A Twist of Fate

by Demelza Hart

Genres: Women's Fiction

Synopsis

An attraction that can't be ignored. A spoilt little rich girl. A rough ex-soldier. When Callie Frobisher and Paul Mason are stranded after their plane crashes, the mismatched couple are forced into battling each other and their feelings... Callie has it all - rich parents, a private education, and a great job, whilst Paul is harbouring a dark and destructive secret.The trauma of the crash and the harsh media spotlight proves to be challenging for them both. Can their attraction survive when they return to reality?

Release date: August 31, 2015

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 272

Sample

One

Things always went right for me. Callie Frobisher, the girl with the charmed life. That’s what I was told, anyway. My parents had sort of preordained it. By their force alone they convinced me that they’d made a deal with my creator that I would lead the perfect life.

So far, their plan – in their eyes at least – had worked. But it was all about to go spectacularly wrong.

Until the plane reached its cruising altitude, even I had been lulled into a false sense of security, an acceptance of perfection. A scholarship to private school; a First from Bristol; PGCE from Cambridge; and now, at twenty-five, teaching history at another independent school, one that boasted several minor royals among its alumni. I hadn’t really questioned it until recently. It was what people did, wasn’t it? Followed a particular path? Mine seemed mapped out for me from the start.

It had been a busy first year teaching, and my parents – always there, firm but doting – had rewarded me with a holiday in the Maldives with my friend, Lily. I’d like to point out that I did put up a token protest. But, again, easiness and comfort were such a familiar part of my life that, even though something inside me screamed ‘wrong’, I just smiled sweetly, offered my thanks, and had a fabulous time. And now I was coming back alone. Lily had stayed on for another week’s sailing on her boyfriend’s yacht. I was returning to drizzly England.

The flight was delayed. The sky, which had been an azure blue for the duration of my stay, was now a heavy grey, oppressive and dark, as if in tune with my downbeat mood. Malé Airport, despite the Duty Free and smiling faces always ready to flog something sensational, provided little in the way of comfort. You know that feeling at the end of a holiday, when it inevitably has to end, and you just want to get it over with and be home.

We boarded at last, bound for Gatwick. The plane was full. I was at the back – my mother always insisted on it – ‘the safest place’ – and I was not relishing the prospect of the rising whine of the cabin crew as they bitched about their colleagues.

I sat staring ahead while waiting to leave the gate. A large lady sat next to me, her breathing heavy and low, dragged in through protesting lungs. Clearly uncomfortable in the narrow seat, she shifted around to better her position. I moved to my right, trying to give her room and resulting in losing any arm space in the process. I was now sitting with a noticeable lean, a bit like a human Tower of Pisa.

The last few passengers boarded and the doors closed. The seat across the aisle from me was free. Perhaps I’d move to sit there and make it easier for us both. I’d be stiff as a board when we landed otherwise.

Just as I felt sure they’d closed the flight, I looked up to see a man walking down the aisle. My heart sank. He had that determined stride that told me he was heading to the back. As he approached, he studied the seat numbers close to me. Sure enough, his was the seat opposite mine. I must have huffed audibly in annoyance.

‘Sorry. Did I bump ya?’ The man looked down from his impressive height with a lopsided apologetic smile. For a moment I forgot to resent him. When he smiled, he showed off his perfectly hewn good looks. He had neat white teeth, a firm jaw covered in considerable stubble, and thick, dark hair. Early thirties, I thought. His red checked shirt and grey T-shirt poking out at the neck was concealing what was clearly a broad, muscled torso.

‘No, no,’ I demurred, still looking up, his staggering gorgeousness robbing me of my usual bite. His eyes held mine. They were the most arresting blue.

He looked away at last, denying me the force of his gaze, and I felt as if I’d had a bag of sweets snatched away. The man shrugged off a large backpack, surely only just within cabin baggage regulations.

‘It’s my bag, y’see. Has a mind of its own.’ He gave a low chuckle, as low as his voice, which was rough and raspy, and phenomenally sexy. Sexy? What the hell was I thinking? He wasn’t my type at all. He was too casual and rough and … northern. He was probably the type who wore naff short-sleeved shirts in the summer rather than rolling his sleeves up. Something told me, however, that he probably didn’t require a collared shirt for his work. My mother would not approve. I lowered my head and tried to ignore him.

By now, he’d turned away from me and was trying to squeeze his enormous bag into the overhead locker. His backside was only about three inches from my right ear. I glanced over. Tight, round, neatly encased in jeans. God, I could just reach out and … I sighed loudly and studied the safety guidelines instead.

