Violet smothered a sigh as she closed the book then slipped it back into her bag. She wished she had that type of courage. But she didn’t. She couldn’t even find the courage to go out on a date. God, she was pathetic!
She was sitting there, castigating herself, when she became aware that the plane had stopped descending. It was, in fact, ascending—quite quickly. But why? Even before there was time for fear to take hold, the pilot’s voice came over the intercom.
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he said, ‘this is your captain speaking. We are experiencing a small technical problem with the undercarriage of the aircraft. You may have noticed that we have halted our descent. We will be returning to ten-thousand feet, where we will maintain a holding pattern till we have solved the problem. Please keep your phones and laptops turned off during this short delay. Be assured there is nothing to be alarmed about. I will keep you informed and trust we will soon be able to resume our descent.’
Unfortunately, things didn’t work out as smoothly as that. Instead of shortly resuming their descent, they maintained a holding pattern for a tense twenty minutes, after which they flew out over the ocean where the captain dumped the rest of the fuel before finally coming in for an emergency landing. The passengers by then were armed with the disturbing knowledge that the undercarriage was probably not properly locked in. The wheels had come down but some light that should have come on hadn’t.
Or maybe it should have gone off. Violet wasn’t sure which. Her normally sharp brain had gone into panic mode when the captain had been explaining the unfortunate situation. Either way, there was a very real possibility that once they hit the tarmac the undercarriage would totally collapse and all hell would break loose.
There was a deathly silence in the cabin as they made their approach. None of the hundred-and-fifty-plus passengers were at all reassured by the captain’s cool, or the fact that their runway had already been covered in fire-retardant foam, with all emergency vehicles at the ready. The reality of the matter was that they were all facing the possibility that in a minute or so everyone in that plane might die.
Violet wished, as she braced in the crash position, that she hadn’t watched so many of those air crash investigation shows. They didn’t inspire confidence in a positive outcome.
Survivors of plane crashes often said afterwards that their lives flashed before them during their near-death experience. Violet could honestly say that didn’t quite happen to her. The only thing she could think of at that moment was that she was about to go to her grave a virgin. She had never experienced sex, or love, or passion, or anything even close.
And it was all her own fault. It was then that she made a solemn vow to herself: if she got through this alive, she would change. From now on, she would say yes when asked out, no matter who asked her.
She would make other changes too. She would stop going to an all-female gym. She would dress more fashionably; wear make-up; perfume; jewellery. She would believe what the mirror told her and not her warped mind. She would even buy a car under the positive assumption that she would definitely need one when she began socialising more. Not a boring car, either. A red two-door model!
No more ‘shrinking Violet’ for her. The time had come to shrug off her stultifying past and embrace a very different future.
If I have a future, came the awful thought.
Her chest tightened as the plane touched down, a silent prayer forming on her lips. The wheels skidded a little on the foam but they held. Dear Lord in heaven, they held! Her head shot up at the same time as lots of other heads shot up. Everyone started laughing and clapping, hugging each other and even kissing. Violet had never felt so relieved, or so happy.
She’d been given a second chance at life and, by God, she wasn’t going to waste it!
CHAPTER TWO
LEO WAS SITTING on the balcony of his father’s harbour-side apartment, sipping a glass of very nice red, when he heard a phone ring somewhere inside. Not his; he always kept his phone with him.
‘Henry, phone!’ he called out after the phone rang a few more times. Leo hadn’t called his father ‘Father’ since he’d gone to Oxford to study law over twenty years ago. They’d always been close, the result of Leo’s mother having died when Leo had been very young, and his father never having remarried.
By the time Leo had gone to university they’d been more like best friends than father and son. Henry had suggested the change and Leo had happily gone along with the idea.
He was about to get up and answer the darned phone himself when the ringing finally stopped, leaving Leo to relax with his wine and enjoy the view, which was second to none, especially on a warm summer’s afternoon. The water was bluer than blue, sparkling in the sunshine and decorated with all manner of craft, from small sailing boats to ferries to five-star cruisers. In the not-too-distant foreground stood Sydney’s iconic Harbour Bridge, along with the stunning-looking Opera House on its left.
When Henry had announced eight years ago that he was retiring to the land down under, Leo had been sceptical of the move lasting. His father was a Londoner born and bred, like himself.
A successful literary agent, Henry’s life had always been steeped in the arts. His parents had been professors of history; his only sibling—an older sister—a potter of some note. Henry’s wife had been a well-known sculptress till her untimely death—she’d been struck down with meningitis when she’d been only thirty.
Whilst never remarrying, Henry’s name had been linked with many women over the years—all of them accomplished in the arts: opera singers. Ballet dancers. Painters. And, of course, writers. How could a man of his tastes possibly be happy living in Australia which, whilst not quite the cultural wasteland it had once been, was still hardly on a par with London?
Leo had been sure his father would soon become bored. But he hadn’t. Of course, he hadn’t retired either. He’d set up shop in an apartment he’d bought in Sydney’s CBD, working from home, quickly acquiring a stable of up-and-coming Aussie writers via a clever website which he’d had designed by a professional. His agency didn’t have any partners, as he’d had in London, or even any staff at first. Henry had kept his client base small, concentrating on the thriller genre and sending most of the manuscripts out to paid readers.
One of these readers had proved to be a little goldmine—a university student named Violet who had a real knack for recognising raw talent, as well as being able to suggest the kind of revisions which could turn a promising but unpublishable manuscript into a commercial winner. Henry had quickly learnt to take Violet’s opinions and advice very seriously indeed, the result of which was a succession of best-selling books whose authors now commanded top advances and royalties.
Soon, the Wolfe Literary Agency had become the literary agency to belong to if you were a thriller writer. And, whilst Henry wasn’t interested in expanding his agency at his age, his father had had the nous to hire this Violet as his assistant once she’d graduated from university. He’d also had the nous to buy this apartment—fully furnished—when it had come on the somewhat depressed market just over two years ago.
Leo had to admit that he was impressed with the place. He was impressed with Sydney, too. It was a glorious-looking city, with a superb climate and a wealth of things to see and do. Okay, so there weren’t as many theatres and museums as London boasted, but the restaurants were top class, the shopping perfectly adequate and the beaches to die for.
Not to mention the harbour. He’d only been here a week but already he could see the attraction for people from gloomy old England. There was something uplifting in seeing a clear blue sky in which the sun shone brightly.
It had certainly uplifted him. Leo had been feeling a bit low of late, what with his last movie having been a box-office flop. Entirely his fault, of course.