“Good,” said Erin. “That’s good. So…I wait?”
“Yes. You wait.”
* * * *
She didn’t have to wait long.
Four days later, Erin sat in the back of a chauffeured Bentley, watching the London streets glide by behind the smoked glass.
Sir had told her to bring nothing but the clothes she stood up in and her handbag, containing mobile phone, house keys and one ‘comfort object’ of her choice. She had decided on a framed photograph of her sister. It was her sister who had encouraged her to aim for her dreams, and Amy would be her inspiration if and when things got tough. It was also her sister to whom she had first whispered a confession of her sexual persona when she had discovered a battered copy of an S&M novel stuffed under the socks in her underwear drawer. She had been so understanding—she had even found the MasterMe website for her.
She had held the frame in her hand the night before and whispered, “I won’t let you down, Amy.”
But now Amy was a long way from her mind, especially when the car moved out on the fringes of the city without joining any of the major motorways. Where could they be going?
When they drove through the barrier entrance of a private airfield, Erin’s stomach gave a lurch. Overseas. Private jet. Jesus. This is real.
If she changed her mind now, what would happen?
Nothing, probably. Just years of grubbing in McJobs until she could stump up enough cash to fund her dream. Fuck that.
The chauffeur parked up past the rows of two-seater planes and small jet craft, at a helipad.
“Oh,” said Erin, longing for the chauffeur to confide in her. “Are we not going abroad then?”
“I’m not going anywhere,” said the chauffeur, and Erin noticed that he coloured a little, as if embarrassed to be lured into speech. “I’m driving back to London. You are taking the trip.”
They walked over to the helicopter, battling through the stiff breeze its already chopping rotor-blades sent gusting towards them.
“Miss Parkinson,” said the chauffeur, handing her up into the aircraft.
The pilot merely nodded and helped Erin strap herself into the passenger seat.
“Flown in one of these before?” he asked politely.
“God, no,” said Erin, and he laughed.
That was the extent of their communication—seconds later, they were taking off, climbing into the sky above the north-western tip of London and heading…which way? South. South-east? Or just south? Erin couldn’t quite work it out, and neither could she really concentrate on much, with her stomach tight and her throat tighter. She’d never thought of herself as afraid of flying, but this was so different to being cooped up in economy on a bucket trip to the sun that it was laughable. It felt dangerous and yet exhilarating, freeing.
“Where are we going?” she shouted, but the pilot either couldn’t hear her over the deafening roar of the engines or chose to ignore her.
She looked down for her answer, over the forests and green fields of southern England, trying to pick out any landmarks. Chalk downlands and a cathedral—could that be Winchester? And then they were approaching the coast and she saw dockyards, high-rise buildings, the iconic new Spinnaker Tower, even the masts of Nelson’s flagship, HMS Victory.
“Portsmouth,” she said in surprise. Surely this wasn’t traditional millionaire territory. Perhaps he was some kind of sailor. An admiral or something.
The helicopter was hovering lower in the sky, preparing to land, yet they were over the narrow strip of sea between Portsmouth and the Isle of Wight. Now she could see people on the beaches, a hovercraft zipping across the Solent, funfair rides on the pier.
“Where are we…oh God! We’re landing in the sea?”
But the pilot simply shook his head and wrestled all the harder with his controls.
Erin saw now that they were aiming to land on one of the strange circular fortresses that stood in the sea off Portsmouth, presumably built as defences in time of war.
“He lives here? In the middle of the sea?”
Erin didn’t expect an answer and she didn’t get one. But despite the beautiful sparkle of the sea on all sides and the cheerful surroundings, she felt cold and fearful. This was true isolation. If she wanted to leave, how could she?
This fear was momentarily overwhelmed by a dread of missing the helipad inside the tower roof and drowning, but the pilot knew his mark and he landed with perfect accuracy in the centre.