Free Fall in Stilettos

by Catherine Louise

  We began pushback one hour later. I was trying to work out the difference in time between zulu (z) time and the local time in Paris, but I had developed a cloud of brain fog, making me totally incapable of a simple calculation. Staring at my schedule, I tried to clear the haze from my brain, but it refused. The pilots often wore two watches for travelling across time zones, which suddenly made perfect sense. The effects of sleep deprivation and shift work meant that simple tasks became complex. Were they one hour ahead or did I need to add two because it was summer time? The harder I tried, the less sense it made. I looked at my roster again, then kicked myself having noticed the indication that I’d be staying put on the plane the other end.

  Later than scheduled, we arrived in Paris. I checked my appearance in my compact mirror and reapplied a layer of lipstick. Feeling lethargic from seat syndrome (too long spent sitting in a seat), my bum had numbed. As I heard footsteps approaching, I mentally prepared to jump-start into action.

  ‘Aha. We meet again.’

  I looked up to see Marc loading his bag into the overhead locker at the front of the plane, a few seats away from me. Instantly, a smile crept over my face.

  ‘Hi, Marc,’ I said.

  ‘ ’Ello. ’Ow’s it going, April?’

  He finished stuffing his bag into the locker, turned to face me and stood smiling, with his hands on his hips.

  ‘Good, thanks. Eaten any Marmite lately?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh, you remember that?’ he said, nodding his head and grinning. ‘It tasted like dried blood.’ We both laughed.

  The way he pronounced blood sounded more like bluurrrd. Hearing his adorable accent, it didn’t matter that conversation-wise we were on vampire territory. I could listen to him telling me anything – an instructional airline manual would have sounded sexy read aloud by him.

  Moments later, Jim boarded, followed by Henri.

  ‘Hey up, doll face,’ said Jim, holding up his hand for a high five.

  ‘Jim,’ I said, high fiving him back.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ I asked.

  ‘Same as you,’ he said.

  As I approached Jim for a hug, he put up a stop hand, lollipop lady style, then began spritzing with aftershave and dowsing himself in a cloud of deodorant, leaving a visible lingering mist of vapour and a stench of man throughout the cabin. Then he grabbed me for a hug, after which he stood back and patted down his hair.

  Marc popped his head out of the cockpit. He took a breath, then coughed. I’m sure he was about to say something. But instead, his mouth turned up at the edges, and grimacing, he wafted away the pungent odour of Jim’s body sprays before he withdrew back into the cockpit.

  ‘I’ve had frogs the last two days,’ Jim said, rolling his eyes.

  ‘Well, you’ve more of that to come,’ I said.

  Jim went on a verbal tirade of fucking this and that, interspersed with crewing and bastards thrown in now and again. It alluded to a clear picture of having been screwed over with a roster change too. Jim had already been in Paris for a couple of nights, confirming my suspicion that they were short-staffed.

  Meanwhile, I observed that Henri had already started checking seat pockets. I shouted down the plane, ‘Hi, Henri, I’m on it from the front.’

  ‘Nice to see you, April,’ he shouted back in a heavy French accent that almost rolled his words into one.

  I had to listen carefully, or just politely nod, when I didn’t want to ask consecutively for him to repeat everything. But he didn’t mind. He was nice. He’d looked after me in Toulouse when I’d worked away from base for a week. He’d showed me around and we’d had a mini shopping spree together. Henri was also very good-looking and although I didn’t fancy him, I could see his appeal. His afro hair was always slicked back, Michael Jackson style but without a ponytail. He wore glasses with big black rims and had this funny mannerism of adjusting them between his finger and thumb as he talked. They were probably a fashion statement. Not everyone could get away with his style.

  Grabbing my bag from the overhead locker and speedily applying a layer of gloss over the red lipstick, I smartened myself up like a pro, ready for the self-loading freight. My day had dramatically brightened. I felt pleased. Jim and Henri were awesome crew. Parisian passengers could throw us any curveball. And Marc was a big bonus. I hoped we’d have drinks later.

  Jim approached the back galley. He came right up to my nose and gave me a weird stare.

