He nipped back, holding up a small bottle of champagne.
‘If you’re not drinking now, then take it home for later,’ he said and plonked it down on my tray table. I smiled, grateful of his attempt to apply a sticky plaster to my large, open wound.
*
When I arrived home, Emma was waiting.
‘Come on then. Tell me everything,’ she said in her Mumsy voice, which she didn’t use often.
‘You’re back early,’ I said, pleased to see her.
‘Exercising flexitime. It wasn’t busy, and I was due an afternoon off. Don’t think anyone really noticed. So, what happened?’ she asked.
I planted my face into her shoulder, only surfacing for air when it became uncomfortably damp and feeling my nose start to run.
‘Sorry,’ I blurted, between sobs.
‘It’s okay. Let it all out. Here – you might want to blow your nose,’ she said, passing me a bunch of tissues. Then she hovered a plate in front of my face. ‘Biscuit? It’s chocolate.’
‘You know I can’t eat. I’ve just had my heart ripped out,’ I blurted, between sobs.
‘Hey, it was lust not love. And don’t worry; I’m so starving I’ll eat your share,’ she said.
‘You’re a fat pig, but you’re so good to me.’
‘Good to see you still have a sense of humour. So… tell me everything,’ she said.
By the time I’d finished recounting all the details of everything I could remember, she even knew the colour of his bedsheets.
‘Do you think he actually liked me, or was he just out for a good time?’ I asked.
‘Don’t be silly. He liked you. I think he just got it wrong. He had his reasons from what you’ve said. Sounds like things probably went better than expected, and he hadn’t really thought it through, you know, with the job and everything.’
‘He said he was being honest. Told me it was his best quality. Only got his word for it, though,’ I said.
‘True, but why would anyone go to so much effort? I think the timing was out… the job and you in the UK. It’d make it pretty hard. A case of bad timing,’ she said.
‘Will you stop taking his side? I would have pulled out all the stops,’ I said.
‘I know,’ she laughed, chomping on another biscuit. ‘You’re always Mrs Persistent about the things you want. But listen, get under someone to get over someone. You’ll meet somebody else.’
‘No way, I’m done with the whole love thing,’ I said.
‘I already told you it was lust, not love,’ she said.
‘Yeah, lust,’ I repeated.
‘Maybe we should get away together for a bit. Like a mini-break. Have some fun. You can use your airline perks on me,’ she said, sort of half-joking whilst yawning. She looked at her watch. ‘It’s late and I’m on duty tomorrow, and those books won’t hit the shelves without me.’
‘Thanks, mate. Sorry I’ve gone on about it all night. And maybe you’re right about going away and having some fun together,’ I said.
‘You’d do the same for me. We’ll put off talking party plans until you’re ready,’ she said.
‘What d’yu mean? I’m not going to any party. Did any of what I’ve just said sink in?’ I asked.
‘You say that now… but I know you,’ she smirked. ‘Sleep on it. We’ll discuss it later, okay?’
‘I’ve just been dumped, well sort of. What idiot would put themselves through that sort of torture? Whatever it was, he doesn’t want to see me again,’ I said.
‘Talk later. Put it on hold for now. G’night,’ she said and slunk off to bed.
I turned on the TV. There was no point in me going to bed.
French Kissing Rules
A few days later
It was Saturday morning and I had yoga class, without Emma. Our usual teacher had been away on a retreat. Emma hadn’t liked the temporary instructor so had skipped the classes in favour of skating. Apparently, she was becoming a disco diva on wheels.
Grateful for some alone time, I arrived early at the village hall. The door was unlocked. Jessie breezed through with her usual bright smile. Surprised to see her, I’d tell Emma later. She’d be disappointed to miss out on Jessie’s class, despite skating.
Jessie wore her usual patchwork baggy trousers, the sort I’d never get away with, without looking ridiculous. Her cheerful trousers suited her personality. And she could say things I couldn’t, like When you do things from your soul, it’s like a river running through your body. The aura of her happy persona rubbed off, always making me feel great. I wondered if she continually felt how I did after each of her sessions.
