Page 3 of Stuck in Paradise with You

Hencewhy I am in serious need of a nap en route to the airport. I double check I have my e-boarding cards and my passport, hope again that I’ve packed appropriate luggage for aCaribbean resort in early September, but one at which I’ll be engaged as a professional, and lean my head against the cool window for a few long blinks.

‘Would you like me to draw up the divider, Ms Briggs?’ the driver asks. He’s all fancily clad in a black suit, shirt and tie.

‘That would be lovely, thank you.’

By the time I open my eyes, we’re slowing to a stop outside my airport terminal. The driver opens my door before I even have a chance to unfasten my seatbelt and I step out of the car to a trolley that’s already being loaded with my luggage.

I’m whisked through the airport and security and taken to a first-class lounge, where I’m placed on a high seat at a champagne bar and poured a flute of Krug bubbles. All the while, referred to only as Ms Briggs.

I know this isn’t what Callum meant when he said there must be more to life than travelling from place to place and working long hours. He wants me to have a someone, to let someone in.

But right now, this all feels pretty great to me.

Far, far safer than heartbreak.

I’m one of the first passengers on the plane and, like my fellow, unbelievably fancy class flyers, I’m given a tour of our reserved areas of the aircraft. My seat fully reclines into a flat bed and I’m assured the four-course meal I will be served is fine dining. I’m shown to two social areas – a hangout and a bar – and provided with complimentary loungewear to change into and save my own white pinstripe, high-waisted shorts and matching jacket from the perils of travel.

I wouldn’t ordinarily fly in white but deciding on an outfit that works for the heat of the Caribbean and looks business professional was no easy feat.

On the rare occasion I take a vacation, I get out of the USA, away from it all. If Callum and I take a sunshine holiday, the packing is easy. Even easier if I book myself an adventure break somewhere like Fiji or New Zealand.

With my cabin baggage stowed, I take a seat at the bar. While the remainder of the passengers are boarded, I eat caviar and enjoy my glass of fizz. The whole experience is remarkable. Very much how the other half live. So far, this last-minute trip isn’t too much of an imposition.

‘Cabin crew, cross check and seats for takeoff,’ the captain announces.

I take my own seat inside my personal cubicle and flick through the entertainment offering, settling on a country music album, despite my inclination to enjoy a movie, because I really ought to research a little about Joe Hettich and his empire.

From my leather laptop carrier (a treat to self from last year’s bonus), I take the wad of documents my secretary emergency couriered to my apartment about Mr Hettich’s businesses. But first, I open my laptop, sign in to Wi-Fi, and head to my client’s website.

As I scroll to the bottom of the main page and clickAbout Us, my country music is switched to the airline’s safety briefing, and the corresponding video appears on my inflight screen.

Only, I can’t focus on the video that is awash with celebrity cameos because another face draws my attention much more.

On my laptop screen is a photographed image of the relatively recently appointed CFO of Hettich’s empire. And it feels as if his topaz-blue eyes are staring into mine.

Luke.

I look back at his picture, my heartrate skyrocketing, my insides leaping like a thousand frogs are bouncing around in there.

And if he’s the CFO, then the person I’m set to have business meetings with this week is also?—

I unbuckle my seat belt and call for an air stewardess as I haphazardly stuff my belongings back into my cabin luggage.

‘Excuse me! Excuse me, I need to get off this plane!’

A young, blonde stewardess rushes my way. ‘Ms Briggs, you need to take your seat for takeoff.’

‘I’m sorry, I can’t. I need to get off the plane.’ I lock my laptop case, ready to go. Ready to run from a collision with a ghost from my past. My biggest ever mistake.

She places a gentle yet firm hand on my forearm. ‘Ms Briggs, we’re already moving. I’m going to need you to take your seat.’

When I glance through the small oval window, I see we’re taxiing.

Holy Mother of All Things Fucked.

3

LUKE

---