by Lexi Duval
It wasn't the storm that sent the plane down, as both Flint and I had speculated. The bad weather certainly contributed, but it was a fault in the left engine that caused it to fail and which, given the adverse weather and heavy turbulence, led to the pilot losing control of the plane.
From there, the pilot lost his ability to maintain altitude, and being so far from any potential landing strip, was forced to make an emergency landing on the ocean. The weather, however, had created a raging tumult and it was impossible to land flat.
So the plane crashed, tore apart at the fuselage, and sucked most of the passengers and crew down. Only Flint and I escaped, drifting away on the metal raft that ripped away from the body of the plane.
The bodies were recovered by divers, the sea relatively shallow where the plane hit, and funerals were held for all but us. For months they searched, scouring the islands for something, but could never find us.
And all it really took was a chance passing by a fishing boat to find us lying there on the beach. Flint's body giving out, my mind passing away with him. They saved us, took us to Fiji where we could be airlifted to a suitable hospital to cater to Flint's needs.
He'd been at death's door for a while and, as I 'd thought, his strength had seen death off. He'd clung on just long enough for the doctors and nurses in Sydney to save his life.
“But really,” the liaison concludes, “it was you who saved his life.”
He wraps things up, and leaves me alone once more, and tears roll down my cheeks. Tears of relief for being back and relief that Flint will live. And tears of hope, that what we had on the island won't now slip away. That our lives won't split us up, drag us apart and leave me alone in this world once more.
And that night I sleep with more peaceful images in my head. The smell of the salt air. The sound of the gentle, lapping water. The feel of the warm sun on my naked skin, of Flint's hand caressing my body in the safety of our little shack.
And already, I begin to miss the world that had become our haven, our prison, an island that kept us alive but wouldn't let us truly live.
A perfect paradise that gave me some perfect moments. And I wonder if life will ever be the same again.
Chapter Two
When I learn that Flint is out of surgery, and I can see him, my heart fills with joy and nerves all at the same time. Already, I can see the presence of the world's press lingering around, trying to get into the hospital to take pictures of us, trying to interview the doctors and nurses treating us.
There have been a few official words about the state of Flint Young, the world famous billionaire in this story that has gripped the planet.
And then there's me. The unknown girl who got stranded with a billionaire. The girl who's now as famous as a movie star and who's story everyone wants to hear.
Yet, I'm not ready to tell it.
Not yet. Not until I see Flint and share some privacy with him.
“Be prepared for a lot of media attention,” I'm told. “You're the girl of the moment. You're as famous as the Queen of England.”
Fame was never something I wanted, and now it's been thrust upon me. I've gone from being the most solitary person in the world, to being one of the most famous, and I know it's going to take a lot of getting used to.
I walk down the corridor, wearing a fresh outfit that had been delivered to me, and feeling as nervous as I ever have. Nervous because I'm scared that seeing Flint now, back in the real world, will be different.
Was our love merely based on our loneliness. Were we forced together through necessity?
As I approach Flint's room, I'm stopped by a doctor. He pulls me up, and speaks to me before I enter.
“I need to prepare you for what you're going to see. Mr Young's right lower leg had been damaged beyond repair. If we'd got to him quickly, we could have set the bone. But, it was too late...”
“What do you mean?”
He takes a breath.
“I'm afraid we had to amputate his lower leg below the knee.”
A pulse of shock runs through me.
“There was nothing else we could have done.”
I nod, and tell the doctor thank you for informing me. And then, steadying my nerve, I step inside the room.
Flint lies in bed, his body covered in sheets. He's still got his beard, dominating his lower face. I see the shape of his legs beneath the sheets, the fabric going flat where his right leg stops at the knee. I step forward, and his eyes lift immediately to mine, and I see them as bright and as blue as ever.
The widest smile graces his face, and I quicken my pace toward him.
“Lib...” he says, and I fall into his arms and feel the tears running quickly down my cheeks as my eyes blur.
We hug each other more firmly than ever, and I feel his strong grip returning, his vigor coming back to him.
I pull back, and snake my eyes to his leg.
“You leg...I'm so sorry, Flint.”
He shakes his head, and runs his fingers through my hair.
“No, Lib....I'm alive. That's all that matters. I'm alive because of you.”
He hugs me again, and kisses me passionately, and all my fears drift away. We slot back into each other like two people destined to be together. Two people now inseparable and eternally bonded through a shared experience.
“You saved my life, Libby. I'll never be able to thank you enough.”
“I didn't do anything. You saved your own life. You hung on.”
“I hung on for you.”
He kisses me again, and I pray that I never have to be apart from him, even for a second.
But still my eyes drift town to his leg again, and my tears start to flow once more.
“It's OK, Libby, it's fine. I still have my knee, that's the main thing. I can get a prosthetic, it will be as good as new.”