We always began with a short period of quiet breathing on our mats, to relax our mind. Sometimes thoughts of work would creep in at the start. And it was one of those days. It required a deeper mode of relaxation by focussing on breathing, to let go of everything.
Starting with our yoga positions or asanas, as I’d learned, we did the limbering warm-up moves. Jessie was telling us something about our minds being like a chariot attached to powerful horses, each with different names, like one was Breath and another was Desire. Apparently, the chariot pulled in the direction of the more powerful animal. Images of Marc flashed up, making it hard to focus on a yoga mood, and even harder when Jessie continued to bang on about the horse named Desire.
‘Breathe. If you allow it to take control then your mind is agitated and troubled,’ said Jessie in a calm, soothing voice.
Helplessly, I pictured Marc on a horse dressed as a gladiator. The harder I tried to push the image away, the more it stayed fixed. Focus, I pleaded and breathe. Uncontrollable fantasies were a problem.
Jessie went around the room giving each of us a little love, as she called it, by placing her hands on our chest during corpse pose or Savasana. It was supposed to help our bodies relax into the earth and to release a little tension, rejuvenating our bodies and minds. But fantasies continued to mess with my mind as I pictured Marc riding away on a horse with me in his chariot.
Then I felt Jessie’s hands on my feet as she massaged them. The gentle kneading of my feet felt good. It wasn’t something she usually did, but I felt tense. Who knew what new tricks she’d learned on her retreat – could yoga teachers sense pure lust and a yearning libido? I blushed. Jessie moved on.
*
Emma and I had arranged to meet in the Penthouse later that Saturday afternoon. On arriving home, I found Emma in the bathroom, testing out a new bottle of red hair dye. The discarded box of evidence, fiery fusion lay visible on the sofa next to a stack of post. I thumbed through.
‘Won’t be long,’ she shouted.
‘Shit, I got an interview. That long-haul job I applied for.’
‘That’s great. Thought you didn’t think you’d get it,’ she said.
‘I didn’t, but looks like I’ve got a chance,’ I said.
‘Well, maybe we should go out for lunch, treat ourselves. Celebrate you getting an interview. And there’s no food in,’ she said.
‘Let’s do that,’ I replied.
‘Cool.’
‘Jessie was back. She asked about you. Told her you’d got into skating, but you’d be back,’ I said.
‘Gutted,’ she replied. ‘I’m going next week.’
‘Not if we’ve booked that mini-break, you’re not,’ I said.
‘Forgot about that. Week after then,’ she replied.
‘Deal.’
Pushing aside the cardboard packaging and paper instructions, I sat down with a magazine I’d bought from the newsagent on the way home. With a mention of something French on the cover, I’d bought it spontaneously and thumbed through for the article, French Kissing – romantic encounters with Frenchmen. There was a column detailing various European men, but it was just the French that interested me. Finding the page and predicting that it cou
ldn’t tell me anything I didn’t already know, I read it. Then huffed.
‘Ems, listen to this. Can you hear me?’ I shouted.
‘Yep. What?’ she shouted back.
‘A first kiss with a Frenchman is akin to the beginning of a romantic relationship.’
‘You on about him again?’ she said.
‘Listen. Apparently, that initial kiss means that you are now, officially, his girlfriend – well, according to this article. It also says that if a Frenchman kisses you, he means business. And get this last bit – don’t go kissing any Frenchmen if you’re not in it for the long haul.’ I threw down the magazine, crossing my arms. ‘What fuckwittery!’
‘Ha ha. Feeling short-changed? Well, that’s a lesson in don’t believe everything you read, and maybe you just kissed a defective one. There’s bound to be a few of those around,’ she said.
Emma appeared from the bathroom with a towel over her shoulders. Her hair was compacted in a mass, piled on top. And drips of red hair dye were streaked across the top of her forehead.
‘It’s no good blaming the magazine,’ she said.
