Chapter Eleven Netta
Chapter Eleven
NETTA
First-class travel was something Netta could get used to.
Very, very easily. She’d farewelled her students as they skipped off into the Christmas holidays and had flown out horrifically early the next morning.
Aside from the sharp splinters of broken heart still lodged painfully in her chest, the flight to London had been a very pretty cocktail of expensive wine and restaurant-worthy food.
The armchair seat in her personal travel pod was outrageously comfortable and, to Netta’s delight, had a massage function.
Any future flights in economy would be even more torturous now that she knew what was going on at the front of the plane.
As the aircraft began its descent into Heathrow, Netta stretched her arms and legs and ran her hands once again over the soft leather seat.
Despite its comfort, she hadn’t slept much.
She’d done her best to distract herself with movies but the melodrama her life had become had played on a loop in her mind with cinematic accuracy instead, every detail perfectly lit, every angle covered.
It seemed the vast distance between her and home had made no difference to her head—it was still full of worry, still desperately grabbing for ways to pull her life back together.
It was dizzying how quickly she’d gone from being in a relationship and trying for a baby to being single and sleeping on Freya’s couch.
As the plane nudged the runway, Netta gazed through the window at the grey weather shrouding Heathrow, its icy teeth already gnawing at her skin despite the cabin’s controlled temperature.
The seatbelt sign turned off but Netta remained glued to her armchair, frozen by the magnitude of her return to London and the absurd reason for it.
She watched as her fellow first-class passengers left the plane in clouds of expensive fragrance, then reached inside her handbag to reassure herself, for what was probably the hundredth time since she’d left Melbourne, that the diary hadn’t magically vaporised.
A thrill raced through her as her fingers closed around it.
What on earth did it contain that Morrison Maplestone would be willing to go to such lengths—and such huge expense—to have it returned unread?
‘Did you have a good flight, Miss Phillips?’
Netta was pulled from her thoughts by the gentle purr of the flight attendant’s voice, her face and hair mystifyingly still as immaculate as they had been at take-off.
‘Oh, yes! My first time in first class.’
‘Aha! You’ll never go back now,’ said the attendant with a wink. ‘They don’t have the good stuff back there. Now, let me help you with your bag. I’m sure you’re keen to get into London and start your Christmas holiday!’
Netta walked through the terminal to the baggage claim amid a soupy fog of dread, surreptitiously looking around as she waited for her suitcase to check if anyone had recognised her.
Last time she’d been at Heathrow, she’d been running away.
Being back again brought a sickening sense of déjà vu and she couldn’t wait to get the hell out of there.
Dragging her suitcase from the conveyor belt, Netta hurried to the arrivals gate.
Morrison had said there would be a driver at the airport to meet her, and sure enough, as soon as Netta passed through the gate, she saw a sign bearing her name above the crowd of people waiting to be reunited with their loved ones: empty-nest parents straining to catch a glimpse of their kids returning home for Christmas, lovers agonising through the last few seconds before they could kiss the lips they’d been missing so much, and children holding hand-painted signs welcoming their grandparents.
She nudged through the throngs towards the sign, to find the person holding it was a woman who looked nothing like the neatly suited driver Netta had been imagining.
She was in her fifties, Netta guessed, her softly rounded face seemingly untouched by Botox and fillers, instead exuding an arresting quality that demanded far more attention than manufactured beauty.
Impeccably sculpted brows arched over eyes that looked as though they’d miss nothing, and her hair was a deep shade of berry, its volume defying gravity and giving her short frame a good ten centimetres of extra height.
She wore chunky glasses in a bright shade of blue and her earlobes were weighed down by a pair of giant earrings in the shape of the iconic Rolling Stones tongue.
Her sharply tailored black blazer contrasted with the vintage NYC T-shirt she had on underneath, which she’d tucked into a pair of metallic silver cigarette pants that stopped at her ankles to showcase the chunky tartan loafers on her feet. She was magnificent.
‘Netta?’ The woman’s bangles jangled as she lowered the sign and tucked it under her arm.
Netta smiled nervously. ‘That’s me!’
‘I’m Rhona.’ She extended her bejewelled hand to shake Netta’s. ‘Mo thought it might be nicer if I came for you. Hope that’s okay.’
‘Oh, thank you. I would’ve been happy just to take the train. I hope you haven’t gone too far out of your way.’
‘Not at all. And no more talk of public transport. You’re a guest of Morrison, and that, my dear, comes with some advantages. Let’s get to the car, shall we?’
***
Netta settled into the buttery leather of the Merc’s passenger seat and reached for the bag at her feet. ‘Should I give you the diary now?’
‘No, no,’ Rhona said. ‘He wants to get it from you himself.’
‘Really?’
‘Really. I offered to drop it over to his house but he insisted it had to be him who collected it.’
‘I see.’
