Free Fall in Stilettos

by Catherine Louise

  ‘Olive?’ said Emma, almost telepathically.

  She passed me a box of mixed nuts and offerings she’d brought with her on the plane. They matched the image on the box in just the same way I imagined them growing on trees – all fat, ripe and juicy. If she’d have bought them on the plane, they would have been drained of life. Starving, I wasted no time in wolfing them down.

  Emma had relaxed her dieting rule for our holiday. I was glad. She was less cranky and more fun when she wasn’t denying herself pleasures. She’d already put away a hefty bacon sandwich with lashings of tomato sauce whilst en route to departures.

  ‘We’re almost coming in to land,’ I said, feeling the plane slowly descend just as the seatbelt sign illuminated. Emma needed mental preparation for landing.

  ‘Get out those boiled sweets you bought,’ I said, reminding her. She rifled through her bag and popped one into her mouth. ‘Good. Now suck on it like you’re giving a blow job.’ She coughed and spluttered and almost choked, as we laughed. ‘Honestly, it’ll help your ears on the descent. Promise.’

  I reached inside her bag and took one for myself. We both faced each other, sucking on sweets with exaggerated determination. As the plane descended, we both concentrated hard on achieving a satisfying pop-in-the-ears sensation.

  ‘You’ve serviced some lucky fellas,’ I said, as we landed with a jolt. Emma’s eyes widened. ‘Don’t worry, there’s not a pilot alive who hasn’t bumped a plane down the runway,’ I reassured her, just as the passengers started to clap and give a cheer. ‘I read somewhere that ninety-five per cent of flying is boredom and the other five percent is sheer terror,’ I continued, as Emma looked at me in horror. ‘Only joking,’ I smiled, crossing my fingers.

  After going through the rigmarole of passport control and collecting our bags, we made our way towards the car hire desk, stopping off briefly at an airport shop to stock up on supplies for the journey. We negotiated paying and bundled some sandwiches, fruit and plenty of junk food into our bags.

  The Spanish seaside hadn’t looked far away on a map. I figured we’d head to Cadiz and then consult a more detailed map to find the exact location of Chiclana de la Frontera, where we’d booked a good hotel, again on mates’ rates courtesy of Jet Xpress. I prayed that Emma’s map reading would suffice, seeing as I was the driver and wasn’t sure that my skills, or lack of, would get us there. We headed to the loos. I couldn’t chance having to deviate off route to find a service station.

  The car hire was a brave decision. Not only was driving on the wrong side of the road, meaning the right, quite unnatural to me, but hiring an unfamiliar car took me out of my comfort zone. We should have booked a transfer, but it was too late now.

  ‘How far away is it?’ I asked the Spanish rep at the desk.

  ‘About two hours’ driving,’ she said.

  I turned to Emma, pulling a face.

  ‘Shit. A foreign car, abroad and driving on the wrong side,’ I said.

  ‘You’ll be fine,’ she said.

  What if I crash the car? What if we get really lost? What if we end up breaking down and no one speaks English? A whole load of imaginable nightmare scenarios played out in my mind as panic beguiled me.

  ‘Todos est bueno,’ said the rep, smiling. Then she handed me the car keys.

  ‘What’s that mean?’ asked Emma.

  ‘It means everything’s fine. I bet she says that to everyone.’

  I grasped the keys.

  After a couple of faux pas reversing manoeuvres, I got the hang of the gear stick. My toe tickled the pedal to make it move, but anything was more powerful than my little Mini.

  ‘Who needs a massive horse power, whatever that means, when driving in a foreign country on the wrong side of the road, unless you’re a racing driver?’ I said.

  ‘Why’d you book it then?’ asked Emma.

  ‘It’s what came up,’ I replied.

  With a firm white-knuckle grip of the steering wheel, we set off, feeling a bit Thelma and Louise, movie style. Except we were polar opposites, having had a wee and with sandwiches at the ready we’d prepared. Possibly, I was turning into my mother.

