A Twist of Fate

by Demelza Hart

  ‘It’s good to see you.’ I tried to mean it.

  ‘I got you a dry white – it’s Pinot Grigio, I think – that all right?’

  Actually, I’d just wanted a Coke; I’d forgotten how Rupert always ordered presumptuously for me. He’d forgotten how I’d railed at him before for doing so. I just smiled and said, ‘Fine, thanks.’

  I sat down, leaving nearly a foot between us. Rupert shuffled a little nearer. ‘So …’ he said with an awkward laugh.

  ‘Here we are.’

  ‘You look amazing. You did on the TV. I couldn’t believe it was you. I was so proud of you.’

  I’m not yours to be proud of, I wanted to say.

  ‘It was a bit weird, all that. Everything’s been weird since coming back. I feel as if I’m in a bit of a dream.’

  ‘I’m sure, I’m sure.’ He nodded in sympathy. I looked away. ‘They asked you a lot about that Paul bloke.’

  ‘Well, they would.’

  ‘Seemed obsessed with the idea that you two …’

  ‘What?’ I was daring him to voice it. I took a perverse pleasure from seeing him squirm.

  ‘You know … something happened between you on the island.’

  ‘They were curious about that, yes.’

  There was an awkward silence. Awkward for Rupert, anyway. I didn’t mind it.

  Rupert gave an embarrassed laugh and swept his hair back. ‘Nothing did happen, did it?’

  ‘Nope.’ Lying was easier at this stage.

  ‘And anyway, we’re …’

  ‘What?’

  ‘We’re back together.’

  ‘Rupert …’

  ‘We said when you came back. I thought you could move back in if you wanted.’

  ‘Rupert, it’s going to take a while. I’m not ready for that.’

  ‘But you still want it?’ He sounded like a little boy.

  I searched his face; so open and hoping, so pretty and easy. I’d loved it before, why not again?

  I nodded and smiled reassuringly. He reached for my hand and I let him take it. ‘Just give me some time.’

  ‘OK, of course, sure. Christ, I need a fag.’ He reached into his shirt pocket for the tell-tale rectangular package.

  ‘I thought you’d quit.’

  ‘Started again a few months ago.’ He fumbled at the cigarette but restrained himself from hurrying out to light it. The silence between us grew a bit awkward.

  ‘Have you had anyone since?’ I asked.

  He shrugged. ‘Only a couple of short things. Nothing serious.’

  He let the unlit cigarette dangle between his long fingers. The way he handled cigarettes had been one of the things I’d found attractive, despite despising the smoke itself. He’d always been a sexy smoker, all languid and louche, so at one with the cigarette, as if it was an extra digit. I smiled palely. He noted me looking and glanced ruefully at the white stick in his fingers. ‘Sorry. Bloody habit. I’ll quit again, promise.’ His leg was jiggling.

  ‘You’d better go out and have it.’

  ‘Yeah. See you in a minute.’

  I watched him go, all loose limbed in that sloping, entitled way he had. He was distantly related to some duke or other, and the confident, lazy manner had passed down to him. We’d been an attractive couple, always popular, always in demand. No one could understand why we’d broken up, and, before the crash, neither could I, if I thought about it. I couldn’t really understand why now either, it just … hadn’t fitted. He was so different to Paul, physically, verbally, everything. I tried not to compare them.

  I sipped my wine but wasn’t in the mood. It had a sharpness that tinged my tongue. The glass remained mostly full. Rupert returned and I got a whiff of already staling cigarette smoke – the unappealing side of his sexy habit. I wrinkled my nose in distaste.

  He started to ask about the crash. I couldn’t do it all again. ‘I’m sorry, Ru, I can’t now. I’ve already gone through it all once today. Not now.’

  ‘Sorry, sorry. Should have realised. But you know I’m here when you want me.’

  ‘I know. Look,’ I stood up with my bag. ‘I have to go, I’m afraid. It’s good to see you. I’ll ring soon.’

  ‘Well … what about meeting tomorrow?’

  ‘I’ve got more CISD to deal with.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Trauma stuff,’ I said it so flippantly it made a mockery of my words. I was lying anyway. I didn’t have anything to do tomorrow.