  ‘A bit overenthusiastic with the lippy, doll face. Check yourself out in the mirror,’ he said, tapping his teeth.

  ‘Oh God,’ I said as I darted into the loo for a close-up mirror inspection. Red lipstick was all over my two front teeth, like I’d let a kid loose with a crayon.

  It wasn’t the first time. It was a hazard of rushed lipstick application applied too deep on my top lip. The excess was removed fast, using a finger and squeaky toothbrush action. I hoped that Marc hadn’t witnessed my Dracula smile.

  *

  After completing the first sector and with most passengers having departed, we were left with those requiring special assistance. Amongst them was a little old lady travelling alone. As she waited for her wheelchair, I kept her company.

  ‘Is it good to be home?’ I asked, attempting polite chit-chat.

  ‘Oh no, dear,’ she said. ‘I live in Paris. Every now and again, I visit my daughter over here in Birmingham. She doesn’t like flying, you see.’

  ‘How did you end up living in Paris?’ I asked.

  ‘That’s a long story,’ she said.

  ‘So, you must speak great French?’ I asked.

  ‘Of course. After all these years, I’m fluent, dear,’ she said.

  ‘I would love to learn French properly,’ I replied.

  She beckoned me closer and whispered into my ear. ‘If you want to learn French then sleep with a Frenchman.’ She tapped her nose, gave me a wink and a naughty smile.

  Stumped for a reply, my mouth possibly gaped open. I wasn’t sure. She had to be in her eighties. An unwelcome image of an older couple having sex flashed through my mind. But she looked such a sweet old granny, a bit Miss Marple-esque wearing a brown coat and crocheted hat, even though it was summer. She looked well past the age of remembering sex, let alone having any interest in it. I thought about my gran. She wouldn’t have handled the shock, never mind the advice.

  As the wheelchair assistance arrived, I accompanied the lady to the front of the aircraft. Intrigued by her revelation, I whispered into her ear, ‘You fell in love.’

  ‘That’s the secret, my dear,’ she replied.

  That story I wanted to hear. I imagined a romantic war tale scenario. As she was lifted off, I waved her goodbye. She made me smile.

  A banging noise diverted my attention to the back of the aircraft. I looked around. All the crew were busy gossiping in the front galley. The toilet sign was illuminated, meaning the door was engaged. But I’d previously locked it, storing the gash bag inside before landing. When I checked, the gash bag had been moved outside. Then I heard a whimpering sound. I put my ear close to the loo door and listened.

  ‘Come on, you’ve got to hurry up,’ came a man’s voice from the cubicle.

  I wondered if it was my first encounter at meeting a randy twosome who’d badly timed an attempt to join the mile high club.

  ‘Right, that’s it. Pull your pants up,’ continued the man’s voice.

  There was barely room for one person to manoeuvre. And they weren’t the nicest cubicles. Not that toilets are nice places, but some are worse than others – like chemical toilets at festivals. I’d first been introduced by Emma at an event. And aeroplane toilets were almost on a par – an incubator of smelly filth that nobody wanted around their private bits. If the smell alone wasn’t off-putting enough, then there was huge potential to bash and bruise delicate parts on stuff like the soap
lever. I imagined how it might work, planning moves for two. It wasn’t romantic.

  I stood aside and waited. I’d developed a nothing would surprise me attitude at having experienced the worst and best of working with the general public. The worst was being handed a sick bag with the contents dribbling down the side.

  Then a man came out of the cubicle holding the hand of a toddler-aged child. I put on my flight attendant smile and wished them a pleasant onward journey.

  The Paris Night-stop

  Knackered and ready to drop, it was 10.15 pm French local time and 9.15 pm by my watch. All five of us, including the French captain (whom I didn’t know), Marc, Jim, Henri and I, piled into the air-car which took us back to the terminal. There were various things to drop off at the crew room before finishing for the night.

  The Paris crew room was much smaller than I was used to in Birmingham. It was poky. Five of us filled it. There’d been a rumour circulating about the company closing it down, to save costs. I doubted it. Based on size alone, I couldn’t see how they were going to make much of a saving by transferring staff.