They sank into silence as Rhona negotiated her way out of Heathrow, Netta using the time to privately cave in at the thought of having to meet Morrison Maplestone in person, her racing heart egged on by the sudden rush of nerves.
‘So,’ said Rhona, ‘how was the flight?’
‘I’ve only ever flown economy so I was pretty blown away,’ said Netta, grateful for the distraction. ‘I mean, the space! It was nice not to have to origami myself into a tiny seat or have to climb over a chronic snorer to get to the toilet.’
Rhona grimaced and opened her mouth to answer but was cut off by her phone ringing loudly through the car speakers. ‘You rang?’ she answered in a put-on posh accent.
‘You answered,’ came the deep reply.
Holy shit. It was him. Netta’s heart rate stepped up to a pace she was sure couldn’t possibly be healthy.
‘I’m just calling to make sure you picked up the right Australian woman from the airport.’
‘Very funny. You’re on speaker, so behave,’ said Rhona, her voice back to normal. ‘Netta’s here with me. We’re on our way to the hotel.’
There was a brief moment of silence before Morrison cleared his throat. ‘Netta, hi. How was the flight?’
‘Um, it was great. Thanks.’
‘Well, that’s good,’ he said, stiffly. ‘Thanks for coming. I know it must seem like madness, but … Well, I appreciate it.’
‘You’re welcome,’ Netta said, desperately resuscitating her composure. Her blood had pooled in her toes, far, far away from her brain. ‘The notebook is safe and sound.’
Morrison paused again. ‘Would it be okay if I collected it in the morning? I’ll let you rest tonight. It’ll be late by the time you get to the hotel and you must be exhausted. I’ll come past at eleven?’
The last drops of blood keeping Netta alive joined their mates in her toes and she felt her face blanch. She turned her head to look at Rhona, whose eyes were fixed on the road, her mouth battling a smile.
‘Ah, yep. Okay.’ Netta had never heard her voice so high-pitched in her life. Morrison Maplestone would be forgiven for thinking he was dealing with a chipmunk. She swallowed and willed her vocal cords to relax. ‘That would be fine.’ Now her voice was coming out weirdly deep. Brilliant.
‘Great, I’ll see you then,’ he said. ‘Rhona, I’ll chat to you soon. I need to talk to you about the gala.’
‘Oh, goodie,’ chirped Rhona, ‘are you going to tell me you’ve done what we talked about?’
‘Ah, no. Not exactly.’
Rhona sighed dramatically. ‘You’re a pain in my arse, Morrison Maplestone.’
‘I love you too, Rhona.’
‘Yeah, yeah. Just find someone. Please. The gala’s in five days, my friend. Five days! I’ve already told them you’ll be there plus one. A good one. As discussed! Comprende?’
‘I’m on it.’
The phone cut out and Netta closed her eyes briefly, regrouping. Taking a proper breath. Organising her thoughts. It would be fine! He’d just get the diary and go. It’d be over in a couple of minutes. Seconds maybe.
‘I love him dearly,’ said Rhona, ‘but he really is a pain in my arse.’
‘Have you been his manager for long?’
‘Long? I’ve been his manager forever!’ Rhona laughed. ‘I discovered him when he was twenty-three, busking at a Tube station. I heard his voice and knew straight away he was something special. He’s like family to me now.’
‘So,’ started Netta, ‘I’m not asking you to tell me what it is, but do you know why he’s so keen to have the diary back?’
Rhona glanced across at Netta, then back at the road. ‘You really haven’t read it, have you?’
‘No! Of course not! I couldn’t. I’d die from the guilt of it. Especially knowing how much he wants it back.’
‘Sounds like he’s very lucky it was you who found it then,’ said Rhona approvingly. ‘And to answer your question, no, I don’t know. He’s kept a very tight lid on it from the moment I told him about your email. I’m glad you were able to come and bring it to him, love. I hate seeing him so worried.’
‘Glad to,’ Netta lied. ‘Although, I have to say, I’m shitting bricks sideways, if you’ll excuse my French, about actually having to meet him. Just talking to him on the phone turned me into a blithering wreck.’
Rhona cackled. ‘Don’t worry. He might be famous, but he’s also just a guy. He’s not as cool or prickish as he makes out, I promise.’ She glanced briefly at Netta again. ‘Remind me how old you are?’
‘Thirty-nine. I’ll be forty in February.’
‘Hmm. And are you single or—’
‘Single.’
‘Kids?’
Netta paused. ‘No, no kids.’ Because my uterus is as useless as my taste in men.
‘Interesting,’ said Rhona.
‘Why?’
‘No reason. Just curious. Oh, would you look at that!’ she said as the sparkling lights of London began to gather around them. ‘This part of the drive never gets old.’
Netta gazed out at the edges of the city that had broken her whizzing past.
London. Of all the places in the world, why did it have to be London?