by Demelza Hart
‘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.
‘Come on, Callie, come on,’ he whispered in my ear. ‘My girl, come for me.’
I placed my palm over the back of his hand as it moved, wanting to feel the power which would bring me such pleasure. It built fast and suddenly, shifting from that warm, relaxed shimmer into the coiling, twisting rise to inevitable rapture.
When his middle finger compressed my clit, I caught my breath, clenched my fingers on his hand, and came. I tried to cling onto that first moment when you feel an orgasm. You want it to last forever, you want to freeze time, but it is as elusive as a butterfly’s spirit. And it was again. After that fragile moment of wonder, it changed to grow and billow out until it overwhelmed me completely and I bucked in my seat, my back arching forward in a spasm, my neck straining. I managed to remain silent, and let the heavy seep of satisfaction eke its way into my bones.
‘Shhh,’ hushed Paul. And with that I drifted into sleep.
<
br /> Eight
I awoke to whispering voices, the sort of whisper that gave a nod to your continuing sleep, but really wanted you to wake up. A stage whisper.
Emma was talking to Paul. ‘We should probably wake her now. We’ll be landing in about half an hour.’
‘Hmm?’ I queried, sitting up quickly as consciousness returned with a rush. Paul’s hand was immediately on my arm, pulling me back carefully.
‘It’s all right. There’s no hurry,’ he soothed.
Emma qualified by saying, ‘Well, I want to give her time to sort her head out.’
‘She’s fine.’ His tone was emphatic.
I slumped back, eyes still closed.
Emma continued, her voice softer now. ‘I hope you don’t mind me asking, but are you two an item?’
I held my breath but didn’t open my eyes. What would he say? He mustn’t say yes, that would mean all sorts of horrific complications.
It seemed an age before he answered.
‘No. But when you’ve been through something like that, it can be comforting to know the other person’s around. Nothing more than that.’
Nothing more than that. Now he’d said it, I was disappointed. God, it was all too confusing. I wanted him. I didn’t want to want him. I knew I shouldn’t want him and I still wanted him. His concern and affection for me was clear, so it was best to retreat. That’s what I did best, after all. When the going gets tough, Callie Frobisher pulls down the shutters in good family tradition.
I inhaled deeply and pulled myself off his shoulder.
‘Slept like a baby, you did,’ smiled Paul.
‘Did I?’ I replied, looking not at him but at Emma. ‘I feel OK now. Thanks for everything.’ I deliberately avoided so much as a glance at him.
Emma smiled. ‘We’re arriving in half an hour or so. I just wanted some time for you to collect your thoughts. We weren’t planning on masking you completely when you step off the plane. The media are far enough away not to harass you, but they will be able to take plenty of pictures. Just go straight down the steps and into the car waiting for you. I’d just keep your head down and walk. You can wear these caps if you want. Shield you from prying eyes.’
Paul took his gratefully and Emma held mine out to me. A baseball cap. Urgh. Did I have to?
‘That’s OK, I won’t bother with the cap. My hair’ll probably blow all over the place. That’ll do.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes. Have our names been released to the press?’
‘They have. No photos though. We’ve stopped that at the moment.’
‘Well, they’ll get one sooner or later, I suppose.’
‘They don’t have to, Callie,’ Paul said calmly.
I flitted my eyes to him. My clit throbbed again. I turned to look out of the window, guilty about what I must do. Emma left us to gather her things. ‘Helped you sleep, didn’t I?’ asked Paul, soft and low.
He certainly had. I glanced at his hands, those long, magical fingers. Would I really not feel them again? I didn’t reply.
‘Were it nice?’
‘Paul …’ I looked at him. ‘You know how I love it, but I told you – I have another life to go back to, another man to go back to. What happened between us happened because of the crash and the island and all that. It could never work back here.’
He was silent for a time, the muscle in his jaw flexing and unflexing obviously. ‘You know that’s crap, don’t you?’
My eyes narrowed in annoyance. ‘It’s not crap. We’re completely different people. I’ve got the sort of life you’d hate.’
‘How d’you know that?’
‘I just do. It’s obvious. And anyway, there’s Rupert.’
He scoffed. ‘Rupert? What is he? A fuckin’ bear with a scarf?’
‘Don’t you dare! Rupert is a lovely guy.’
‘Lovely? Sorry if I don’t do lovely.’
‘Stop it. Let’s not do this now. I couldn’t cope with a new relationship when I’ve got the trauma of coming home to deal with too.’
‘I could help you with that. You know I could. We worked so well on the island, Callie, you know we did. And the sex … bloody hell, that were the best ever. Don’t tell me you’ve ever had it so good.’
‘You arrogant shit! How do you know I’ve never had it so good?’
‘Well, you haven’t, have you?’
I opened my mouth to retort, but it was true – I hadn’t. Luckily, at that moment, the captain announced that we would shortly be landing. I stared out at the gentle rolling green of England. Somewhere down there were my parents. Somewhere down there was Rupert and normality.
