I glance at the headline of the newspaper folded in my lap, and smile. The plane takes off and the island shrinks into a chocolate-box toytown, surrounded by a champagne sea.
Only a week ago, I hauled my bag up the path that spirals around that cliff. The hotel loomed above me, built into the rocks and incandescent in the sunshine.
She was by the lift, talking into her phone when I walked through reception. I recognised her voice immediately: that same grating, high-pitched lilt. She looked up. A flash of recognition and – was that panic? Then she plastered on a smile.
“Victoria, how are you?” She kissed the air and her perfume wafted over me. I recoiled.
“Hi, Julia,” I said. We made stilted small-talk until she hurried into the lift.
All week, Julia ingratiated herself with the big names in the literary world. Each morning, clad in designer leggings, she boasted about her cliff-top sunrise yoga. Meanwhile, I became renowned for being the last to breakfast.
On the Thursday morning, Julia lead a workshop, entitled “Finding the Plot.”
I gritted my teeth as she was introduced. “Please welcome bestselling author of the psychological thriller, ‘Someone You Know,’ Julia Fieldman!”
Our brief was to develop an “inciting incident” for the character we created yesterday. Julia asked me to share my idea.
“Being wronged by someone and wanting revenge,” I said, eye contact unwavering.
Afternoons were for writing or relaxing. I wandered to the cliff-top above the hotel.
I sensed someone behind me.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” said Julia.
“Stunning,” I said.
We stood in silence for a while.
“You never replied to my messages,” I said.
“Victoria, your story wasn’t one of the entries I was judging. I didn’t even read it. It was just a coincidence that my novel was a similar theme.”
“Similar theme? It was blatant plagiarism! And you ensured that my story wasn’t shortlisted in the competition.”
“You’re jealous of my success, and still bearing a grudge about Simon,” she said.
“You think I’m harbouring feelings for some idiot from University who was stupid enough to cheat on me with you?”
She stormed off. I clenched my fists and screamed into the wind.
At sunrise, she was on the cliff-edge, performing her sun salutations. I approached unnoticed in the gathering light. She was on her tiptoes, reaching upwards with both hands. I touched her shoulder. She flinched, stumbled, and fell like a bird taking flight.
Twisted on the rocks below, she managed even in death to strike a pose.
Later, there was a nauseating show of sobbing and hugging. The police interviewed everyone, but my reputation as a late riser helped me evade suspicion.
I re-read the headline, “Author in Fatal Fall in Paradise.”
“Glass of champagne, please,” I say to the airhostess. “Cheers, Julia,” I whisper under my breath.
There’s a tapping at the window. I watch open-mouthed as the word “Cheers!” forms in the condensation.
Then the plane plummets to the ground.
