Netta took in her surroundings. The bin fire her life had become was so at odds with this idyllic setting that it was almost offensive. Happy families on the beach. Kids laughing. Seagulls squawking. The bloody sun shining. It was all sorude.
‘I know this might be too early,’ said Freya, ‘but this break-up of yours has been spectacularly timed.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Imean, you’re leaving the country next week to meet Morrison Maplestone, Netta. Imean, now that you’re single, you’ll be able to doallthe sex with him.’ She waggled her eyebrows.
A snort exploded from Netta’s nose. ‘Oh my God. I’m not going to sleep with him! Get a grip! I don’t want anything to do with any celebrity, ever again. That particular lesson is not one I need to learn twice.’
‘Sleeping is the last thing I’d like to do with Morrison Maplestone,’ said Freya, ignoring Netta’s protests. ‘Sexing is what I’d like to do with him. But given I can’t and you can, you must. You simply must.’ She clutched Netta’s shoulder and gave her a gentle shake. ‘It is your solemn duty.’ She released her grip and took Netta’s hand in hers. ‘But seriously, maybe this whole thing has happened at the exact right time. Maybe—’ she paused for dramatic effect, ‘—you found that diaryfor a reason.’
Netta closed her eyes and tipped her face to the sun, breathed in its warmth, and turned to smile wryly at her friend. ‘Oh, yeah, sure. Maybe this whole ridiculous fiasco is written in my stars,’ she said, theatrically twinkling her fingers up at the sky.
Netta knew Freya was just teasing, but maybe she was on the money. Maybe Netta did need this trip to be able to move forward, and not just in the financial sense or to forget about Pete. She’d been ignoring her time in London—burying it—for years now, but that hadn’t made it go away. Maybe the future she wanted depended on facing the past she’d been trying to forget.
Chapter Eleven
NETTA
First-class travel was something Netta could get used to. Very, very easily. She’d farewelled her students as they skipped off into the Christmas holidays and had flown out horrifically early the next morning. Aside from the sharp splinters of broken heart still lodged painfully in her chest, the flight to London had been a very pretty cocktail of expensive wine and restaurant-worthy food. The armchair seat in her personal travel pod was outrageously comfortable and, to Netta’s delight, had a massage function. Any future flights in economy would be even more torturous now that she knew what was going on at the front of the plane.
As the aircraft began its descent into Heathrow, Netta stretched her arms and legs and ran her hands once again over the soft leather seat. Despite its comfort, she hadn’t slept much. She’d done her best to distract herself with movies but the melodrama her life had become had played on a loop in her mind with cinematic accuracy instead, every detail perfectly lit, every angle covered. It seemed the vast distance between her and home had made no difference to her head—it was still full of worry, still desperately grabbing for ways to pull her life back together. It was dizzying how quickly she’d gone from being in a relationship and trying for a baby to being single and sleeping on Freya’s couch.
As the plane nudged the runway, Netta gazed through the window at the grey weather shrouding Heathrow, its icy teeth already gnawing at her skin despite the cabin’s controlled temperature. The seatbelt sign turned off but Netta remained glued to her armchair, frozen by the magnitude of her return to London and the absurd reason for it. She watched as her fellow first-class passengers left the plane in clouds of expensive fragrance, then reached inside her handbag to reassure herself, for what was probably the hundredth time since she’d left Melbourne, that the diary hadn’t magically vaporised. A thrill raced through her as her fingers closed around it. What on earth did it contain that Morrison Maplestone would be willing to go to such lengths—and such huge expense—to have it returned unread?
‘Did you have a good flight, Miss Phillips?’
Netta was pulled from her thoughts by the gentle purr of the flight attendant’s voice, her face and hair mystifyingly still as immaculate as they had been at take-off.
‘Oh, yes! My first time in first class.’
‘Aha! You’ll never go back now,’ said the attendant with a wink. ‘They don’t have the good stuff back there. Now, let me help you with your bag. I’m sure you’re keen to get into London and start your Christmas holiday!’
Netta walked through the terminal to the baggage claim amid a soupy fog of dread, surreptitiously looking around as she waited for her suitcase to check if anyone had recognised her. Last time she’d been at Heathrow, she’d been running away. Being back again brought a sickening sense of déjà vu and she couldn’t wait to get the hell out of there. Dragging her suitcase from the conveyor belt, Netta hurried to the arrivals gate.
Morrison had said there would be a driver at the airport to meet her, and sure enough, as soon as Netta passed through the gate, she saw a sign bearing her name above the crowd of people waiting to be reunited with their loved ones: empty-nest parents straining to catch a glimpse of their kids returning home for Christmas, lovers agonising through the last few seconds before they could kiss the lips they’d been missing so much, and children holding hand-painted signs welcoming their grandparents.
She nudged through the throngs towards the sign, to find the person holding it was a woman who looked nothing like the neatly suited driver Netta had been imagining. She was in her fifties, Netta guessed, her softly rounded face seemingly untouched by Botox and fillers, instead exuding an arresting quality that demanded far more attention than manufactured beauty. Impeccably sculpted brows arched over eyes that looked as though they’d miss nothing, and her hair was a deep shade of berry, its volume defying gravity and giving her short frame a good ten centimetres of extra height. She wore chunky glasses in a bright shade of blue and her earlobes were weighed down by a pair of giant earrings in the shape of the iconic Rolling Stones tongue. Her sharply tailored black blazer contrasted with the vintage NYC T-shirt she had on underneath, which she’d tucked into a pair of metallic silver cigarette pants that stopped at her ankles to showcase the chunky tartan loafers on her feet. She was magnificent.
‘Netta?’ The woman’s bangles jangled as she lowered the sign and tucked it under her arm.
Netta smiled nervously. ‘That’s me!’
‘I’m Rhona.’ She extended her bejewelled hand to shake Netta’s. ‘Mo thought it might be nicer if I came for you. Hope that’s okay.’
‘Oh, thank you. I would’ve been happy just to take the train. I hope you haven’t gone too far out of your way.’
‘Not at all. And no more talk of public transport. You’re a guest of Morrison, and that, my dear, comes with some advantages. Let’s get to the car, shall we?’
***
Netta settled into the buttery leather of the Merc’s passenger seat and reached for the bag at her feet. ‘Should I give you the diary now?’
‘No, no,’ Rhona said. ‘He wants to get it from you himself.’
‘Really?’
‘Really. I offered to drop it over to his house but he insisted it had to be him who collected it.’
