The Girl in Seat 2A: THE NUMBER ONE BESTSELLER

1

Oh my God. This is it. We are all going to die. My eyes skitter round the cabin. Why am I the only person who knows our time is up?

Knee-jerk yelps, intakes of breath, so far are the extent of the panic. A collective woolly gasp, English, controlled, stiff upper lip. It’s all there is. Even at the point of extinction, the end of the world, total decimation, embarrassed concerns float around the cabin as if a streaker has appeared at a garden party. I don’t get why everyone is so relaxed.

My three-quarters-full glass of Prosecco, which swishes around in the flimsy plastic receptacle, my third since take-off, spins out of my hand. The small empty bottle rolls under the seat in front, and the bubbly liquid fizzes over my bare legs. My novel, How to Live Like a Millionaire, has hit the roof and bounced towards the front of the plane. I’m now bolt upright, the soporific anaesthetic of alcohol no longer weaving its calming magic.

Oh, dear God. THIS IS IT. I really am going to die.

‘Help. Help. Help.’ My scream gets drowned out, unable to compete with the turmoil, the crescendo of the shuddering undercarriage, the dangling end-of-life oxygen masks. A ruffled flight attendant has strapped herself in and is ignoring my pleas. No one looks my way. If I have to blow the whistle on my life jacket, fat chance anyone will respond. I’ll end up sinking to the bottom of the ocean, like a broken off lump of detritus. I’m totally alone, yet surrounded by hundreds of people. They’re all clinging on to something. Someone. Even if it is a stranger in the next seat. But with my seat belt firmly fastened, two empty seats alongside me, the comfort of another human being isn’t possible.

I remember the Fear of Flying course I took. Watch the faces of the cabin crew. Their expressions. Then you’ll feel relaxed, confident, and in safe hands. What the F!

The uniformed lady with the scooped-up hair, orange skin, and startled eyebrows looks much too alert. She’s not even talking to her colleagues.

She-is-so-not-relaxed.

She’s even closed her eyes, and although her hands are nowhere near her face, they’re clasped in prayer.

A lady across the aisle, middle seat, snatches off an eye mask and pulls herself upright. Her jerky movements and edgy manner make me worse. Her knuckles are whitening as she grips both sides of the seat in front. How the hell can the man on the end be sleeping? Perhaps he’s already dead. A heart attack. His fear of flying having done the job for him.

‘We’re going to die. We’re all going to die.’ My voice sounds like that of a Salvationist trying to curry support, sign up new recruits using the fear of hell as the strapline.

Help. Dear God. Save us.

The rest of the passengers seem to have woken up, as muffled prayers filter through in a group plea for mercy.

Suddenly, the plane plummets and the captain’s soothing monotone is cut off. This is it. This is it. I’m certain.

I begin to mumble in a monosyllabic chant.

Connor. You prat. I do love you. (This is a lie, but sort of creeps in amongst the other eulogies.) Sorry Mum, Dad (even though you’re already dead), for disappointing you. And David, I will help you out. You’ll be okay. I changed my will. I so love you, big bro.

My life flashes before me as I try to scrabble for my mobile to send deathbed messages. I can’t find it. It’ll be in my handbag which is under the seat.

I try to stand up, and as if someone is watching me, an instant reproach screeches through the loudspeakers. It’s as if they’re telling me to give up, and accept my fate with dignity.

‘Ladies and gentlemen. Please keep your seat belts fastened. There must be no moving around the cabin.’ The message sounds automated. Perhaps the pilot has already bailed out, and there’s no right-hand man.

I need to text everyone. My contact list. But my heart is racing. I can’t bend down as I’m strapped in so tightly. I keep tugging at the belt, making sure if there’s a slim chance of survival, I’ll not be caught out. I’ll be the last person sucked through the broken fuselage when the cabin doors fly off.

This is my second flight to Malaga this month, and only my third trip outside of the UK since the money landed in my bank account. If I’d chosen Perugia, Paris, Budapest, anywhere other than Marbella as a holiday destination, this wouldn’t be happening. My wish list of places to visit is long. Very long. I could have gone anywhere else in the world, but I’m more comfortable with well-worn habits. And Marbella is pretty cool, with Logan waiting at the other end. We’ve been texting regularly since my first visit.