His words bring some solace to me, and I feel as if I'm mourning the loss of his limb more than he is.
“It's only a small part of me. The rest is fine.”
He wipes a tear from my compassionate eyes, and turns the conversation on me.
“How are you,” he asks.
“I'm fine. They just have me here for observation...”
“And are you ready for what's coming?”
He gazes at me questioningly, with eyes that tell me he's going to be with my every single step of the way.
“Probably not,” I say, hoping my doubt will keep him near.
“I'm used to the public eye, Lib, but you're not. They're going to want to hear about everything. They're going to try to get you on chat shows and they'll start looking into your life. In fact, they will have already done that when they were searching for us. You've been famous for months now, without even knowing it.”
“But, I don't want to be famous. I just want to get on with my life.”
“It will blow over. The world is always looking for a great story, and this is yours, ours. Give them what they want for now, and soon they'll leave you alone.”
He's talking from experience, so I don't question him. I know that they're going to plaster us all over the papers, hound me everywhere I go. It's the nature of celebrity – everyone feels they have the right to know you, when they don't.
My life, though, will never be the same again. It may blow over, but because it's Flint, people will always remember this. He's a world famous billionaire, and now the survivor of a plane crash and an extended stay on a tropical island. And I'll always be linked to that, whether I like it or not.
I stay with Flint, in his room, lying against his chest, for as long as I can. Outside, I know the rumors will have stared about a romance between us. If not within the press, then certainly among the hospital staff who pass by and see us so closely tied together.
But Flint doesn't seem to care, even through he knows what the press can be like. He holds my hand, and kisses me even with a nurse present in the room, and when I'm told to leave, he tells them that I can stay with him, in his bed.
Clearly used to giving orders, they deny this request however, needing to follow the hospital rules. Flint doesn't make a fuss. He just lets me go and tells me that he's OK again. But more than that, he always asks if I'm OK.
Because he knows that, while I may not be physically scarred, the mental scars may last a lifetime.
Chapter Three
I stay in the hospital longer than I'm due.
Flint remains under supervision by the medical staff, but I'm fit and ready to return to the real world, physically at least.
But I don't leave, and Flint pulls some string to ensure that I stay with him and only leave when he does. We're both moved to a private wing of the hospital where we can stay in the same room and have some time alone away from prying eyes.
After several days, Flint's libido seems to be firing on all cylinders once more, proving that he's getting back to full health, loss of lower right leg notwithstanding.
Gently, we begin making love once more in his luxury private room. At night he calls for complete isolation from the hospital staff, and they grant him his wish.
With no one to worry about, and only the two of us together once more, we fall straight back into the routine we enjoyed on the island. He fucks me with vigor, feeling more alive than ever, thankful for this second shot at life.
At first, I'm still struggling to catch up, still struggling to balance my emotions. But soon, I push it all to the back of my head and enjoy the time we have together, in this new hospital haven of ours.
I ride him on his hospital bed, facing him and leaning my breasts down for him to suck. Our bodies remain deeply tanned, his face still shrouded in the beard he's yet to shave off. I imagine us in the surf, or in our shack, or at the top of the beach under the treeline, riding him in the soft sand with the sun on my back.
Those were the days I'll remember most fondly. Those days when we forgot about the world and could only see each other. When we hunted and fished together, cooking our food on the fire and fucking under the stars.
So when I ride him in that hospital bed, kissing his bearded face and running my fingers through his wavy hair, I close my eyes and think of the sound of the sea. I think of the touch of sand. I think of the cawing of birds and the clicking of insects and the gentle rustle of palm leaves in the breeze.
And when we're done, when we've maxed out our lust, I lie against his toned, lean body and tell him I love him. And he tells me it back.
For a week we live like that, and by the end we're reminiscing about our time together. We look back on both the joy and the pain, the feeling of love that developed offset against the pain of losing friends and colleagues, the pain of missing family, the growing anguish at our isolation.
And as we work through the experience together we decide what the world should know, and what it shouldn't. We know that questions will be asked about our relationship, and we decide to tell the full truth.
That from the disaster we saw light, and that light was each other.
But we'll leave out any mention of sex. We'll say that we grew as companions and, from there, a love grew against all expectation, and we now share a bond that is unbreakable.
“They might try to break it,” Flint tells me.
He's been playing the game long enough to know that the press love to raise up a hero, and then drag him down again.
“They'll bring up my past,” he adds, with a hint of resignation.
“I don't care about your past,” I counter.
And I know I won't, because I already know it. I knew Flint before I ever met him on the island. I knew his public profile, his playboy status. But none of that was real. None of that was the man I fell in love with.
And none of it matters to me.
“And what about you?” he asks. “Are there any skeletons they'll drag up for you?”
“I've already told you everything about my life.”
