Free Fall in Stilettos

by Catherine Louise

  ‘Yes, I realise it would be easy to…’ he said, without finishing, even though I silently pleaded to hear the rest.

  ‘Well, if I’m still coming to your party, I have between now and then to work on changing your mind,’ I said, acting upbeat, although my thoughts were volatile. One rejection was bad enough. But I couldn’t help myself.

  ‘I suppose you do,’ he replied.

  The look of seriousness on his face warmed to a peep of a smile, and a hot pang of desire shot through my entire body, rightly or wrongly giving me just a slither of hope amidst all the upset. My brain went into hyperactive mode. Then feeling compelled not to accept the situation as final, adrenaline pumped around my body at a rate of knots, fuelled by an overwhelming need. I could sense my dignity fast draining away like sand slipping through an egg timer.

  Back at university, I’d had the reputation of stalking the man I wanted until I got him. Nothing too extreme or weird, not like the 1980s film, Fatal Attraction, where a lady boils a bunny. It was winning the chase, although with Marc it was different.

  ‘Well, I think I should warn you that I’m a very persistent and determined person. On those psychometric practice tests for interviews, the reports always say that about me,’ I said. Then I cringed, feeling powerless to barricade my thoughts from converting into idiotic words.

  ‘That’s good for jobs,’ he said.

  ‘Not just jobs,’ I replied.

  He laughed. ‘Sorry, I didn’t quite mean that the way it sounded.’

  ‘I have a sixth sense about these things, you know,’ I said. And despite the need to stop, I continued to babble, splurging too much embarrassing and unnecessary stuff.

  ‘Sixth sense – what is that?’ he asked.

  ‘It means I have intuition. Do you know what I mean?’

  ‘Sure, I guess,’ he said.

  Catching sight of the picture again, I placed myself within the image of the large ship, balancing precariously on a pirate’s plank, refusing to jump and not about to be shoved off. Maybe it was the haziness of the July summer sun, combined with the romance of being in Paris accompanied by an amazing Frenchman with serious potential. I simply couldn’t allow him to toss everything overboard. Struggling to accept things, there was a current vacancy for the love of my life, and Marc had been a strong contender to fill that empty gap.

  ‘And what is your intuition telling you now?’ he asked.

  ‘That you’ll soon realise you made a huge mistake and wonder whether there’s still a chance I may forgive you, and then you’ll ask me to come back to Paris next weekend to do it all over again,’ I said.

  He laughed. Then his smile faded.

  ‘But you’re working, remember? You’ll see I’m right about this. We would never see each other.’

  ‘If it’s worth having then it’s never easy,’ I said, almost begging him.

  Distance didn’t have to be a problem, although working schedules would be a battle, but not impossible. I’d convinced myself that it was worth a try. How could he so easily surrender to a bit of inconvenience and throw away what we’d started? That thought was never spoken out loud.

  ‘Look, there is something that I ’aven’t told you… I trust you not to say anything to anyone and I should ’ave told you before. I’ve only just ’eard.’ He drew a breath, and I knew what he was about to say. ‘I’ve been offered a job – it’s a contract somewhere else. It’s paying a lot of money, and I’ve accepted. It’s going to take me to Indonesia, where I’ll be based. I should ’ave told you. I’m sorry, but I didn’t know ’ow things would turn out.’

  I felt strangely relieved by his admission, not that I could reciprocate by mentioning my earlier discovery. But I’d had time to digest the initial shock of the job and its location. And I hadn’t blindly ignored the plunging sensation it had triggered – just rationalised it. Surely, there was a way to be together if we tried. The logistics of us both working on an airline meant that being in a far-flung corner of the Earth didn’t make it impossible.

  ‘We both work on the airlines, we could still—’ I began.

  He cut in.

  ‘Not only that – it’s dangerous. I can’t ’ave any connections, no links to anyone I’ve not already declared. I’m not even supposed to share that, so please, that’s all I can tell you. I’m only going to be in Paris now for a matter of weeks,’ he said.

  His words sounded so unbelievable I almost laughed. Thank God I’d seen that bloody letter. Had I not seen it, I’d have concluded matters as an extreme attempt to avoid me.