  Marc sat down at a table, not appearing to do anything. Jim and I hung around, awkwardly. Henri (who was the number one on the flight and in charge) fiddled with paperwork, whilst finishing whatever it was he had to do.

  A conversation started about getting to the hotel. There was no taxi booked, which meant contacting the airline. The French captain announced that he was making his own way home and promptly scarpered. Henri offered Jim a lift and that didn’t extend to inviting me – his excuse being that his car was quite small, and space was limited with all the stuff he was carrying. He told me that I was better off getting a lift with Marc. Instinctively, I turned to face Marc to gauge his reaction. Aware I’d been stitched up, I felt my face flush.

  ‘Of course, you should come with me. I’m going to the ’otel for a drink in the bar anyway,’ Marc said. Immediately, he got up and produced his car keys from his pocket.

  ‘Thank you,’ I replied.

  I was partly relieved; I didn’t want to be stranded in Paris trying to negotiate a ride back to the hotel via the airline, or worse, a crew bus and a taxi. And partly I was pleased that Marc was going to drive me there.

  ‘I’ll meet you outside the crew room door in five minutes if that’s okay?’ I said.

  ‘Sure. No problem,’ replied Marc.

  The prospect of travelling in Marc’s car meant a quick trip to the loo was necessary to spritz with deodorant and perfume, digest a handful of mints and to check and remove any possible dodgy lipstick / tooth incident. (I always kept mints in my bag to avoid dog breath or in extreme cases smelling of one thousand yaks – either me or someone else.)

  Marc was waiting for me outside the crew room. He picked up his bag when I approached, and we strolled back through the airport towards the car park. As we walked together, he removed his tie, then his epaulettes.

  ‘Why you doing that?’ I asked, pointing to his epaulettes.

  ‘I don’t like people to know I’m a pilot,’ he said.

  ‘Why not?’ I asked.

  ‘It’s a bit different being a pilot in France than it is in the UK. Firstly, I don’t want to draw attention to myself. Also, people don’t speak to you if they know you’re a pilot ’ere. Or worse, they’ll try and take advantage. In France, being a pilot is per’aps more respected than being a doctor or lawyer even. It’s crazy like that ’ere,’ he said. Loads of pilots I’d seen loved to show off. It seemed that he wasn’t one of those. ‘I once went to a party dressed in jeans and a t-shirt and everyone else was dressed in suits. Business people and top earners, that kind of thing… and I mean everyone. I really stood out. No one talked to me because I didn’t fit in. But I’m not gonna get dressed in a suit to get drunk. I didn’t tell anyone I was a pilot, but somebody found out, and people’s attitudes changed towards me. It was so false.’

  It didn’t sound like much of a party to me. Who gets dressed up in a suit to go to a party? Privately, I questioned whether he was either moody or had a stubborn streak. Perhaps both. But feeling the tiredness catch up with me, I just listened.

  Allowing my mind to wander, I pictured a scene from Pride and Prejudice, where Mr Darcy strips off his well-fitting jodhpurs and riding boots by the lake. There wasn’t a logical connection between Marc and Mr Darcy other than the getting undressed and stubbornness aspects. It prompted a distant memory of the only Darcy quote I could recall from sixth form days: haughty, reserved and fastidious. Marc’s stubbornness made him Darcy-esque, minus the jodhpurs, horse and riding whip, although I bet he’d look pleasing on the eye.

  A curiosity made me slow my pace, holding back about a step behind Marc and fixing my eyes on his rump. His trousers skimmed over his shapely pert arse, which came to an abrupt halt as we arrived at the lift. He pressed the button.

  ‘I’m on basement level,’ he said.

  Obscuring my view as he turned to me, the sound of his voice brought me back to the real world. How long had I been quietly staring at him? Did he know I’d been checking out his bum and the way he walked? My face flushed. The doors opened.

  ‘There’s my car,’ he said.

  A black Audi TT was parked straight ahead. Whilst Marc paused to fiddle for his keys in his pocket, I went and stood by it, resting my trolley case upright.

  ‘You know, you give away your profession by the car you drive,’ I said.