‘Well, according to what it says in there, it’s his way of sealing the deal and making sure you’re exclusively his. Then you can expect dramatic declarations of love to soon follow, and it’s all part of the package of dating a Frenchman, being swept along with the romance of the culture. What bollocks! Do you think I should maybe send him a copy, so he knows what he was supposed to do?’
‘Do you think you might be getting a bit carried away? Look, maybe try another one, better luck next time. Or is it third time lucky? Kiss enough frogs and you’ll find a prince,’ she laughed. ‘Anyway, you did more than that.’
‘Well, I wouldn’t do it again,’ I said.
‘Bullshit. And you know it. If he showed up here, you’d be chewing his face off and ripping his clothes off for bedroom athletics before the poor guy even had a chance.’
‘Well, I’d like a chance… he knew how to deliver the perfect champagne kiss and I wanted that Frenchman, defective or not,’ I said.
‘Champagne kiss!’ she looked at me, deluded. ‘Just find another. There’s a whole nation of them out there to work your way through. Or pick a different country and try another flavour. You’ve always been so vanilla in your taste,’ she said.
‘Cheeky cow.’ I scowled back. She blew me a kiss and disappeared into the bathroom.
‘But you love me really. Won’t be long, I’m starving. And you can tell me all about the plans. I’m sooo excited about Spain,’ she said.
Sun and Sangria
August 2003 (the following weekend)
The benefits of working for an airline included heavily discounted staff travel and available last-minute mini-breaks to Spain.
Money wasn’t such a restriction, unlike in the past. And the flights were so cheap, I booked two tickets to Seville and a hotel by the coast.
‘Come on, Emma; I’ll hold your hand,’ I said, trying to coax her towards the boarding gate.
‘It’s all right for you. I suppose you think I’m being ridiculous getting scared of flying. You probably think of it like walking down the street and then finding you need to cross the road but getting scared in case you get knocked down by a car,’ she said.
‘No. I’ve never thought of flying like that. You’ll be fine, but we need to board NOW,’ I said.
‘Will you stop tugging on my arm?’ she moaned.
‘Yes, once you board the plane. I know you don’t like flying, but I didn’t know you had an actual pain-in-the-ass full-on phobia about it,’ I said.
‘It’s not a phobia. It’s just a rational fear of not liking aeroplanes. It’s okay for you. I don’t do this every day,’ she said.
‘You’re gonna be okay. Take a breath. Ready?’ Emma nodded and took hold of my hand. ‘Let’s go,’ I said.
We joined the back of the queue at the boarding gate.
‘Should be all right. I’m wearing my lucky pants today,’ she muttered under her breath.
‘Excellent. You’re all set for tonight then. Plus, you’ll be all right with a spot of turbulence.’ Gauging the reaction on her face, it had been the wrong thing to say.
‘I’m not the dirty whore,’ she said.
‘Bitch,’ I said. ‘But I’ll forgive you, only ’cos you’re nervous of flying.’ Emma was a wreck. I only hoped it wouldn’t be a turbulent flight.
Turbulence made things interesting, especially on a working flight. When the captain switched on the seatbelt signs, which was inevitable in turbulence, it enabled a quick yet bumpy dash down the aisle with a trolley. The bonus being void of any toilet interruptions, enabling fast retirement onto a crew seat with a piece of cherry cake and a miniature can of something fizzy – provisions permitting. I’d become proficient in the art of balancing in the aisle with a trolley for support whilst pouring a drink, complete with a smile of course. It was a circus act. It reminded me of skiing. Riding out the unexpected bumpy bits or moguls as I later learned, all whilst remaining intact on two feet. I’d learned that planes were built to withstand thunderstorms. But secretly I wondered how well they’d stand up to a bad storm.
‘Just a minute,’ she said, ‘let’s go and have a look out of the window.’
‘Why?’ I asked.
She grabbed my arm.
‘Which plane do you think we’ll be on? I just want to make sure it looks okay before I get on,’ she said. I groaned. Giving in, we walked over to the window. I pointed out the little fifty-seater plane parked up on stand. ‘As small as that? Well, I suppose it’s less likely to fall out of the sky with less weight,’ she said.