‘It’s not goin’,’ he declared, unable to fit his bag in the locker. He turned around and glanced at the one above me. ‘Yours is nearly empty. Could I try it? Might be able to squeeze it in.’

I hoped my blush wasn’t obvious, but of course it would be. I was renowned for my blatant shows of embarrassment.

He looked down, his eyebrow cocked. I angled my head up to him. If I looked to my right now, I may get an eyeful of something else entirely.

‘I suppose,’ I mumbled, managing to sound distinctly fed up. It was my way of dealing with a loss of control. This man had thrown me. His exhilarating masculine physicality was making my head spin. He smiled again. Oh, don’t do that. ‘Be careful of my bag. It has precious things in it, gifts for my family,’ I declared as snippily as I could.

‘Don’t fret. I can be as gentle as a lamb … when I need to be.’

He continued to push and shove at his bag for a while longer. I could smell his cologne; rich, aromatic, totally intoxicating. I glanced up. The outline of his arm muscles shifted as he held the bag, which was still refusing to fit anywhere.

‘Are you having trouble, sir?’ asked a female crew member, her body language as overly attentive as her voice. She hadn’t been like that with me.

‘It’s a bit too big to go in.’

‘It won’t fit under your seat either, sir. Let me take it. I’m good with big things,’ she smiled, holding his eye contact. I saw him give a wry smirk but noticed that he held off from a cheesy response to her blatant innuendo.

The crew member took his bag and sashayed off with it. I couldn’t help rolling my eyes. He glanced down with a lop-sided smile. ‘There you go. Managed to spare your nan’s souvenir.’

The man then sank down into his seat with a guttural sigh, as if breathing out the tension of days of hard labour. I was pressing my legs together. Oh, bloody hell. I only did that when attraction reared unstoppably.

He stretched out his legs – long and firm. One of them extended into the aisle. How thoughtless. What if someone tripped on it? He was wearing dark blue Skechers which had seen better days – a much-loved pair by the look of it – and now settled back to read the book he’d taken from his luggage. Andy McNab – predictable. He frowned a little as he read and those blue eyes bored into the text with admirable concentration.

I wanted so hard to find him annoying; everything about this man was the polar opposite of what I was expected to like, but his presence was oddly reassuring. He made me feel as if I was really going back after all. For the first time since preparing to depart, I felt the call of home.

He must have noticed me looking at him because he turned his head and gave me that wonky smile again, just briefly, before focussing back on his book. If he’d held my gaze a little longer I might have smiled back, but as it was I now set my mouth straight and pretended I wasn’t remotely interested.

To distract myself I took out my phone and pulled up the last text I’d received before leaving Malé. ‘Thanks. I’ll make it worth ur while. Ur so worth it & hopefully I can prove that I am 2. R xxx’

I sighed – a little louder than I’d intended. The cack-handed attempts at text-speak were so awkward. And three kisses. One could be explained away as casual familiarity; two was optimistic; three, and you knew you were in for a hard sell. Rupert – the R in question – had never had to sell himself hard before. We’d got together at university. It turned out our mamas knew each other. His term, not mine. Mine was lucky if she still got ‘Mummy’.

I’d been with Rupert for four years. It seemed longer. It became a habit. We were expected to go on forever. My parents adored him – more than me, it seemed at times. My friends kept extolling our compatibility. We were certainly well-matched on paper – same sort of education, same Surrey background. When he got a Good Job – i.e. in the City (to my father Good Jobs didn’t exist beyond the City) – then we were expected to marry. He was cute, I can’t deny it. He looked a bit like Laurence Fox, Billie Piper’s husband. (Or more properly, according to my mother, James Fox’s son.)

But something was missing. One day last year, I’d had the courage to admit it. I never quite figured out what it was though, so my courage eventually failed me, and now I was giving him another chance. He’d coaxed and pestered and cajoled and insisted, and now, a year after splitting, was about to give it another go. After all, that was the path I was supposed to take, wasn’t it? And there was a certain comfort in that.

After take-off, I tried to doze for a while, reading occasionally, listening to music. I kept half an eye on the man opposite, despite my best intentions. When the drinks trolley came round, he ordered a gin and tonic. Even that annoyed me. That was my in-flight drink. There are certain drinks that work well in particular situations, which you grow to associate with those situations. For me, on a plane journey, a G and T hit the spot. I associate the taste with popping ears and extreme air conditioning.

The lady crew member stuck her arse in my face as she leant down to continue her flirtation with northern bag man. It gave me a strange satisfaction to notice that he didn’t play up to it. He barely smiled before turning his attention back to his book. I ordered one too, but as she handed it to me the plane jolted suddenly and the gin spilt over my top.