  ‘You got the wrong car!’ he grinned.

  He pointed to his. Next to the shiny Audi TT was an old French Renault, which highlighted the dents and its aged appearance. It could have passed for the worst clapped-out banger in the car park, with ease.

  ‘My good one’s at ’ome. I just use this as my runaround,’ he said, smiling at me.

  I picked up my case, shuffling over to his car.

  ‘We drive on the right in France,’ he announced. Then he grinned some more and opened the passenger door for me, finding it all very amusing. Then before I’d even grabbed the handle on my case to walk round to his side, he quickly slammed shut the car door.

  ‘ ’Old on; just a sec,’ he said.

  He reopened it and dipped his head inside whilst I stood back and waited. His car must have been a tip. It took longer than just shifting a few items off the front seat.

  ‘Mine’s a whole lot worse,’ I lied, unsure whether he heard and feeling a bit guilty because he was doing me an unexpected favour.

  My car had not long come out of the garage and had been courtesy valeted as part of the service. It never looked good otherwise. Usually, it operated as a permanent bin on the passenger side. We had that in common, it seemed.

  ‘Give me a minute,’ he said, poking his head out over the car roof.

  ‘Okay,’ I smiled back. It must have been completely filthy. It took him ages.

  ‘Okay,’ he announced, holding open the door for me and gesturing with a grand sweeping arm movement. I wondered where he’d shoved the rubbish.

  ‘Is it weird, sitting on the right without ’aving a steering wheel?’ he asked.

  In an air guitar fashion, I took hold of my steering wheel and mimicked driving.

  ‘I drive to the airport and back in my sleep, probably wouldn’t notice if it was left or right,’ I giggled. He laughed. Mentally, he ticked a check box.

  We chatted about work on the journey. It only took a handful of minutes to arrive at the hotel. It was quicker than I’d expected.

  He couldn’t have got any closer to the entrance of the hotel reception. The way he parked his car, walking was not required.

  ‘Here already,’ I said.

  ‘Afraid so,’ he replied. ‘I’m ’aving a party in August. Why don’t you come?’ he asked in a casual half-joking way just before I got out of the car. He looked over at me. His big, cheeky grin appeared.

  ‘Okay then,’ I s
aid, playing along.

  ‘Good. That’s settled then,’ he said, tapping the steering wheel with both his hands whilst giving a nod and a smile. We both got out. Before I could take hold of my case, he darted to my side. ‘Please, let me. I insist,’ he said, stepping in to take it from me.

  He scored highly for having manners. Consciously aware of rating him, in my mind he ticked another box. Together, we walked into the hotel.

  Through the revolving doors, the large fountain situated in reception greeted us with a scent of newly mown grass. Tufts of green in the water made me think it was more likely to be the smell of fresh blooms of algae. It never reached a stale turning point of rotten cabbage. It was a proper five-star affair; the kind of place I’d previously imagined aircrew stopped at all the time. The airline must have struck a good deal. Most of the time, the reality wasn’t that impressive.

  We were never slumming it. But it wasn’t usually plush, just comfortable and nice, which was okay or even good. So, this hotel was better than the usual. If I was being picky, its only downside was its breakfast being continental rather than a slap-up Glasgow feast.

  I checked in. Marc waited.

  ‘Are you coming down for a drink?’ he asked.

  ‘Why not?’ I shrugged, pleased that he’d asked.

  ‘That’s the spirit,’ he laughed.

  ‘See you in ten minutes,’ I said, trying to contain my flush of excitement as I stepped into the lift.

  *

  The hotel bar was usually rammed and conveniently tucked away from the restaurants and most of the public. It was an air crew hangout and possibly why it had become more lax than other parts of the hotel. And packed with French crew dressed in uniform; I loved their rebellious attitude. Wearing uniform in hotel bars was forbidden by our company. In training, they’d told us how it didn’t portray the correct image. I disagreed. But in true obedient Brit style, I always wore my own civvy clothes and felt fortunate that I’d recently washed and repacked something decent – cream trousers, black boots and a black off the shoulder top, which seemed fitting for a Friday night in a Parisian bar. Sexy but not too obvious.