'And you wouldn't get very far,' he interrupts, kicking the empty suitcase towards me. 'I'm not about to let you go.'
We ride to the airport in silence. While Dan busies himself on his iPad, I gaze out of the window, no longer impressed by the luxury of the Rolls, watching numbly as the lights of London give way to the suburbs, and finally the motorway. After an hour or so, we reach Gatwick, threading our way through a maze of lanes and drawing to a halt. I'm ushered out of the car, only to find myself standing on the tarmac, the hastily packed luggage on one side, a gleaming white jet on the other. While Dan talks to an official, handing over our passports, my heartbeat stalls and my throat constricts. And this is just the beginning, the opening bars of a symphony of panic. I have no idea how I've let it get this far, why I simply packed up my case like an obedient little woman and let him drag me out here, but it's too late now. There's a plane in front of me. A bloody plane. And my body's telling me loud and clear that I'm not too happy about it. Still dressed in the black evening gown and chilled to the bone, I stand rooted to the spot, mesmerised by its sleekness.
'A plane,' I gasp.
'Well spotted.' Dan's voice reaches me above the low growl of the engines. 'Get on.'
It starts to rain again, only a light drizzle but I'll be soaked through in no time if I don't move. And I don't move. Because I can't move. If I get on this thing, I'll die. I know it. A clutching sensation kicks off in my stomach and my head begins to swirl. I watch as our luggage is carried on board, as Dan shakes hands with the driver and the Rolls-Royce glides away into the night, taking with it my only practical escape route. I'm still debating the sense of making an impractical escape, scarpering off across the runway, when I feel a hand close around mine.
'I can't get on. It's a tin can with wings.'
'We need to get going.'
I shake my head.
'I can't.'
'Oh, for fuck's sake.'
My hand's released and within the blink of an eye, I'm upside down in a fireman's lift, being hauled up the steps. I'd scream but my vocal chords seem to have malfunctioned.
'Keep your head down.'
Grabbing hold of his back, clamping my eyelids shut and digging my nails in for dear life, I do as I'm told. I'm on the verge of hyperventilating when I'm lowered into a leather seat. I sense a movement in front of me, the tightening of straps as I'm fastened in for take-off. Suddenly, I seem to have turned to stone.
I hear a woman's voice.
'Is she alright?'
'She'll be fine,' Dan answers. 'Just tell the pilot to take off before she comes to her senses, and bring us some wine once we're in the air.'
'Yes, sir.'
I hear the roar of engines and grip leather, refusing to open my eyes. This isn't happening, I tell myself. This really isn't happening. But it is. In fact, we're moving now. As the G-force kicks in, I clench just about everything I can. Shit. We're taking off. We're actually taking off. Swimming through the chaos in my brain, I find the only sensible thing I can to cling to: I'm in the woods, back in Limmingham, and that's the distant rumble of the sea. Relax. Relax. Relax.
'Maya.'
'What?'
'Open your eyes.'
'Can't.'
'We're in the air. You can't spend the next six hours like this.'
And yes, I suppose he's got a point. Gradually willing my eyes to open, I take in the curve of the fuselage, the bright lighting, a mahogany table in front of me. I'm in a black leather seat, and Dan's right next to me. He reaches out and takes my hand. Prising it away from the arm rest, he closes his fingers around mine.
'You did it.'
'I did it,' I whimper.
His smile sends a quiver of warmth right through me. I'm pretty sure that's pride in his eyes.
'Planes,' I groan. 'Big scary things.'
'Not this one. This is a little scary thing. Only it's not scary.' He speaks quietly, slowly, as if he's reassuring a child. 'And you're not going to die.'
A super slim, uniformed woman appears from behind a partition. She slips a Kindle onto the table in front of me.
'What's this?'
'Something to keep you occupied.' He reaches over and tucks my hair behind my ear. 'I had Carla send it over. I'm sorry for man-handling you.'
The attendant re-appears with a tray, carrying a bottle of wine and two glasses. With the utmost elegance, she places the glasses down and half fills them.
'Can I get you anything to eat?' she asks.
Dan shakes his head, downs the wine in one go and refills his glass.
'Madam?'
Looking up, I realise that she's speaking to me.