  Taking it slow, I thought about annoying Sunday drivers holding up traffic. And driving like a snail. Just like me. I wouldn’t be so impatient with Sunday drivers in future.

  *

  Approximately two long hours later and having successfully negotiated obstacles such as roundabouts, toll booths en route and distracting statues of black bulls on hillsides, we pulled up at Hotel del Sol.

  ‘Well, that was a bloody miracle. How did we manage that?’ I said, turning off the engine.

  ‘Yeah. Was a bit worried when you handed me the map, but I didn’t wanna say,’ replied Emma.

  We got out, stretched and soaked up the heat of the intense sun.

  ‘Yoga on the beach here will be fab,’ I said, pulling the suitcases from the car boot.

  ‘I’m parched. I might have to drink the sea if we don’t find some water,’ said Emma.

  At reception, we were each handed a welcome glass of cava. We knocked it back, despite a deep thirst.

  ‘Not too shabby here,’ said Emma. The place looked decent, not five-star fancy, but smart enough with its polished mosaic floor tiles. Emma helped herself to a second full glass from the tray and sank it as fast as the first, whilst I read a leaflet about the black bulls we’d spotted on the hillside. They were associated with the sherry of the region. But the more interesting part mentioned a correlation between the number of bulls spotted tying in with the amount of conquests that were guaranteed for the evening. It was a challenge I wouldn’t put to the test.

  We found our room, dumped our bags, drank the free bottled water and wasted no time getting changed into bikinis.

  ‘My God, look at the size of my paunch,’ I complained to Emma, whilst gawping at the mirrored reflection from all angles.

  ‘Yeah. Two babies in there at least,’ she said, patting my rounded belly.

  ‘You’ve got a bloat-on too.’ I prodded her tummy.

  ‘Yeah, it’ll be fine once I’ve had a massive poo. It’s just junk food swimming around,’ she said matter-of-factly.

  ‘Gross.’ She adjusted her bikini briefs, pulling them lower. ‘What you doing?’ I asked.

  ‘Making them look smaller,’ she said. ‘The larger you are on top, the smaller you want your bottom half to balance out body shape. I read that in the magazine you gave me on the plane.’

  ‘Just showing off, you mean,’ I said. Emma had ample boobage. ‘Anyway, who cares? Let’s go.’

  I grabbed the beach bag, sun cream and sunglasses and almost forgot the room card on our way out.

  ‘Wait,’ said Emma, pulling me back in. She picked up the remains of leftover fruit from the journey and threw them into my bag. ‘We might get hungry.’ I didn’t argue, despite the shoulder strap digging into my flesh with the added weight. ‘Wait one more minute.’

  ‘What now?’ I asked, getting impatient. She put her hand to her ear.

  ‘I can hear the beach calling for two sexy beach babes,’ she said.

  ‘Clearly it’s not calling for us then,’ I said, closing the door.

  Stepping outside into the heat, there was a fresh breeze on our side of the hotel. In the shade, it engulfed my body, causing a brief shivery sensation of goosebumps. Then the sun kissed away the temporary chilliness, making me smile.

  The vast expanse of deep blue ocean stretched out before us. It filled me with a calm serenity, like a yoga vibe. Occasional gusts of wind picked up particles of sand to scatter like salt.

  ‘This spot right here will do nicely,’ said Emma, spreading her towel over the sand.

  I sat down and sprawled out next to her. I loved the beach. It smelled of summer holidays – salty sea air mixed with coconut sun cream. As I removed my plimsolls, t
he warm sand scrunched between my toes.

  The ocean roared, and waves crashed, partially drowning out the distant and muffled cries of children playing. As I relaxed back, a sudden gust blew a dusting of sand over both of us. It clung to my body as I tried to brush it off. And it rubbed my skin like fine grade sandpaper.

  ‘It’s like showering with body scrub,’ said Emma.

  Shaking off my towel like a dusty old rug, I nestled back down to bask in the sunshine. Emma had been chuntering away but I’d barely paid attention. The cava was setting in nicely.

  ‘Have you listened to anything I’ve been saying, or are you still driving yourself mad over this guy?’ she said.

