Down to Earth
Ever experienced deja vu? An enchanting and magical novel about reincarnation from the author of Could It Be Magic?When Michaela Anderson signs up for a parachute jump she gets more than a case of vertigo…When Michaela Anderson signs up for a parachute jump she gets more than a case of vertigo…Suffering last-minute panic, Michaela’s three colleagues go first. But just as she takes her leap of faith, an almighty gale blows up from nowhere.When she returns to the ground, she finds the airfield deserted, her car gone and the seasons mysteriously changed. Posters nearby proclaim Michaela to have been missing for the last six and a half years…But Michaela is determined to find out the truth. Was she kidnapped? Is she now suffering amnesia, or has something even more extraordinary occurred?With the help of handsome pilot Matt, Michaela sets out to find the truth. And what she discovers rocks everything she has ever believed in to the core…A magical tale that will enchant and enthral fans of Cecelia Ahern and Sophie Kinsella.
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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 HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd. 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF
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
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.