  Contemplating what had just been said, we both sat in silence for a moment, needing time to digest everything. Privately, I questioned whether I’d been a total mug, although I didn’t entirely blame myself. There’d been plenty of encouragement on his part. Chemistry was a driving factor. Perhaps I’d just been too easily available and too easy a conquest. In the next instant, I tossed that thought aside as readily as it had invaded my thoughts. I was certain of his feelings for me. And I wanted him in my life, more than he knew.

  ‘Think we both just got carried away,’ he said, whilst slowly getting up from the table.

  That wasn’t true. Ever since the Paris night-stop where he’d passed me his details, he’d constantly been on my mind, like a flashing beacon, until I’d finally worked up the nerve to do something about it.

  ‘Well, if not right now, then – later on maybe?’ I said, trying to hide the desperation in my voice.

  ‘In a couple of months, you’ll meet somebody nice and I don’t want you to miss out on that ’cos of me. You already said you don’t like to turn down your opportunities. Go back to England and don’t think about me. Forget all about me,’ he said.

  ‘What you’re saying is impossible. I don’t want to meet somebody else. I don’t want to forget all about you, and don’t you dare forget about me,’ I said as I felt my throat tense and a sharp sting of tears well in my eyes.

  ‘I won’t,’ he said. He took hold of my hand and lifted it to meet his mouth with a gentle kiss. ‘Give me a mention in your book when you get around to writing it… a chapter… a page… a paragraph maybe? Wherever I am in the world, I’ll buy it,’ he said.

  His smile faded to a look of sadness, most likely mirroring me after glancing at my face. I couldn’t conceal my feelings, but I didn’t want to cry. Biting on my sore lip kept further emotion from escaping.

  ‘Think I can manage more than just a paragraph,’ I said. Trying to be brave, but confusion rife in my head, a numbness prevailed. I took a step towards him. ‘Give me a hug.’ Reaching out, I wrapped my arms around him tightly, not wanting to let go. He held me, pulling me close for a second, before ever so gently taking my arms in his hands and withdrawing himself from my embrace. Almost resigned to his outcome and with a feeling of being able to say or do no more to change things, I let him go.

  As I glanced at my watch, knowingly he picked up my bags. It was time to leave.

  He opened the car door for me then got in, switching on the stereo. His favourite artist sang through the speakers again. Recognising it this time, I still didn’t know the musician’s name. We didn’t share the same musical tastes.

  We started the journey back to the airport. Passing by the tree-lined street reminded me of our earlier run together and how I’d been horrified when he way outpaced me, being a smoker. But he’d practised, and anyway, he wasn’t so hot in his shorts. The sweaty image flashed in my mind. Glancing in his direction, I would get over him.

  Then he smiled at me, reminding me of the feel of his lips and the thing he did with his tongue that injected a tingle with each kiss, and the sensation of his warm olive skin against mine. The whisper of his voice replayed in my head – delicate English skin, so soft and smooth – and how his fingers had wandered over me, stroking my exposed arms and torso and caressing my entire body. He knew how to do passi
on. No lover had come close to studying me in any detail the way he had. Life was cruel. He was going to take some getting over.

  Allowing myself to watch him out of the corner of my eye, whilst he concentrated on the road, he looked properly French, wearing his navy lightweight jumper over his shoulders, indigo jeans and dark brown moccasin shoes. When he wasn’t wearing his sunglasses, he had the most compelling dark eyes. More used to seeing him in uniform on the rare occasions when we had worked together – black trousers and white shirt – his uniform made him appear stockier than he was. His tousled dark hair somehow suited him that way, and the way he smoothed it over with his mannerism of running his fingers through it when he spoke to me. He looked tall, even when seated. It had amused me when I’d first seen him crouch down to almost climb into the cockpit through the small and narrow door. Similarly, at his home, which wasn’t remotely typical of a Parisian apartment, the stairway was a bit too small for a man of his height. I’d been right about him having to bow his head to avoid the low lintel at the foot of his stairs.