A child’s sobbing has turned into full-blown hysteria. My feet are jittering up and down with uncontrollable spasms. I want water. Water.

No one catches my eye. No one cares if I die. If I dehydrate.

‘Water. Water.’ I wave my arm in the air like an eager pupil, desperate to attract the teacher’s attention.

The elderly lady across the aisle is now gripping her somnolent companion. She has both her arms wrapped around his, and is weeping against his shoulder. I wonder if I was older, had lived a life, fulfilled all my dreams, whether I would still be so desperate not to pass over. But I’ve no one to hold. No one to comfort me in the final moments. A few hours ago, I was smug at my oneness and my new-found independence with all its possibilities. But death is my undoing. It’s making me needy. Over-the-top needy. Illogical. Mortal.

I must have bitten the inside of my cheek because little blood spatters dot the back of my hand as I rub it across my mouth. The oxygen masks are still dangling but no one has put them on. We’re like children awaiting instructions.

Then all of a sudden, the cabin rights itself. Calmer movement steadies the plane and there’s a collective sense of relief. The lady across the aisle rather sharply unravels her tentacles from her partner, rubs her hands down her creased linen trousers and reasserts her independence. She does the sign of the cross, repositions her ear pods and closes her eyes. She’s been brave. If not, she doesn’t want anyone knowing. Remembering.

I slowly relax, suddenly feeling ridiculous, blushing at my own stupidity. When I notice the green vacant light sign for the toilet, I unbuckle my seat belt and am just about to slip out when a bronzed hand with manicured nails stretches my way, holding out my novel which I last saw when it catapulted through the turbulence.

‘Hi. I think this is yours,’ the guy says.

Jeez. He’s handsome. Tall. Chiselled jaw. He’s wearing a blinding white linen shirt, and Oakley shades, black rimmed with dark blue mirrored lenses, roost on his luscious wavy hair. He reaches an arm across the two empty seats.

‘Oh. Thanks. Where did you find it?’ My voice sounds weird. I suspect it was the near-death experience that has spiked it with an air of incredulity, and a high-pitched squeak.

‘I slid on it coming out of the loo. A weird-shaped banana skin.’ He beams, a wide, white, sunny, after-the-storm sort of smile. ‘Anyone sitting here?’

I’m too embarrassed to own up to having booked and paid for the window spot, 2A, as well as the two adjacent seats. They’re comfort seats. That’s what the airline calls them. They’re bookable, at a price. But I can afford the luxury. The extra space cushions the claustrophobia, and when it all gets too much, I lift the armrests and stretch out along all three pads. The disapproving looks I get from fellow passengers are a small price to pay for peace of mind.

‘No. How lucky was I? All this space.’ I’m not sure this guy is the sort to judge, but it’s not the time to own up to phobias, certainly not to a fear of flying.

‘Yes, you’re very lucky. The rest of the plane is full. It’s heaving further back.’ He slips into the seat on the end, 2C, but not before I make a point of putting the book he has returned on to the seat between us. I’m not a fan of talking to strangers at the best of times, but this guy has the pull of a magnet, and now’s definitely not the time to play hard to get.

‘Are you okay?’ His concern feels genuine as he raises a single eyebrow.

‘Yes. Fine, thanks.’

I must look a mess, like a vampire, as fear has drained the blood from my body. I close my eyes against a swaying motion. When I open them, he’s pointing a finger towards my lips, getting very close, too close for healthy social distancing, until I realise he’s indicating a red deposit.

‘Your lip’s bleeding. Right a little. Left a bit. There, spot on. Let me get you a drink. I’m Isaac, by the way.’ As he talks, he pops his head into the aisle and clicks his fingers for attention.

‘I’m Jade, and yes, a drink would be great.’ I bend over, retrieve the Prosecco bottle which has settled back by my feet, and wiggle it in front of him.

‘Bubbles. I’ll join you and we can celebrate still being alive,’ he says.

It’s hard to tell if he’s laughing at me, making light of my apparent distress, or if he’s flirting. Whatever, I’m glad of the company, and desperate for another drink.

Flight 2904 to Malaga; 14.30 hours. I have a feeling I’ll not forget this flight. This guy is drop-dead gorgeous.

2

I have trouble getting out of my seat when we land at Malaga airport. Isaac went back to his seat when the seat belt signs went on, and I’m feeling really disorientated.

