Dana Francis is secretive. Secrets crouch under her settee, creep over her shoulders, slip between pages of her life...
The coffee had turned cold. The ridged plastic cup was resting in Dana's hand, and it was clear that she had put off drinking it for too long
Wrinkling her nose, she gulped down the tepid brown liquid, and shuddered. It lacked depth and flavour, and left a nasty aftertaste in her mouth. Dana set the empty cup on the fold down table before her.
Instantly, a manicured hand shot out from behind her to sweep the cup away. The air hostess crushed the poor cup mercilessly in an iron grasp and stuffed it into her bin liner, whilst Dana watched, aghast at her ruthlesness.
When the air hostess had wheeled her trolley away, Dana sat back in her leather seat, eyes gazing out of the window. The sky was a pure, careless blue, and the soft carpet of clouds rolled and tumbled beneath the plane as it flew swiftly across the sky.
Dana was headed home. After twenty five years of denial and bitter tears, the moment had thrust itself upon her greedily. One notification arriving in the mail, one congratulory letter, and she had snatched the invitation before the magazine could even think about it.
It seemed a little selfish, now she thought about it. Thousands of free air miles won in a little magazine competition, and Dana could have treated the whole family to a holiday.
But no. She was flying all the way to England from her home in the suburbs of Melbourne, because of just one summer of flighty, wishful thinking. One summer...