  The corner of Rupert’s mouth twitched in that way he had when he doubted me, but he nodded slowly. ‘OK. I’ll be in touch in the next day or so.’

  ‘Fine.’ I said it emphatically, trying to convince myself it was. He stood up and gave me another hug. I returned it, but resented the stale smoke which lingered on him. ‘Bye, Ru. See you soon.’

  ‘Bye, Callie.’

  I smiled and walked off, trying not to hurry my steps. At the door, I glanced back. He was reaching for another cigarette.

  When I got home – trying to ignore the photographers opposite – my mother looked up from the Telegraph wearily. ‘Wish you’d been here earlier, darling.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘Your press conference seems to have roused people to want more of you. You did look gorgeous though, Caroline, I can understand why.’

  ‘Want more of me? What?’

  ‘They’re even more insistent than before. The phone hasn’t stopped ringing all day and I had the police around to try to put an end to that rabble camped outside. Luckily, they can’t see much behind the hedge. But they’re within their rights, apparently. Vultures.’

  ‘What do they want?’

  ‘Anything, it would seem, but you’ve got numerous invitations for chat shows and goodness knows what else. Wish they’d stop harping on about that man though.’

  ‘What man?’

  ‘The survivor. The one on the island.’

  ‘Paul?’

  ‘Hm.’

  ‘What did they want to know?’

  She looked at me disparagingly over the Telegraph. ‘Whether you and he were … an item.’

  ‘I’ve already told them that very clearly.’

  ‘I don’t think they believed you. They were trying to catch me out, I could tell. Asking me things to let it slip.’

  ‘There’s nothing to let slip, Mum.’

  ‘Don’t call me that, dear. Makes me sound like an extra in EastEnders.’

  I rolled my eyes.

  ‘I certainly hope nothing happened between you. Anyway, they want you to ring them back. I’ve left all the numbers on the kitchen table. Where’ve you been this afternoon?’

  ‘If you must know, I met Rupert. Does that make you feel better?’

  ‘Oh, did you? How is he?’ My mother’s face brightened visibly.

  ‘Back to smoking.’

  ‘Oh dear, what a shame. Still, we must forgive our men the occasional fault; they all have them. I should know.’ She gave me a little look and we shared a sad little conspiratorial smile. Despite my father’s indomitable good sense, my mother had to work hard for the marriage at times.

  ‘All right, Mummy, but he’s not my man.’

  ‘As good as.’

  I sighed. ‘I’m going up. Do you want me to cook tonight?’

  ‘No, darling. You won’t be here long, allow me to look after you while you are.’

  I couldn’t argue. I leaned down and kissed her on the cheek. ‘It’s so lovely to be back, Mummy.’ She reached up and hugged me tight. The tears started.

  ‘I know, my love.’ I could hear the thick edge to her voice. I drew back before we both started sobbing uncontrollably.

  ‘I’ll be down soon.’

  ‘No rush.’

  I tried to reply to several news agencies. Despite the late hour, they all brightened when they found out who was calling. Their voices were reassuring and positive; what they offered sounded acceptable – an easy-going interview, no pressure. If I gave the public what
they wanted, they’d soon lose interest and move on. It was better that way. But they all wanted the same thing. They all wanted Paul, too. I didn’t say yes but I didn’t say no either. I could sense the tone of triumph in the producers’ voices as I gave them hope. They had me dangling on the hook; now they just had to reel me in, we both knew it.

  I moved to my window and glanced out. Over the high hedge I could see a few die-hard paps waiting with their lenses. I shut the curtains hard.

  Twelve

  In the morning the phone calls started again, incessantly. I couldn’t pretend I wasn’t a little flattered. I’d enjoyed the press conference despite the intrusive nature of it.

  My father came into the kitchen and plonked a selection of papers down in front of me. I glanced at the red header on one.

  ‘The Mirror, Daddy? Since when have you bought the Mirror?’

  ‘Since my daughter adorned the front page.’ I reached over for it and the others. There was my face, smiling, looking anxious, demure, radiant, whatever to fit the headline of the paper. I held my cereal spoon in one hand and stared with a mixture of awed revulsion as my face was paraded for all to see.