‘Completely. That’s exactly how it works,’ I said, unable to resist teasing. She scowled. ‘Look at that,’ she pointed, ‘let’s watch the big one.’
From the window of the departures lounge, we could see a large jet on the approach, coming in to land. As it got closer, my thoughts turned to a daydream about Marc being the pilot. The sun glistened off its bodywork. It touched down and glided along the landing strip, like a model on a catwalk. Slowing its pace, it performed a turn, taking up centre stage. Then it faced the passenger terminal in all its glory, before parking on stand in full view of admirers. Ceremoniously and proudly displaying its full wingspan, like an eagle, it was ruler of the airfield, proud and powerful, morphing the smaller planes into insignificance.
‘Right, you can start doing your caring hostess bit by looking after your nervous flyer,’ she said, snapping me back to reality. I sighed.
‘Caring? You got the wrong industry for that. They’d probably be slagging you off in the galley and then putting on their best two-faced act when they spoke to you,’ I said.
‘Really?’ she asked.
‘Depends on the crew,’ I added.
‘Best pretend not to be scared then,’ she said.
‘Exactly. Spain, here we come.’
We flopped into our seats.
‘Busy, isn’t it?’ she said.
‘Want a magazine?’ I asked.
I offered her a copy of Glamour, hoping to distract her. She took the bait. The cabin was rammed like cattle being herded. It was the usual hubbub of commotion until passengers eventually found their seats. Then I noticed a woman in a panic. She was examining the air filters with the smoke coming through the vents. I knew instantly what was going through her mind. There was a standard passenger announcement for the cabin pressure equalising and causing a temporary bout of air through the vents, which appeared smoke-like. The cabin crew just hadn’t managed to make the announcement yet; they were too busy ferrying the herds. The aircraft wasn’t on fire. I sat and observed as she started flapping her arms about for the attention of cabin crew. I was about to nudge Emma, then thought better of it. I had enough of a job providing reassurance to my priority nervous flyer.
*
The flight time to Spain took ages. I was pleased. It would have disappeared in five minutes, had I been working it. There was usually so much to do before reaching the destination – teas and coffees, snacks, gashing in, setting up for the next flight and remembering to remove one’s plonky kit from the stowage cupboard. The plonky kit was an interesting name for what was basically a small case that contained ice tongues, a bottle opener, a calculator, plus anything else useful that could be stuffed in there. I’d replaced my plonky kit twice already, because of having left it in the ice tray, which then got removed with the trollies. Mysteriously, they vanished into aeroplane world never to be seen again, just like the lost property office that collected all manner of items that never seemed to be reunited with their owners, except plonky kits didn’t make it there; I checked. And ice tongues only ever seemed to exist in the big supermarkets, which was a real bugger because it meant finding time to make a trip out to somewhere you’d rather not be just to replace items you’d no doubt leave on board again… at some point.
Fascinated with the views from the window, this time I could indulge myself, watching everything, undisturbed by passengers. The rays of sunshine were so intense, I put on my sunglasses. Dreamily, I peered at the puffy clouds. They looked like layered cake in streaks of marmalade orange and pink grapefruit hues. The pretty pastel shades of fluffy, textured candyfloss looked like it would taste good if only I could get close enough to stick out my tongue to lick the sweetness. My stomach rumbled. I was hungry.
When the clouds parted over Spain, they revealed rivers streaking across the land, with smaller, more delicate ripples escaping like marbles and forming pretty patterns. It looked Spanish even from way up high. Dark golden patches were visible, reminding me of my eyeshadow palette with its sultry tones and the sparkle of glitter in my bronzing kit. It was a contrast to the lush greens of England we’d left behind, which reminded me of lawnmowers.
Tiny formations of black dots were visible in neat rows. I had no idea what they were, but in my mind’s eye they’d become intricate rows of olive trees, ready for the olive pickers, whose crop ended up on the shelves of shops and then occasionally my olive bowls on a Friday night with Emma.
Free Fall in Stilettos Page 14