the middle of the Arrivals Hall at JFK, looking like I’ve not slept in twenty-four hours and have never heard of a hairbrush. Now I understand what people mean by an out-of-body experience.

‘Hello, this is a message for Arielle. Arielle, it’s–

The phone starts to crackle. 

‘–bad news to tell you. I’m so sorry, but–’

The phone crackles some more.

‘– I’m sure there was no suffering–’

Another crackle.

‘–at peace now. Please can you call me when you get this.’

I drop my phone to the ground with a clatter, and I start to hyperventilate. I take big rasping breaths, but they keep catching in my throat. I can’t breathe properly. The more I try to, the more panicked I become as my brain processes what that last message means, as it fills in the gaps.

‘Excuse me, ma’am? Ma’am, are you OK?’

A burly airport security guard is hovering over me, looking concerned, whilst a group of onlookers whisper and point at me. 

‘He’s dead,’ I cry out in a strangled voice, taking in what the message has said to me, taking in Mum’s message to call her first, and Giles’ message to call him urgently. ‘Piers is dead!’ I scream.

And with that I start sobbing my heart out, right in the middle of the airport. I’m howling in agony, and my own body is choking me. I’m struggling to breathe and it feels like my heart is going to burst because it’s beating too rapidly.

I don’t care what happens to me now, I don’t care what happens in my life. My life is over without Piers by my side. I’m through...

‘You’ve reached the voicemail of Arielle Lockley. I’m afraid I can’t take your call right now, but leave me a message and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can. Thanks!’

Over and over I hear Arielle’s voicemail message, and each time I neglect to leave her a message. That must have been the twentieth time I’ve heard those words.

‘You’ve reached the voicemail of Arielle Lockley. I’m afraid I can’t take your call right now, but leave me a message and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can. Thanks!’

Twenty-one.

‘You’ve reached the voicemail of Arielle Lockley. I’m afraid I can’t take your call right now, but leave me a message and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can. Thanks!’

Can she not just pick up the phone? I hang up and try again.

‘You’ve reached the voicemail of Arielle Lockley. I’m afraid I can’t take your call right now, but leave me a message and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can. Thanks!’

She’s not going to pick up, is she?

I take a deep breath as the phone beeps to indicate it’s time for me to talk.

‘Fatty, look, it’s me,’ I say. ‘I spoke to your mum, and I’ve heard the news. I’m so sorry about Felicity passing away. I know how much she meant to you, and I’m sorry to hear about Piers’ illness. Do give him my best,’ I say gruffly. ‘Your mum said everything was looking positive for him post-surgery, so I’m sure you’ll both be home soon.’

I clock that my glass is empty, so I stand up unsteadily and walk over to my drinks cabinet. I stare in its mirrored back as I reach with my free hand for the half empty bottle of Glenmorangie 10 Year Old malt whisky. I look like shit.

‘Look, something’s happened,’ I confess.

I walk back to the sofa and sit down, painfully aware that I’m an awful friend for skirting over Felicity’s death and Piers’ illness, horribly conscious of the fact I’m being selfish for dragging Arielle into this mess when she already has so much on her plate. I unscrew the cap on the bottle.

‘I don’t know what to do, how I can deal with this,’ I continue. ‘You’re the only one I can talk to, the only one I can share this with.’ 

I take a fortifying swig of whisky.

‘I know you’ve got a lot on right now, Fatty, but...’ I gulp, ‘Arielle, I’m scared,’ I finally choke out. ‘Call me.
Please
. As soon as you can. I need you.’

I wipe the tears that are inexplicably running down my cheeks – it must be my allergies – and hang up quickly. I take another massive swig from the bottle. There. I’ve put the ball in motion. There’s no going back now.

Elle Field writes romantic comedies, and is the author of the
Arielle Lockley
series and
Geli Voyante’s Hot or Not
. She grew up in Yorkshire, then moved to Scotland to study International Relations and Social Anthropology at the University of St Andrews.

Elle now lives in London with her boyfriend and their cat. She’s a massive fan of sunshine, giraffes, Audrey Hepburn movies, playing Scrabble, musicals and drinking tea. Oh, and reading, of course!

Find out more about Elle by reading her blog,
http://www.ellefield.co.uk
, following her on Twitter
@ellefie
or on Facebook:
http://www.facebook.com/ellefieldauthor