  The stereo filled a lack of conversation. I wondered more about his job. Obviously, he hadn’t wanted me to ask more questions. And I couldn’t blame him for placing a job above me; we hadn’t known each other long. Well, not in the sense of being a proper couple – almost but not quite. One long date didn’t count.

  The air con still wasn’t working properly. It was hot and sticky. I watched as he pulled off his jumper and flung it onto the back seat. I adjusted my window enough to enable a breeze. My hair went flying. I let it ruffle. It’d be frizzy by the time we arrived. I didn’t care anymore.

  We were already in the northern suburbs of Paris. I’d learned that you could never be sure about Parisian traffic. Coming to a busy intersection, he accelerated onto what looked like a motorway near the Stade de Paris and I let out a squeal.

  ‘What is wrong?’ he said, looking at me, his eyes wide.

  ‘Sorry, I thought we were going to hit that car to the side of us,’ I said.

  He laughed. ‘That’s called positive driving. You must accelerate and go for it or else no one will let you in. That’s a top tip for driving in Paris.’

  Flushed with embarrassment, it was a useless top tip – I’d never need. Not now. We headed back to Charles de Gaulle Airport without further events.

  *

  Arriving at departures, I went to pick up my suitcase from his car boot, but insistently he stopped me. He was adorable, opening doors for me and expecting to carry my bags. I was being dumped in the politest way possible. I’d been a sucker for a complete charmer. Why did he have to be quite so perfect? It made it all the harder. After checking on the flight information, we went outside in the sun. He lit up another cigarette.

  ‘You asked me what my bad points were earlier today,’ he began. ‘Well, one of my good points, perhaps the best one, is that I’m very honest, and I hope you appreciate me being honest with you right now. It’s better that I’m like this than going along with things and then never getting in touch with you again – don’t you think?’

  ‘Well, that would make you a bastard, and I would definitely change my mind about you then. But I know you’re not. I actually think you’re… quite lovely,’ I said and regretted saying the last part, wishing I’d gagged myself and taped up my mouth.

  ‘I think that about you too,’ he replied softly, making me feel totally okay about having told him that he was lovely.

  ‘You don’t meet someone you have a connection with every day,’ I said.

  ‘Yes. I know… I know,’ he replied.

  He looked down at his feet. Standing against the terminal building, I watched him finish his cigarette as we sheltered from the hot sun.

  ‘Won’t do you any good,’ I said. God, I could be so fucking annoying at times – why did I say it?

  ‘You keep telling me that, but I’ll do it anyway,’ he replied, blowing out a wisp of smoke. I both loved and hated his stubbornness.

  We stood together for the next couple of minutes in calm quietness. Thinking about our earlier conversation, I guessed he was doing the same. That’s all that occupied my mind. Side by side, I clung to the last few minutes of being in his company, resigned to it being the final time.

  ‘Think I’d better go and check in now, before they close the gate,’ I said, acting a fake happy as I bent down to grab my bags.

  ‘No, let me; it’s the least I can do,’ he said, reaching for my case. He carried it across to the gate and set it down.

  ‘I suppose this is it then,’ I said.

  The pitch of my voice was giving way. I stopped talking and swallowed hard on the lump in my throat. My heart was pounding as he stood close.

  ‘Please don’t think of it as a casual hook-up – that’s not what it was. Not what it was at all,’ he said.

  ‘I know,’ I whispered.

  ‘Please… think about what I’ve said to you. You’ll go ’ome and realise that what I’m doing is right for both of us,’ he said gently.

  ‘You’re so wrong. You keep in mind that I’m just a plane journey away.’

  I stepped up to him and slowly kissed him. He kissed me back, then drew away. I kissed him tenderly a second time.

  ‘Don’t do that too much. Remember what we just talked about?’ he said.

  His lips trembled as he spoke. I stole a last kiss. He pulled away. His feet shuffled backwards. The expression in his eyes made me blink back the tears. But I couldn’t contain them. I couldn’t hide.

  ‘I feel like such an asshole,’ he said.

  Fleetingly, our eyes met. He half raised his hand. I turned away.