As soon as the plane doors are thrown open, the Spanish heat, worse than a sauna, smacks me in the face. I have to grip the handrail as I stagger down the rickety metal steps which seem to be moving.

Suddenly, I lose grip of my cabin bag. It careers past the passengers in front of me, and somersaults on to the tarmac. WTF. Withering looks, and a load of tutting, are pretty targeted. A guy in a navy business suit shoves past me, muttering under his breath. I can’t work out where I am. That’s how fuzzy my head feels, as if it’s engulfed in fog.

Passengers flock past me. So much for being in seat 2A and getting to passport control before the crowds. It is so hot outside that the ground is bubbling. Well, it looks as if it’s bubbling, but it could be my vision. I bend to retrieve my bag which Mr City Slicker has kicked under the flimsy set of stairs.

I pick it up, but when I try to straighten up again, I list from side to side. The ground is definitely moving, and I can’t stay upright. To make it worse, my vision is blurring. Zigzag lines are zapping round the edges.

‘Jade? Are you okay?’

I hear the voice before I see the person. It’s the Brad Pitt lookalike from the plane. How did he get here? I thought he had disembarked first. He’s hovering over me, a good six inches up. It could be 2 feet up he looks that tall. What did he say his name was? I can’t remember anything other than the dangling oxygen masks. Did we really all nearly die? Plummet into the ocean?

My legs suddenly buckle, as the hunk’s image comes in and out of focus.

I can’t be that drunk, can I? It’s as if I’m on another planet.

‘Pardon?’ I think it’s me speaking, but I can’t be sure. What is this guy’s name again, and what has he just asked me? It’s all a blank.

‘Here. Let me help. Take my arm.’ He hoists me up, as if I’m old Mrs Cunningham from the nursing home. She can no longer feed herself or make it to the toilet on her own.

I smile up at Isaac. Yes. Isaac. That’s his name. It’s from the Bible, I remember now. He handed me back my book, How to Live Like a Millionaire, when it catapulted to the front of the plane.

He really does look like Brad Pitt. Well, Brad Pitt before he got married and divorced a couple of times. Blond-haired, and chisel-jawed. He grips my arm very tightly and propels me towards the terminal.

When we reach the passport queue, he attaches my hands to a metal rail, and instructs me not to move. As I try to stay upright, he opens his passport, and asks me where mine is. I whisper that it’s in my bag, worried that I might look like an illegal immigrant.

‘I must be very drunk. Oops.’ A giggle pops out, although I think I’m the only one who heard it. Everyone is avoiding eye contact.

‘You could say that.’ Isaac winks, but gives me a stern look. A warning that I need to sober up. ‘Let me have your passport, and we’ll go through together.’

‘Is this what you’re looking for?’ I dip my hand into the zipped end of my bag and wave my passport in the air.

He takes it off me, and says, ‘Let’s go, but try not to say too much.’

He’s treating me like a child, but in the state I’m in, it feels good to have him take control.

As he nudges my waving arm down by my side, his fingers brush mine. Despite the wooziness, I have the most dreadful urge to grab them.

The passport official behind the glass panel looks from Isaac to me and back again. He smiles at Isaac, asks how he’s keeping. I can’t hear anything, but I assume that’s what he’s asking, because his smile is broad and he’s much more friendly with Isaac than with the other passengers.

My ears are blocked from the cabin pressure. I pinch my nose, keep my mouth closed, and heave through my nostrils until something pops.

I wonder why I’m shaking. Jeez, if I’m not careful the police will take me away.

Isaac seems to be talking in a foreign language now. I know gracias means thank you, but that’s about it. I think he’s trying to explain we’re together.

‘Yes, we’re together,’ I announce, and push in beside him. I grab his arm before linking our fingers. Isaac smiles, and raises his eyes heavenward. He’s got the most perfect teeth. Even in the state I’m in, I can see he’s movie-star handsome.

Once we get through to the arrivals hall, everything is even more of a blur. How much did I drink?

Holy shit. I suddenly remember the emergency diazepam tablets. The sedatives that would knock me out in an emergency. Did I take a couple when we were having the near-death experience? I need to check the strip and see how many are missing. Alcohol and tranquillisers so-do-not mix.

Isaac is dragging me along like a petulant child.

