MELANIE ROSE
Down to Earth
This novel is entirely a work of fiction.
The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
AVON
A division of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd. 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk
Copyright © Melanie Rose 2010
Melanie Rose asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
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Source ISBN: 9781847561077
Ebook Edition © OCTOBER 2010 ISBN: 9780007412266
Version: 2018-07-09
This book is for my clever, elegant, artistic and most beloved Mum, who taught me to put myself in other people’s shoes and to see things from their perspective. I miss you every day x
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
Chapter Fifty-Four
Chapter Fifty-Five
Chapter Fifty-Six
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Chapter Fifty-Eight
One Year Later
IN CONVERSATION WITH MELANIE ROSE
DOWN TO EARTH
By the same author
About the Publisher
April 2002
Blood pounded in my head and I thought I might be sick at any minute. The parachute felt surprisingly heavy on my back as I followed Ingrid through the hangar doors and out into the bright, spring sunshine. Ingrid, who had been making little quips and jokes during the six-hour training session, had fallen ominously silent as we followed the jumpmaster towards a light aircraft, which was parked a short way away on the grassy field.
‘Maybe we should have waited until more of the group could make it.’ I swallowed nervously, wishing I was anywhere but here right now. ‘The whole office signed up for this and now there’s only the four of us.’
One of my mum’s favourite sayings flickered into my mind; be careful what you wish for, sometimes the cosmos is listening .
Shaking the thought away with a tremor of unease, I glanced over my shoulder, pausing in mid-stride to let Graham, the red faced, rather rotund chief administrator catch up to us. I wondered briefly if he’d lied on his ‘declaration of fitness’ form. If not, he must have only just squeezed within the 15 stone limit for a solo static line jump. In Graham’s wake dithered the angular Kevin, the youngest and newest member of our group. He’d only joined Wayfarers insurance company a few weeks ago as an IT support technician and had been keen to sign up to what the boss had billed as a ‘team-building charity parachute jump’. Looking at his pale face now, I wondered if he was questioning his decision.
Kevin definitely looked as sick as I felt, but before I could commiserate I realised his eyes were fixed miserably on the back of Ingrid’s flaxen head. My best friend, in true Ingrid-fashion was sticking close to the jumpmaster and as she turned and tossed her silky hair, I could see her blue eyes dancing animatedly on his.
‘She’s nervous, that’s all,’ I managed a weak smile as Kevin lowered his eyes to the ground as if unable to watch his office crush flirt a moment longer.
‘Yeah, right,’ he mumbled under his breath.
Matt, our instructor and jumpmaster was helping Ingrid into the plane. As she disappeared inside the small white hull, he turned his grey eyes on me and held out his hand. My pulse quickened a little further as I placed my hand in his. He reminded me a little of the French footballer David Ginola, but younger, somewhere in his early to mid-twenties, around my own age, I guessed. He had been kind but thoroughly professional all morning as he’d put us through our paces. He gave my hand a light squeeze.
‘Don’t look so worried, Michaela, you’ll be fine. The first time is scary, but I promise you’ll love it.’
Yeah, right, sprang to mind again but as I looked into his eyes I found that I believed him.
‘Just remember the briefing video and your roll technique for landing. And do everything I tell you, when I tell you. You have to trust yourself to me, OK?’
He fished a scruffy piece of paper from his pocket and tucked it into the breast pocket of my jumpsuit. ‘My phone number,’ he whispered conspiratorially. ‘Maybe you’d like to have a drink with me sometime.’
I thought fleetingly of my boyfriend Calum, the love of my life, waiting at home, but I nodded anyway; there was no harm in a friendly drink. ‘Maybe – if I survive.’ I stepped up through the hatch, catching the side of my hand on something sharp as I clambered into the plane and squeezed myself into the seat next to Ingrid who was fastening her helmet in place.
She grinned at me nervously. ‘Cute isn’t he?’
Gripping my hands in my lap to stop them from shaking I nodded again, realising as I did so that a thin line of blood was seeping from a small cut on the side of my palm. ‘I suppose he is.’
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