  The Flight Home

  The passenger lounge wasn’t busy. Choosing a solitary row of seats, I waited to board the plane back home to England. I tried to think about anything other than Marc. But trying to exercise complete and sudden memory loss was impossible. Nothing was working. Any attempts at forgettery kept conjuring up inconvenient flashbacks.

  Biting my lip, a few stray tears escaped. They were quickly banished with a swift flick of my hand. Determined to force a smile, I wasn’t upset. That’s what I told myself. My compact mirror said otherwise. As pools welled in my eyes, it reflected a crazy crying clown. I laughed, watching small streams spill from my eyes and trickle down my cheeks. Tricking myself was impossible. Surrounded by strangers, I watched as my dignity drained away in uncontrollable tears. Fumbling for tissues in my bag, I wiped away panda eyes from the runny splodges of black mascara that had smudged. Dabbing on some powder, it disguised my puffy blotchy appearance enough to avoid any awkward dilemmas with crew members.

  A volcano of emotions continued to stir, but it was mainly contained, ready for an eruption at home. Emma would be the victim of that explosion. I needed her. She’d know what to do when everything poured out. She’d stop me drowning in melancholy and my own snot and tears. She’d glue me back together, loose pieces and all, like a fragmented bone china cup. Then she’d mop up the mess – all whilst trying to feed me chocolate biscuits, which I wouldn’t fancy. I texted her:

  Disaster. Coming home. Hope u r in when I’m back :(

  Seconds ticked by. Nothing appeared back, just a black empty screen.

  The plane wasn’t full. Jim was on board. He stood at the back. When he saw me, he gave a familiar nod and a wink. Just seeing him almost moved me to tears again. The back row was empty. Being away from passengers enabled privacy to wallow in misery and self-pity.

  I passed by a man ramming the remains of a burger in his face. I envied him, stuffing himself. Maybe he’d suffered multiple heartbreak and was comfort eating. Is it possible to overcome hurt by squashing it with a stomach of junk food – preferably bucket-sized ice cream eaten with a shovel? Even if it was, I couldn’t face food.

  ‘Hey, doll face. Could do with putting my feet up for a bit, I’ve worked my ass off today… Doll
face, what’s wrong with you?’ said Jim.

  ‘I’m okay. It’s good to see you,’ I said, trying to hide my face.

  ‘You on your own?’ he asked.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘You’re not in uniform. Positioning? Just coming back from Paris?’ he asked. I wriggled, starting to regret sitting at the back. Then Jim paused for a breath. ‘Wait a minute. Way hay hay, does this have something to do with Marc by any chance? But you’re upset. What’s gone on?’

  I looked up. Jim had never been so sharp.

  ‘It didn’t work out okay. That’s all you need to know. Don’t tell anyone. I don’t wanna be the latest gossip… or one of your stories,’ I said.

  ‘I wouldn’t do that to you, doll face.’ His face scowled, looking hurt.

  ‘Sorry, I know.’

  He pretended to zip his lips together and place an imaginary key into his jacket pocket.

  ‘Do you need me to duff ’im up for ya? Like if he’s been a bastard…’ he asked.

  ‘No,’ I laughed. ‘Things probably just weren’t meant to be.’

  ‘It’s okay, chick,’ he said. Then he put his arm around me, triggering more helpless tears. ‘You won’t want to hear this but whatever happened… he was mad keen. I’m telling you. Man, I was pleased to see you in France so I didn’t have to listen to him. He bored the tits off me… blah blah blah and I told him. I mean you’re great and everything, but he didn’t half go on. I mean, who does that? So, whatever happened, if he’s been a twat…’ his voice trailed off.

  ‘Why you tellin’ me this now?’ I said.

  ‘ ’Cos he didn’t want me to say anything, and you know that’s fuckin’ hard for me, so I just gave you enough hints… See, I can be sort of discreet when it’s necessary. Anyway, I better feed the freight. Shout if you wanna chat.’

  ‘Thanks, Jim,’ I said.

  He tapped his nose and pointed his finger at me, then left. He’d never shown much, if any, sensitivity that I could previously recall.