‘I think we need to go and get you a coffee. Or perhaps two or three,’ he says.

I manage to unravel myself from his grip, and tell him I’ve got a case in the hold.

‘You don’t need to worry about me. I’ll be fine now. But thanks…’ I’ve forgotten his name again. Ishmael? Isiah? I know it starts with the letter I, and it’s something biblical. Shit. Shit. Why can’t I remember?

I leave him standing as I swagger off to find my suitcase. Before I realise what’s happening, he has sped up and grabbed me from behind.

‘You’re in no fit state to go anywhere.’ His voice is so sexy. Masterful. ‘Do you want to pass out on the carousel?’

‘Isaac. Isaac, that’s it,’ I whoop, thrilled that I’ve remembered.

I pick up an edge of laughter in his voice. Even though I’m in a state of delirium, I visualise him ripping off my clothes and jumping on top of me. And even though he’s making fun, he’s definitely flirting.

‘I’ll take you to wherever you’re going. I’ve got a driver outside. If I leave you, you’ll probably end up in hospital. Worse still, a police cell.’

He definitely fancies me. Only my second trip to Marbella, and I could have met my Mr Right. Logan is best-friend nice, but this guy is bloody hot.

This is when I pass out.

3

It’s dark outside when I wake up. Drowsy intrigue soon gives way to panic.

Shit. Shit. Shit. Where am I? Where the f— am I? I haul myself up from an enormous bed, which could easily sleep six. My head is so heavy that I’m tempted to turn over and go back to sleep.

There’s not a sound anywhere. The only light comes from a couple of dimmed wall sconces. Porcelain white. Actually, everything I can see through dry eyes appears to be white. Through a door at the end of the bed, I can see into what must be an en-suite bathroom. A free-standing bath on gold-clawed feet is lit from above like a stage prop.

I feel like Sleeping Beauty coming round after a hundred years. I rub my eyes. They’re so dry I can’t focus. Pillows are plumped up on either side of me, presumably to stop me slithering to the floor. Beside the bed, on a white marble-topped cabinet, I spot my phone. I make a grab for it, and luckily it still has battery. It lights up when I lift it.

Holy shit. It’s midnight. How long have I been here? I wrack my brain to remember exactly what happened. My mind is a total blank. I need to get up, move around, and shake myself alert.

No idea why, but it seems important that I don’t make a noise. Call it gut instinct.

At least I’m not naked. In fact, I’m pretty much fully clothed, apart from my new silver-studded trainers which are neatly placed by the floor-to-ceiling window. The window runs the whole length of the room.

I fling aside the light cotton bedding. My skirt is riding up round my thighs, but at least I’m wearing knickers. My blouse is crinkled, scrunched up as if it’s been in the laundry basket, but the buttons are still done up.

I listen for sound. Noises. Anything to give me a clue as to where I am, and to let me know I’m not a prisoner.

Suddenly, I remember Isaac. Isaac. The tall handsome guy from the plane who got me through passport control.

What happened next? I’m now starting to panic. He could be some kind of weirdo. Perhaps he’s kidnapped me. At least I haven’t been raped.

I slide out of bed and let out a yelp as my feet hit the icy floor. The room must be air-conditioned because I can hear a humming noise, but I’m still coated in sweat and my hands are shaking. It’s likely the alcohol, but the worry isn’t helping.

I tiptoe towards the door. It’s slightly cracked, and I can see out on to the landing. As far as the eye can see, everything is white except for a grey wrought-iron railing that breaks the monotony. I take a tentative step out, and push my back against a wall.

There are muffled voices down below. Well, one muffled voice, but I can’t hear very well. It’s most likely Isaac. Who else could it be?

He’s talking into a phone. ‘I’m sorry. I need more time.’

I crane my neck round the end of the wall and peer through the railing. Isaac is strolling up and down an enormous room. It’s like a room from Grand Designs. The decor screams expense. Think white and gold. Marble and glass, and a random fountain sculpture at one end is gushing water. At least I’m not locked in a dank dark cellar.

‘I’ve got to go. I’ll call you tomorrow. I’ve told you already. I’ll sort it.’ He sounds quite snappy, and seems to cut the caller off. He certainly doesn’t waste time on goodbye pleasantries.