‘Oh, sorry,’ she said with a downward sneer of sham remorse. She handed me a single flimsy paper napkin to wipe it up with.

‘Do you think I could have another gin? This one’s down my front.’

The woman (whose fake boobs were as prominent and obvious as her collagen trout pout) glanced down at my chest (natural, pert, but not overly prominent) with a look conveying, ‘Not much to spill it down, is there?’

Without even looking in my direction she handed me another gin, waving it vaguely in front of me. I snatched it from her.

When she’d moved on, the northern guy looked over and offered me a cloth. I took it with a wary smile. ‘Thanks. That was quite a jolt.’

Just then the plane did it again. A few people screamed. The turbulence continued, juddering and shaking us erratically. ‘Better get that gin down you before the rest ends up in your lap,’ bag man grinned.

The “fasten seat belt” sign flashed on. There came the clinking noise of metal sliding into metal, a rushed domino of sounds echoed through the plane. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, Captain Rhodes here. We’re experiencing some adverse weather conditions at the moment which are resulting in severe turbulence. We’ll drop down to try to avoid it. Nothing to be alarmed about but please remain seated until it passes with your seat belts fastened. It may be quite bumpy for a while.’

He may have told us there was nothing to be alarmed about, but the jolting made a lead weight settle in the pit of my stomach. The woman next to me was clutching the arm of our chairs (which she’d acquisitioned for the entire journey so far) until her knuckles whitened. The plane plummeted suddenly for two seconds which seemed more like minutes. More screams. I gasped, not quite a scream, but panicked enough. I glanced at northern man. He was still reading, apparently oblivious to it all. He turned and raised his eyebrows quizzically. ‘Dried off yet?’

‘It’s quite bad, don’t you think?’

‘What?’ Another huge jolt. More screams.

‘The turbulence.’

‘Yeah. Worst I’ve ever known. Not much we can do about it though.’

‘I admire your insouciance.’

‘If I knew what y’meant, I’d say thanks.’ He smirked. I still found him sexy, even when in peril.

There then came the biggest jolt of the lot. We must have fallen several hundred feet, plunging down through thin air. The screams didn’t stop. I joined them this time. My heart was pounding, my mouth dry. Northern man’s book was ripped from his hands and hit the ceiling, along with cups, food, iPads, and Lego. Then there was a loud thud, as if something large had hit the aircraft. It seemed to be alright after that; things went silent. Completely silent. It soon occurred to me that silence on a plane was not a good thing.

Something hit me from above: the oxygen masks had been released. Desperate hands fumbled to put them on. I was shaking so much it took me several attempts, but I soon had the mask attached.

‘Brace for impact! Brace for impact! Brace for impact! Brace for impact!’ a disembodied voice started repeating over and over across the tannoy. I noticed the cabin crew. The flirtatious steward looked petrified. She was failing to strap herself in due to trembling hands.

I put my head down as far as it would go, resting it on the seatback in front. I felt hands on mine and guiding me to place them, one over the other, on top of my head.

‘Like this. Do it like this. And put your knees together. Tuck your feet back a bit, it’s more effective.’ It was that rich Yorkshire voice again. I believed him. I wanted him to keep talking. His voice alone would keep me safe, it seemed. Only after he’d helped me did he put his own mask on.

And we started to fall. We were steadily but inevitably ploughing towards the ground. Was it ground? Sea? Where were we? The angle wasn’t as steep as I would have thought, but we were going fast, I knew that. The aircraft would break up, surely? The screech of the dying plane was deafening. My ears felt as if they would explode. My whole head felt like it would explode.

So this was the moment when my life stopped going according to plan, when I veered off my chosen path. Only I wasn’t so much veering as hurtling towards a dead end.

I just waited. It was going on and on, it seemed. What else could I do but wait? I waited and wished the screaming would stop. I just waited for it to stop.

It did. Suddenly. There was a noise so loud that it denied me hearing. Had we hit or been hit? I was expecting nothingness, oblivion, emptiness. What did death feel like? I was almost curious.