Paul and I didn’t speak for the rest of the trip. My hands grew clammy again as landing approached, but I clasped them together, not letting them stray towards him as I so wanted to do.
We touched down smoothly, and when the plane finally finished taxiing, came to a standstill, and the engines shut down, I breathed out a huge sigh and felt a rush of tears. I had done it. My feet were on the ground again.
Paul reached over for my hand, but I undid my seatbelt and stood up quickly. He gave a rueful smirk and stood too. It didn’t take long for the steps to be joined to the plane and the door to be opened.
‘Ready?’ asked Emma. We nodded. Paul pulled his cap over his eyes. I didn’t bother. It was quite exciting in a way. The last time I’d been in the papers was when I gave the Head Girl’s speech on Leavers’ Day at school.
We shuffled down the aisle and reached the steps. I thanked the captain warmly and took hold of the railing. ‘Don’t look up. Keep your head down and go straight into the car at the bottom,’ instructed Emma.
The open back door of a black BMW awaited us at the bottom. I did as she said. From far off to my left I heard a faint mechanised rippling sound, which I later realised was hundreds of shutters going off over and over again. I hurried down the steps and into the car. Paul followed me.
‘Bloody press. Can’t stand the lot of them,’ he mumbled.
‘It’s understandable that they’re interested in us.’
‘Yeah … interested in what, though?’
I shrugged. ‘Never mind that now.’
I strained forward, desperate to see where we were going, desperate for a glimpse of my parents. We were taken to a low military building just off the runway and away from the press. After being ushered through a few small corridors, we were shown into a large, bare room. Standing in the middle, her hands clutched, her face tense with anticipation, stood my mother. Beside her, just as strained but holding himself tall, was my father. I was back to coming home after my first day at school. I had never known relief and happiness like it. I screamed, ‘Mummy!’ at the top of my voice and hurled myself into her waiting arms. My father came around behind me and together they enclosed me completely.
We stood like that for goodness knows how long, not speaking, just weeping and holding each other. Eventually, my parents set up a mantra of murmuring, 'My darling, my darling, my girl, my girl.’ I just carried on crying. When at last I pulled away and was able to look away from the reality of my parents’ faces, my gaze immediately fell on Paul. He was sitting quietly at the back of the room with an elderly man, frail and wearing a fading suit which probably fitted him fifteen years ago, but which now hung off his scrawny frame like a child dressing up. They were holding hands, and occasionally smiling or passing a couple of words between them. It must be his father. The quiet affection between them was heart-rending. I thought about how this man had denied his son the education he deserved, but there was clearly no resentment or bad feeling. Love for his father shone from every pore.
‘Have you been drinking enough?’
I tuned back into my mother’s voice. In her opinion, all of life’s woes could be solved if we all drank plenty of water. I nodded with a smile. ‘We had a whole catering trolley available to us. We were fine, and then we were picked up. I haven’t really suffered like that at all.’
&nb
sp; ‘Like that? How else did you suffer? That man? The one you were with. Did he try anything?’
‘No!’ I rolled my eyes. ‘Mother!’
‘Hmm. He looks decent enough, I suppose. Still, you can never tell.’
‘Mother! Paul’s lovely.’ Lovely. He’d hate to be called lovely. But he was. The loveliest. I tutted at my own weakness and turned fully away from him.
My mother sighed. ‘They’re letting me take you home but I’ve got to put up with some bloody awful counsellor or something. Really. I can give you all the counselling you need. They keep banging on about stress debugging or something.’
‘Debriefing. It’s standard procedure, has to be done.’
‘And then there’s the media.’
My father hadn’t said much but at this point cleared his throat disdainfully.
‘What about them?’ I asked.
‘I had This Morning on the phone the other day, and Sky and the BBC. Oh, and even the Gazette!’ Even the Gazette. The local rag. To my mother, if the Gazette was interested, then mega-stardom really did beckon.
‘They can wait a bit.’
‘Oh, but do talk to them at some point, darling. They won’t leave us alone. It’s all been somewhat trying.’
‘I’m sorry.’ Here I was, back from surviving an air crash and being stranded on a desert island, and I was already the one doing the comforting.
‘Is …?’ I glanced around.
‘What, sweetie?’
‘Is Rupert here?’
My parents exchanged a brief look, similar to ones they’d done when I opened a hoped-for Christmas present. ‘He did ask to but we were the only ones allowed here. Sorry, darling.’
Relief careened through me, and that caused shock too. I covered it by giving my mother a meek smile. ‘I understand.’
‘He’s been calling and calling. It’ll be something of a relief that you can talk to him now. It’s been a little insistent. You will …?’
‘What?’
‘You will sort it out with him soon, won’t you? Poor boy, you have run him a merry dance, Callie.’
‘Mum, not now.’