  ‘A survivor’s smile’ ran the headline in the Telegraph with one of the more flattering pictures: me smiling warmly at the assembled ranks in the press conference.

  ‘Trauma and tears’, said the Mirror, with an image of my eyes downcast with a hint of moisture in them. I’d brought up a finger to the corner to try to get some dust out of them, that was all. I hadn’t come close to crying during any of it.

  ‘Island beauty’, proclaimed the Mail with a picture of me biting my lip, looking coquettish – to put it nicely. Sluttish if you wanted. I often bit my lip when mulling over questions. I hadn’t been aware I was doing it and cursed myself for not being more aware. Perhaps I’d ask Anna for more media training.

  Inside, the articles were full of personal details – my schooling, my friends, my hobbies. They’d interviewed school friends, ex-pupils, neighbours. Now I knew why celebrities reacted so badly to media intrusion. I could feel the intrusion, like a burglary. Luckily, the details were flattering and vague, but it was strange reading about myself in the third person. I felt distanced from me, as if it was another Callie Frobisher they were discussing. And with it went the teeniest layer of my humanity – I was, for that moment, a media commodity. It may have been tame and flattering, but I sensed there would be more to come.

  The phone calls kept on all morning. I asked Anna. She advised one or two chat shows – keep them happy and let them move onto something else. But, she said, you need him.

  Paul.

  I needed Paul.

  If everyone else told me to do it, it wasn’t as if I was giving in myself, was it? In fact, I had to do it. I had no choice. That’s what I told myself anyway.

  I picked up my phone and retreated to the privacy of my room. I took out his number, holding the paper tightly, imagining his fingers on it. I examined his handwriting, neat and individual. I could feel my pulse racing. I took steadying breaths and dialled the number. It rang three times, and then was answered.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Hi, it’s me.’

  Pause.

  ‘Who’s me?’

  ‘Me! Callie!’

  ‘Oh, you, Callie.’

  ‘Don’t be a prat, Paul. You know full well it’s me.’

  I thought I heard that familiar chuckle down the line. Oh God, I still wanted him. Screw him for making me want him just from breathing down the bloody line!

  ‘How’s things, Callie?’

  He sounded chipper. Chipper? What the hell was that about? Even chipper was sexy with Paul though.

  ‘Things are hectic. I’m sure you’ve seen.’

  ‘Seen what?’

  ‘The newspapers, TV, the web … the story of the crash is everywhere. I did a press conference.’

  ‘Oh aye.’

  Was he really not bothered? ‘Well?’ I said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Aren’t you interested?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘They won’t leave me alone. But they want you too.’

  ‘I know. They tried. I told them to fuck off.’

  I sighed. This was going nowhere.

  ‘How’s Reginald?’ he said.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Roderick?’

  My eyes rolled. ‘Rupert.’

  ‘That’s the one. Bear boy. Happy, is he?’

  ‘What business is it of yours?’

  ‘Just curious.’

  ‘If you really want to know, I’ve kept him at arms’ length. I’m not ready yet.’

  ‘Still hangin’ around though, is he?’

  ‘I want him to hang around. We’ll get back together soon. I still need some time, that’s all.’

  ‘Right.’

  Pause.

  ‘So …?’ he rumbled.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Why’re you phoning?’

  ‘The press are still pestering me. They’re desperate to get me onto various chat shows and morning programmes. But, like I said, they want you too.’

  ‘I’m not doing that stuff.’

  ‘They won’t leave me alone, Paul.’

  ‘Just tell them to piss off. You’re too nice, Callie.’

  ‘I don’t want to do any more on my own.’

  ‘Don’t then.’

  ‘But they’re parked outside my house. They keep phoning. I can barely step outside. I feel like Lady Di!’

  ‘No.’ There was a slight pause. ‘You’re more beautiful.’

  I fell silent. So did he. I could hear his breaths down the phone. I wished they’d drop out of the earpiece and onto my skin.

  ‘Callie … it’s so good to talk to you again.’

  Yes, yes, it was. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Christ, I missed you.’

