‘There’s no way Ivor is letting that plane take off without you. This is the most exciting thing that’s happened around here since that woman tried to smuggle her Pygmy goat through security. Besides, they haven’t even announced the gate yet.’
‘It’s Gate Two.’
‘Get in the changing room.’
Despite being modest in size, the Travel Shop clothing section was a revelation, thanks to Blessing being in control of the stock. She found me a pair of wide-legged cotton trousers with a pale stripe, a strappy top and pale-blue jacket that perfectly matched the simple trainers she insisted I needed for travelling.
I didn’t recognise myself.
While the other staff member was taking my payment, she handed me a straw hat and a pair of sunglasses.
‘A present from me. Now, go. The boarding call was seven minutes ago.’
‘Is this the maddest idea ever?’
She gripped both of my shoulders. ‘Probably. But it’s also the best.’
‘Because you get to stay in my house?’
‘Go!’
As Ivor’s voice boomed over the tannoy, instructing Emmaline Brown to ‘get on the frickin’ plane!’, I scurried across to the gate.
To my horror, but what really shouldn’t have been a surprise, cheers and hoots of encouragement echoed behind me. As I skidded to a stop by the desk, Ivor not even bothering to scan the boarding card he’d issued me with less than an hour earlier before shoving me through, two voices rose above the rest.
‘Holiday-fling the heck out of that island! Don’t come back until you’ve officially fallen in love, even if that’s only with yourself!’
‘Emmie, what are you doing? What about that contract? You promised I’d have it by tomorrow!’
8
Stepping from the bustle and noise of my second home, into the relative hush of a half-full, forty-eight-seater plane was enough to send my pulse hammering. I ducked my head, shuffling down the tiny aisle towards the window seat in an empty row near the front.
‘Hey.’
Halfway down, I looked up at the familiar, gentle voice. Pip placed a steadying hand on my arm.
‘You made it.’
‘Yep,’ I squeaked.
‘It’s going to be grand.’
‘Mmm-hmm.’
‘Can all passengers please take their seats?’ Poppy, a regular air stewardess on the Siskin flights, barked over the intercom. Given that the aisle was about ten metres long, and I was the only person still standing, she could have quite easily taken six steps and told me herself.
I hurried past the remaining few rows, apologising as I bumped elbows and ran over someone’s foot, then spent another couple of minutes trying to wrestle the suitcase into theoverhead locker, which was about two inches too high for me to reach properly, until a man in the seat behind helped me.
I assumed that Poppy ran through the safety instructions, and the pilot introduced himself, but it was all a blur.
I was sitting on a plane.
Wearing stripy trousers.
With a bag of other clothes I’d not owned two hours ago.
I had an hour-long flight in which to a) not die (which I wasn’t especially worried about), b) not vomit (which felt distinctly possible) and c) figure out what on earth I was going to do once I got there.
