I sat in the small economy seat of the Qantas plane, playing with the model airplane Ben had bought me from the airport’s gift shop, a last minute present. On my lap a small photo album rested, a hundred odd memories bundled into one, tightly bound black book.
Out the tiny plane window was a sky of never ending blue, a colour that made three quarters of the passengers on the aircraft excited that they were going to the unknown. For the rest of us - us being the business travellers, the people returning home and me - it was the colour we wished our moods could be.
One of the flight attendants came round with a trolley, asking passengers if they’d like something to drink.
The man next to me took a can of Fosters from the woman, cracking it open too loudly for my liking. I picked up the water bottle I had on my tray, popping a Panadol into my mouth. My head ached like something chronic, and the smell of beer fumes was not helping.
Resting my head on the back of the seat, I let the classical music from my iPod filter through my ears. It was relaxing, and I could ignore the sounds around me.
In between the palms of my hands was my entire life in photographs. I undid the little black cord that held the leather covers together, turning to the first page.
The first photograph was one of those old Polaroid ones, the type that come out instantly after the shot has been taken.
We were at the beach. He was holding me as I was perched on his shoulders, my blond hair wet from the salty water. I could remember that day, when I was eight. The smell of salt, the squawk of the seagulls as they circled overhead, trying to scavenge remnants of our fish and chips lunch. The way the sand clung to my reddened skin. It was the summer holidays, and we’d gone on a camping trip down south to Margaret River. That was the year I lost my first tooth. The white bottom of the photograph read ‘To my darling Luca’.
I opened my eyes, remembering I was sitting on a plane to England, not on my father’s shoulders. The same emotions I’d been feeling over and over in the last three weeks crashed through me, and I turned my head to the window so the man next to me didn’t see the tears.
There was still at least six hours of the long haul flight to London Heathrow. I’d slept for the first five, then watched half of a bad drama starring Harrison Ford. I was running out of things to do, and patience. Even my book - Jane Austen’s Northanger Abbey, a personal favourite, didn’t interest me.
I flipped through the thick pages until I reached the end of the photo album. The last photo had been glued in carelessly, as if the maker hadn’t had enough time to stick it in properly.
It was the four of us. Our perfect summer, a month before our last year at high school. A month before the accident. Before everything changed. My arms were around Ben’s neck as he held me in his arms. Next to us was Natalie and Sean, copying the same pose. We were at the boat harbour, where we’d spent most of the day, hanging out at the aquarium, where Ben worked.
Everything was different now. It was meant to be summer time, but instead I was heading for winter’s cold touch. I’d never even knew we had relatives that lived in England, but I guessed that was why they called them distant. From my mother’s side, someone I’d never had the chance of knowing. Now I was going to be spending however long in a place unidentifiable even by Google Maps.
And I had no idea what to expect.
but unfortunately this chapter doesn't showcase (what I believe) is the best of your abilities! It's a plain chapter, nothing interesting happens. I can't really connect to the main character because everything she does is mysterious. Your first chapter has to capture readers, that way they read the next chapter! I'm sure if you explain the photographs in more detail you can give the readers a connection to the main character and make them want to read more. 
I did rephrase it though so it sounded a bit better. 