“Then be prepared for the sympathy angle,” he says. “They'll talk about how hard your life has been, with you losing your parents, struggling to find a place in the world, and then getting stranded on that island. That's the slant they'll use. It's the slant they're already using.”
He looks and me, and goes on to tell me that he's read the news, looked back on the coverage around us and the plane crash for the last few months.
He takes me through it, shows me what he's gathered on his iPad, and I learn what he's already told me: that I'm world famous, I just don't realize it yet.
A couple of days later, the doctors give Flint the all clear, and begin bringing in specialists to talk to him more about his disability and the various types of prosthetic legs he can use.
I stay by his side during it all, and know that for a man with the financial clout of Flint Young, even having an amputated leg isn't going to be much of a problem. He can afford the best care and the best treatment, and as soon as the swelling goes down he'll be cast with something that will keep him living a regular life without being confined to a wheelchair.
For now, though, that's what he's using to get around, and when we finally leave the hospital together, he does so seated.
We prepare our opening statement to the press, and Flint makes sure to do most of the talking. Press from across the globe crowd and clamor for a good spot, desperate for a scoop.
But Flint is natural and calm, not getting flustered by something he's so used to. By the looks of things, he seems to be enjoying it. Better to be hounded by the press for living through a plane crash and being stranded on a tropical island than for being a playboy.
Once he's given his statement, the throng hammer in with a thousand questions, many of which are aimed at me. Microphones are thrust in my face, but Flint takes control once more.
“We will give our full story when we're ready. For now, we're not taking any questions.”
With that, several bodyguards guide us through the crowd and into a waiting car, and for the first time in over 6 months I feel the motion of a vehicle and see the streets of a city.
I look out on Sydney, and my mind turns to Benjy once more. He'd been so excited to see the city again, but that hope, along with all the rest, was dashed and cut short. And right then, I resolve to be more like him. To see the world, enjoy every day I'm on it, and make sure my life is as full as possible so that I live for him, and for all the others who died that day.
Soon we leave the city, and arrive at a gated mansion on its outskirts, fitted with pools and tennis courts and fast cars. Flint looks with a moment of melancholy over the sporting facilities, perhaps wondering if he'll ever be able to play tennis again or swim again in the way that he used to.
But it's nothing more than a passing look, and his face lights up with we exit the car and he looks upon his Australian home.
“You see, nothing like the Playboy Mansion,” he says with a smile as we enter and he shows me around. The place is large, palatial, but with a comforting and homely feel to it.
When we come to the stairs, Flint quips that we'll have to get disability ramps installed if he stays in this wheelchair any longer. Then he steps out of it, unfolds a futuristic pair of clutches, and begins hoping up the stairs one by one.
And not once does he complain.
I follow, and he shows me the rest of the house, and immediately we settle into his bed and enjoy all of the comforts of home, and each other.
And when evening begins to fall we open up his barbecue by the pool, cook fish like we did on the island, and sit with our legs in the water, gazing up at the stars above.
“There aren't as many of them here,” I muse, noting the lower density of celestial lights. “Do you think you'd ever want to go back?”
“To the island?”
I nod, and he considers my question for a moment, and then asks me it back.
“Would you?”
I look at the sky again, and think of the perfect nights we shared alone, away from the world.
“I think so. If only to visit.�
�
“Then so would I,” he says, and we kiss under the starlight.
Chapter Four
Each day, the press come to the gates of the mansion seeking more of the story. The guards keep them at bay, however, as we decide what to do.
“They'll all want exclusives,” Flint explains. “Every one of them is dying to get the first interview.”
At the moment, only bits and pieces are coming out. They know the obvious details – where we crashed, where we ended up, how long we were on the island for. They also know that we both spend time in hospital, and that Flint Young, world famous billionaire, is now a cripple.
One night, we watch the news and even see that reporters have gone to the island itself. When I see pictures of our shack, of our fire pit, of the tree where we cut the dates into the bark, I break down and cry.
I can't tell what it is. Emotion at escaping the place, or a desire to go back there? Right now, my head is a bag of cats and I don't know what's going on inside it.
Eventually, we decide to offer the story to a friend of Flint's who he's known for some time. A chat show host with a strong sense of integrity who will be willing to play to the script and not probe with inappropriate questions.
That last one is important to me, because a rumor has already leaked out about the nature of our relationship.
“Probably someone from the hospital,” Flint says, seemingly unconcerned.
A couple of trashy magazines who have always liked pointing out Flint's fondness for the ladies, begin jumping on the story. They say that, even lost on a tropical island, Flint Young is able to find a beautiful young girl to bed.
He laughs it off, but the idea that the entire world is talking about me and Flint makes me more that a little bit disconcerted.
So, we prepare for the interview, with the host, Donald Marsh, coming to the house to talk with us in private. We do a trial run, covering the meat of it all, and I'm given some coaching as to how to deal with the public and deliver my answers in a way that's endearing.