A Twist of Fate by Demelza Hart Page A

rush.’
    I tried to reply to several news agencies. Despite the late hour, they all brightened when they found out who was calling. Their voices were reassuring and positive; what they offered sounded acceptable – an easy-going interview, no pressure. If I gave the public what they wanted, they’d soon lose interest and move on. It was better that way. But they all wanted the same thing. They all wanted Paul, too. I didn’t say yes but I didn’t say no either. I could sense the tone of triumph in the producers’ voices as I gave them hope. They had me dangling on the hook; now they just had to reel me in, we both knew it.
    I moved to my window and glanced out. Over the high hedge I could see a few die-hard paps waiting with their lenses. I shut the curtains hard.

Twelve
    In the morning the phone calls started again, incessantly. I couldn’t pretend I wasn’t a little flattered. I’d enjoyed the press conference despite the intrusive nature of it.
    My father came into the kitchen and plonked a selection of papers down in front of me. I glanced at the red header on one.
    â€˜The Mirror , Daddy? Since when have you bought the Mirror ?’
    â€˜Since my daughter adorned the front page.’ I reached over for it and the others. There was my face, smiling, looking anxious, demure, radiant, whatever to fit the headline of the paper. I held my cereal spoon in one hand and stared with a mixture of awed revulsion as my face was paraded for all to see.
    â€˜A survivor’s smile’ ran the headline in the Telegraph with one of the more flattering pictures: me smiling warmly at the assembled ranks in the press conference.
    â€˜Trauma and tears’, said the Mirror , with an image of my eyes downcast with a hint of moisture in them. I’d brought up a finger to the corner to try to get some dust out of them, that was all. I hadn’t come close to crying during any of it.
    â€˜Island beauty’, proclaimed the Mail with a picture of me biting my lip, looking coquettish – to put it nicely. Sluttish if you wanted. I often bit my lip when mulling over questions. I hadn’t been aware I was doing it and cursed myself for not being more aware. Perhaps I’d ask Anna for more media training.
    Inside, the articles were full of personal details – my schooling, my friends, my hobbies. They’d interviewed school friends, ex-pupils, neighbours. Now I knew why celebrities reacted so badly to media intrusion. I could feel the intrusion, like a burglary. Luckily, the details were flattering and vague, but it was strange reading about myself in the third person. I felt distanced from me, as if it was another Callie Frobisher they were discussing. And with it went the teeniest layer of my humanity – I was, for that moment, a media commodity. It may have been tame and flattering, but I sensed there would be more to come.
    The phone calls kept on all morning. I asked Anna. She advised one or two chat shows – keep them happy and let them move onto something else. But, she said, you need him.
    Paul.
    I needed Paul.
    If everyone else told me to do it, it wasn’t as if I was giving in myself, was it? In fact, I had to do it. I had no choice. That’s what I told myself anyway.
    I picked up my phone and retreated to the privacy of my room. I took out his number, holding the paper tightly, imagining his fingers on it. I examined his handwriting, neat and individual. I could feel my pulse racing. I took steadying breaths and dialled the number. It rang three times, and then was answered.
    â€˜Hello?’
    â€˜Hi, it’s me.’
    Pause.
    â€˜Who’s me?’
    â€˜Me! Callie!’
    â€˜Oh, you, Callie.’
    â€˜Don’t be a prat, Paul. You know full well it’s me.’
    I thought I heard that familiar chuckle down the line. Oh God, I still wanted him. Screw him for making me want him just from breathing down the bloody