My pulse races as I duck back into the bedroom, but before I reach the bed, I hear firm footsteps on the winding staircase. A light rap, and the door creaks open. It doesn’t strike me as a creepy place, but the creak isn’t selling it to me.

‘You’re up.’ Isaac appears, hands in his pockets, and wanders in. ‘How are you now? Do you feel any better?’

He’s grinning from ear to ear.

‘Where am I?’ I sit on the edge of the bed, keeping a distance from my possible captor. ‘I can’t remember what happened.’

‘I’m Isaac. I saved you a trip to the hospital when you crashed out at the airport. I had to convince airport medics that it’s happened before, that you suffer from a rare condition.’

‘What sort of rare condition?’

The bastard is laughing at me. Perhaps he’s a mad, deranged, hysterical captor, but he’s so goddam magnetic that I’m not sure I care.

A flashback of collapsing on the floor by the carousel comes back to me. My suitcase.

Where’s my suitcase?

‘My suitcase. Where’s my suitcase?’

‘Don’t worry. It’s under the bed.’

Isaac bends down and yanks out my case. Since we got off the plane, he’s changed into shorts and a light-coloured cotton shirt. I can’t keep my eyes off his tanned muscled legs and work-out biceps. He can’t be a kidnapper, surely.

‘Voila!’ He stands the pink case upright. The familiar sight is comforting, if weirdly embarrassing with its White Star Line sticky label. ‘Why don’t you have a shower and come down and I’ll get you a drink. I can fill you in on what happened next.’

‘Okay.’

I don’t move until I hear his footsteps retreat, and know for certain that he’s gone. Then I take my phone, text Mum, and tell her I’ve arrived safely.

Plane delayed. Battery flat. But all’s well. Reached my B&B safely. xx

At least they’ll be able to trace the text message should I mysteriously disappear. Never to be seen again. I haven’t told Mum I’m staying at Marbella’s most expensive five-star hotel. She thinks I should invest my winnings wisely.

But it might be too late to sign in at my hotel tonight. Looks as if I’m here until the morning.

4

Although I’ve hardly slept a wink, no more than three hours, I’m up with the lark. I’m far too excited to lie in, and today is the start of my holiday proper. I can’t wait to get to my hotel, but first, I’ll be having a serious mooch around this villa.

Last night, when I joined Isaac for midnight drinks, he told me he has a chauffeur. Pablo, his driver, drove us back from the airport, but I was so far gone that I don’t remember anything after I passed out. Isaac had to fill me in.

I am so living the millionaire lifestyle, because this morning Pablo will be chauffeuring me to Los Molinos, the five-star hotel on the beachfront where I’m staying for the week. It’s my second visit to the hotel since my windfall, and already feels scarily like home. I dream one day of moving in.

Pablo will drive me when I’m ready. Apparently, he doubles up as gardener, pool maintenance man and general dogsbody.

‘Pablo is a great multitasker.’ Isaac laughed in the telling, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

‘A bit like a woman,’ I said, and Isaac laughed even louder.

We talked till three in the morning. Isaac is not married, and there’s no sign of a wedding band. I’m not sure who he was talking to on the phone, it could have been his mother, but worrying about the possibility of a significant other would certainly be jumping the gun.

And can you believe it? He owns a penthouse in London, south of the river. He’s originally from Peckham, and works out of both London and Marbella. Perhaps I shouldn’t have told him I live in a penthouse north of the river, but it certainly wasn’t the time to tell him about the one-bed flat with the spider infestation.

He had the cheek to ask how old I was. I told him a gentleman should never ask a lady’s age, but when he owned up to being thirty-eight, I admitted to being marginally on the wrong side of thirty. Whatever, he more than fits the perfect profile.

We got on so well, I’d probably have hopped into bed with him if he’d asked. Not only is he hot, but he’s also funny, interesting (okay, his millions do help here), and we really hit it off. If I’d met him in my Crouch End local, I’d be planning the wedding.

This morning, I rifle through my suitcase for an alluring outfit. Casual but sexy, and a tad see-through up top. I’m a bundle of nerves thinking about seeing Isaac again, but when I get down to the open-plan expanse of lounge, kitchen and indoor dip pool (yes, really), there’s no sign of him. Instead, there’s a small, tanned lady in a blue apron with frizzy jet-black hair sniffing the dregs in the bottom of a glass. She won’t need to be a connoisseur of