A Twist of Fate by Demelza Hart Page B

Paul?’
    â€˜Yes.’ At least Anna sounded embarrassed by it. Everyone else had been gleeful in their curiosity.
    I looked away. Part of me wanted to blurt out the truth, but my cautious side took over. I played it safe. ‘We were too busy trying to survive to think about anything like that. We were in shock, and it didn’t take long for the helicopter to arrive.’
    â€˜He’s a good-looking guy.’
    â€˜I suppose, but … he’s not my type.’
    Anna gave me a sideways glance. ‘That’s what the press will be angling for. You’ll have to be careful.’
    â€˜Of course. I’m always careful.’
    My debrief continued, thorough and calmly managed. Apparently, I was coping very well, but the team said they would keep an eye on me for as long as I wanted and gave me lots of numbers to phone and people to contact whenever I felt the need. I was impressed. We arranged a press conference five days after I arrived back. It was to be held in a hotel in central London. Paul had refused to do it. I pretended not to be disappointed. I’d wanted him to move on; he was moving on.
    I had started to watch some news, despite being warned against it. In the process of the debrief I’d been told exactly what had caused the crash – catastrophic engine failure due to adverse electrical conditions in the storm. We were the only two survivors. Our positions in the plane had somehow allowed a little pocket where we evaded debris and been cushioned from the impact. We were miracles, and, amidst the disaster – over 300 lives lost – we had become a beacon of light and life. Interest was intense. Our names were well-known, and they had taken my photo from Facebook to use – the one at my brother’s wedding, smiling and clutching a glass of champagne. They hadn’t managed to find a picture of Paul. They only had a fuzzy image of him descending the plane steps, most of his face hidden by the peak of his cap.
    Every news broadcast included something about the crash. I watched with odd disengagement as the images of the lost drifted past me. Were any of them the body I’d discovered in the lagoon? Names upon names of loved ones. It was going to hit hard – survivor’s guilt. How should I survive when so many families had lost someone? But the only thing the families said was how pleased they were that two of us had lived. I couldn’t stand it and turned it off. I wanted to get the news conference over with.
    I awoke feeling sick, but Anna had arranged for a hairdresser and make-up artist to come over before we left, and that managed to turn it into a bit of fun. It was the right thing to do. I was hardly dolled up, but my hair was preened and silked into a glossy, Pippa Middleton sheen, and my make-up gave me a youthful, natural freshness. The sun on the island had caught my skin and given me a warm glow.
    â€˜There.’ Jo, the make-up artist, patted my shoulders. ‘You look stunning. The nation’s going to fall in love with you.’
    I gave a nervous little laugh and stared back at myself in the mirror. I hoped Paul would be watching.

Ten
    We were driven to the hotel where the news conference would take place. The staff stared but smiled. I smiled back and for once allowed myself to enjoy my little brush with celebrity. But immediately, I felt guilty. Perhaps I should be miserable, despondent? Was I allowed to be happy to survive? At eleven, Anna asked if I was ready. I nodded, and the double doors into the conference room were opened.
    Immediately, I was blinded by an onslaught of flashes and shouts.
    â€˜Caroline! Caroline! Here, over here! Smile!’
    Anna had told me just to walk to the table and sit down. I did. It seemed much further than the handful of metres it was. I sat and immediately poured a glass of water to steady myself.
    Anna stood up and addressed the reporters. ‘Good morning, ladies and gentlemen, thank