  ‘Did you?’

  ‘Aye. So fucking much, Cal.’

  I barely hesitated. ‘Me too.’

  ‘Come and see me.’ He didn’t hesitate either.

  My stomach flipped like it did when he smiled at me, but I reeled it in. ‘I can’t.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘It wouldn’t work.’

  ‘But you want to do an interview with me.’

  ‘That’s different.’

  ‘I want to see you, Callie. You tell you don’t want to see me but you want to go on TV with me. I don’t get it.’

  ‘You know what I want.’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘I want … to just … you know …’

  ‘No. I don’t know.’

  ‘Oh, bloody hell, Paul, stop being so obtuse!’

  ‘There you go with your big words again. Look, I’m just asking a question.’

  ‘You’re like a dog with a bone.’

  ‘We didn’t argue like this on the island.’

  ‘Exactly!’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So it would never work, would it? You and me. I just want to get the press off our backs.’

  ‘They’re not on my back.’

  ‘Ooh, you are infuriating!’

  ‘I’m not the one yelling down the phone.’

  ‘Look, please just do one show with me. That’ll keep them happy and then we’ll just go our separate ways again.’

  Further silence, save for the regular in out murmur of his breath.

  ‘Which one do you reckon?’ he said at length.

  ‘Is that a yes?’

  ‘Just the one, Callie. For you.’

  I released my gratitude in a sighed, ‘Thank you.’ I’d see him again. Oh God, I was happy. ‘Probably best to do the Breakfast one. They’ll go easier on us.’

  ‘Alright. That host – what’s his name … Bob Rhys-Jones – he seems like a decent bloke.’

  ‘And Dawn Turner – the other one – she’s the nation’s sweetheart ever since she won Celebrity Big Brother. They’re very easy going on the show, it’s not the sort of programme to stir things up.
I’ll let them know we’ll do it.’

  Silence.

  ‘Paul? You still there?’

  ‘Course I’m still here. I’m not going to hang up on you.’

  No, don’t hang up. Never hang up.

  ‘It’ll be nice to see you again.’ I meant it so bloody much.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘OK. I’ll tell Anna.’

  ‘She that liaison woman?’

  ‘Yes. Hasn’t she dealt with you too?’

  ‘Briefly. Told her I didn’t need her.’

  ‘Are you OK?’

  ‘Yeah. Back at work. How about you?’

  ‘OK-ish. I’ll be better when things calm down.’

  ‘Yeah, well, we’ll do this as soon as possible.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘It’s all right.’ Beat. ‘I miss you, Callie.’

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘You know I do. Miss all of you. The way you look, the way you smell, the way you feel. All of you.’

  Genuine sigh. ‘Don’t.’

  ‘I watched the press conference.’

  ‘What did you think?’

  ‘I didn’t think anything. I was too busy staring at you on the screen. You looked incredible. You looked luminous.’

  ‘Please …’

  ‘Truth. I just tell it like it is.’

  I fell silent. So did he. But I knew he was there. That was all I needed.

  ‘Look, I’d better go. I’ll be in touch,’ I finally said.

  ‘Right. See you then.’

  ‘See you.’

  ‘Bye.’

  ‘Bye.’

  ‘Take care.’

  ‘Yeah. You too.’

  ‘OK. Bye.’

  ‘Bye.’

  I couldn’t hang up. Luckily, he did, or else we’d have been there forever, bound irrevocably by a phone line.

  Thirteen

  Breakfast Time Britain was delighted to have us the next day. A car would be sent for me at 6.30 a.m. and we’d be interviewed at 8.

  It all happened so quickly that I barely had time to say hello to Paul when we arrived. I was immediately surrounded by the buzz of famous people, huge personalities, when all I wanted was him. He smiled briefly at me from a distance as I was hurried off to make-up and he to sign forms. He was wearing a dark blue shirt and jeans and looked as wonderful as he had that first time he’d sauntered down the plane, lugging his bag.

  When we finally met up, he came up with that same smile on his face, the one that made me debate whether I should just cling onto him for dear life or snog him senseless. ‘All right then, Callie Frobisher?’