'No thanks. Just more of this stuff.'
With shaking hands, I take a gulp of my own wine. My brain seems to have jolted itself back into life, reminding me that the time has come for Dan to spill the beans. I wait until the attendant disappears into her corner.
'Get on with it then,' I begin. 'I got on this bloody thing, and now you can deliver your part of the deal. Explain yourself. Every last detail.'
He takes another mouthful of wine and looks at me, full on, his blue irises shimmering in the low lighting. The copper flecks seem to dance.
'You promised,' I remind him.
He stares at me, wordless. Is he clamming up? Well, I'm not having that.
'Come on. What's her name?'
'Antonietta,' he whispers, his reply barely audible above the hum of the engines.
'Antonietta Foster. It's got a nice ring to it.'
He shoots me a scowl.
'Maya Foster sounds better.'
'Drop it.' I scowl right back at him. 'Don't even think about side-tracking me.'
He leans his head back against the rest.
'Okay.' He takes a moment or two to ready himself, obviously sorting through the order of the details, the choice of words. 'The woman in Rome.'
'The one you lodged with?'
'Yes.'
'That's a pretty strange definition of lodging.'
He frowns. 'Give me a break, Maya.'
'I've already given you several.'
'One more.' He pleads. 'Just let me explain.' Turning away, he takes another mouthful of wine, puts down the glass and stares at it. 'It was a bar in Rome, some upmarket place. That's where I met her. She took me in and sobered me up. I was twenty-one, she was thirty-three. I lived with her for a year.'
So far, so good. I already know this. What I'm waiting for now is the twist in the tale. He closes his eyes, as if he doesn't want to acknowledge the next part.
'As far as I was concerned, it was an arrangement, nothing more.'
'So what happened?'
I wait for his words to edge their way past the dull roar of the jet engine.
'She fell in love with me.'
At last, he makes eye contact.
'And you fell for her?'
He shakes his head.
'I used her.'
He notices my alarm.
'I've told you, Maya. I'm not the man I used to be.'
'That's exactly what Boyd said.'
'And I'm not Boyd.'
He waits for a sign that I believe him, and I must have given it, maybe with a flicker of the eyes, because before long he's talking again.
'I didn't want to come back to England. She gave me a roof over my head. I got to fuck the way I wanted to. No strings. It was perfect. But when she told me she loved me, I knew it was time to go.'
'Did you ever tell her you loved her?'
'No. Because I didn't. There's only one person I've ever said those words to.' His blue eyes pierce me right to the soul. He picks up his glass and finishes off the wine. 'I told her I didn't feel the same way, I told her I was leaving … and then she told me she was pregnant.'
My mouth opens. Gathering every last ounce of self-control, I close it again and wait for him to continue. I'm going to say nothing.
'I couldn't understand … We always used condoms.' He chews at his bottom lip, his eyes distant now. Clearly, he's flipping back through the memories. 'I was on the verge of making a run for it … and then I had a visit.' He looks directly at me now, a wry smile on his face. 'Three men. They forced their way into the apartment one night and beat me up.' He rubs his forehead. 'And then they made it perfectly clear that if I didn't do the right thing, I'd be dead. They said they'd follow me if I tried to run.'
'Mafia?' I gasp.
He laughs quietly.
'Nothing quite so dramatic. Just a few unsavoury family members. They probably wouldn't have gone through with it, but I was young and scared and stupid, so I did the right thing.' He shrugs. 'I married her.'
'And she had the baby?' I stare at him. 'Oh, my God, you've got a child?'
'No.' He grabs my hand and squeezes it. 'A couple of weeks after we got married, she told me she'd lost it.'
'Oh Jesus. I'm sorry.'
'Don't be. She was never pregnant in the first place.' He takes in a deep breath and holds up an index finger. 'One friend. She had one friend with a conscience. They told me.'
'So you left her? You divorced her?'
He shakes his head.
'I didn't dare leave. But I didn't touch her either. I went nowhere near her. I didn't even speak to her. I hated her, hated the sight of her … '
'So what happened?'
He pauses, takes in a deep breath and sighs it out.
'You want me to tell you the truth? Well, here's the truth. I was a bastard. I treated her like shit.' He wavers. 'And then she killed herself.'