But there wasn’t emptiness. In fact, sensation had never been so great. In my confusion, I felt everything more. Sound came back, feeling returned. With confused realisation, it dawned on me that I was still alive. Somehow. And I was suddenly very wet. Perhaps it was that gin again, pouring all over me. But then, if I held my head up – I think it was up – there was also a lot of air. Not the dry, recycled air inside an aeroplane, but fresh air, Earth air. I breathed it in gratefully until it was denied me again, profoundly. My mouth was filled with water, warm, salty, thick water. I was surrounded by water, and my ears were hurting again. I was sinking, fast. I was strapped into my seat and being pulled down into an unfathomably deep abyss. I could do nothing. I scrabbled for the seatbelt buckle but in my panic, couldn’t find it. My lungs screamed. My blood pounded. Then hands were on me and they found the buckle and I was free. The same hands held me and together we rose. My lungs clamoured for release but they would have to wait. Up, up … not enough time, not enough time. We were never going to get there. Wasn’t it supposed to get lighter as we approached the surface? For me, it got darker, and darker, then black.

Two

It was hot and dry.

Was Heaven supposed to be hot and dry? I thought that was hell. Shit. Had I been that bad in my short life?

My back was baking as heat poured down onto it. I heard a pounding, drumming sound, but then realised it was the thudding of my head. My mouth was parched and my face felt dry and scratchy. I didn’t want to open my eyes. I didn’t have the courage. Slowly, gingerly, I moved my fingers. Whatever I was lying on felt remarkably like sand. And I could hear something too. Waves. Gentle waves, lapping. It dawned on me slowly that I had, in actual fact, survived. This wasn’t heaven, hell, or any other unimaginable afterlife; this was land, and I was alive.

At last I dared blink my eyes open. For a moment, in the confusion and haze, I thought I was back in the Maldives. There was fine white sand, palm trees, the gentle slapping of water on the shore. I tried to make sense of it. Had I dreamt it all? Had I ever got on the plane?

I tried to push myself up but a searing pain shot through my side and my right arm. I cried out as brightness flashed behind my eyes and I slumped back into the sand.

‘Don’t try to move too quickly. You’re all right, but you’ve bashed yerself up good and proper.’

I knew that voice. Where had I heard it before?

‘I want to … I want to turn over,’ I stuttered.

‘Alright. We’ll try. Easy does it.’ Hands, reassuring in their strength but calming in their tenderness, eased me over. Pain again. Acute, throbbing pain. I sucked in with the agony of it and squeezed my eyes shut. But I was over, on my back. I blinked open my eyes.

Perhaps I was in Heaven after all, because the Archangel Michael was staring down at me. Hewn face, thick hair, blue eyes, strong neck supported by broad shoulders. It was a face and body that could slay any dragon.

‘There we go. Take it easy. It’s possible you’ve cracked a rib, but I reckon you’re just bruised. You’ve got off lightly, believe me.’

‘Am I alive?’ I felt a bit drunk. I still couldn’t sort the mash-up of confusion in my throbbing head.

The angel smiled. ‘Yeah, you are. You and me. We made it.’

I looked at him more steadily. ‘I know you. Big Bag Man.’

He smiled again. ‘That’s the one.’

‘Did you … was it you …? My seatbelt. I couldn’t undo it … Did you …?’

‘The fuselage sheared off right in front of us. Managed to get to you just in time. Nearly lost you. I swam in with you. Took a while. We were a long way out.’

I looked up at him. His head blocked out the sun but it shone around him, giving him an ethereal glow.

‘You’re my angel.’

‘Nah. Just lucky enough to get my hands on you. Not so lucky with the rest.’ His voice grew solemn.

It was all coming back. The plane. The crash. I glanced about. We were on a shore somewhere; palm trees, sand, a hill behind us, rocky outcrops. But it was quiet. Where were the others?

‘Where is everyone?’

He came and sat beside me, and stared out to sea but said nothing. My heart started to pound. ‘But … the plane was full … we survived … where are the others? There will be others. There must be others.’

He shook his head slowly. ‘Nobody else has come ashore alive. Not that I can tell anyway. I’ve …’

His voice trailed off again and he glanced over to a wooded area far to the right.

‘What?’

‘I’ve pulled ashore those I could.’

‘Those you could?’ My mouth grew even drier.

‘Six so far.’

‘D … dead?’

He nodded, looking back out to sea.

‘I’ve buried them under branches. I’ll try to dig a trench later. Keep them safe until we’re rescued.’

‘But … we can’t be the only ones … we can’t be.’ My mind was numb.

‘Crazy, isn’t it? But that’s what it seems. The fuselage cracked right where we were sat so we could escape. That must’ve protected us from the impact too. We just … dunno … got lucky. I tried to get to some others, but …’ He fell silent for a moment, then looked up again. ‘There don’t seem to be no more islands round here. Hopefully some others came ashore elsewhere, but it’s not a big island, and I haven’t heard anything.’

‘But where are we? An island? What if they don’t . . .