  ‘Not everything. But I was doing okay until you just bought him up,’ I said.

  I hadn’t mentioned Marc since the airport. The idea was to forget all about him, just like he’d told me to. And I had an interview to try and focus on now.

  ‘I know what’s going on; you’re too quiet,’ she said, fiddling with her bikini top. ‘Think of it like this – you’ll never end up like a couple of dried-up old peaches. A tired version of two old people who’ve run out of things to say to each other because they’ve said everything there is to say. Think of it as having been more an exotic and juicy pineapple type experience,’ she said, pushing up both boobs with a satisfactory glance.

  ‘Or a couple of ripe melons,’ I joked, lifting my tits to imitate Emma.

  ‘Plunge,’ we both said in unison as we turned to each other and laughed at our exaggerated cleavages. It was our favourite word when discussing boobs. It first began as teenagers when Emma discovered the effects of plunge bras and it still amused us.

  ‘I’m just trying to show you that you probably got all the best exciting bits before things turned sour and drooped, which everyone knows always happens, especially if he’s older,’ Emma said. She reached inside the bag and pulled out a banana, then pretended to let it flop, in her hand. ‘Wilting willy syndrome.’

  ‘He’s not that old,’ I giggled. ‘Anyway, let’s forget it.’

  I used my beach bag like a pillow, propped my head up against it and watched the boats on the horizon. Spotting three, I wondered if Marc had sailed here. Then I berated myself for thinking about him. It was Emma’s fault. She’d turned on a light bulb in my head.

  ‘Any totty on the beach today?’ she said, casually gazing around. ‘Ooh, check out two o’clock.’

  Unexpectedly, I took in an eyeful of crotch displayed by a fat old man having fallen asleep in his deckchair. He was tanned, leathery and wearing a small pair of dark briefs.

  ‘Eww. You’re so wicked,’ I laughed. ‘Don’t think I need any more totty for now. Not like that anyway.’

  ‘You know what they say?’ she said.

  ‘Yep. You told me. Get under someone to get over someone. Top advice, but I’m more selective than that, so I’ll pass for now,’ I said.

  Inhaling the air, I tried to relax. Thankfully, Emma went quiet. Peacefully, I listened to the sea and observed the different bodies unashamedly exposed with kit off, getting their skin kissed by the sun.

  An old man with a large stomach trotted by. The flab hung over his shorts with a lot of wobble and sagging. Do old women find old men attractive when they reach the same age? The concept of ageing without worry was appealing. Maybe I’d live happily by the sea in old age and let it all sag. That’s where Marc was going to live. Why can’t I get him off my mind?

  The man became hidden behind a couple. Their skin was pale white, almost blue; they had to be either English or German. The man was wearing long brown socks on the sand and carrying his leather sandals – my money was on him being British. Next was a pretty slim girl with hooped earrings and her hair piled high. Was she Marc’s type? Silently, I cursed Emma. I’d kept him at bay until the banana stunt.

  ‘There’s so many women with their baps out,’ Emma said. It was true. The displays of plentiful breasts reminded me that I wasn’t in the UK.

  ‘It’s not for me. They’ve got a kit-off sauna in the spa too. I’m no prude but I’m no way up for that,’ I said.

  ‘Me neither. Not till I’ve been on a diet. Anyway, you’ve got good baps,’ said Emma.

  ‘You been looking?’ I asked.

  ‘Couldn’t help noticing your hooters earlier,’ she said, ‘they were virtually in my face when you were tucking them into your bikini.’

  ‘Well, they’re not like your knockers – they are the BIGGEST handful,’ I said, pretending to weigh them.

  ‘Well, these babies are going to waste right now,’ she said, peering down at herself.

  ‘That makes two of us then. I’d be up for a decent pair of hands to do the same.’ I sighed.

  ‘And we both know whose hands,’ she teased.

  ‘You’re not doing a good job of getting me to move on,’ I said.

  ‘Soz. Maybe let’s grab an ice cream. It’s scorchio.’

  We left our stuff. There was nothing worth nicking. The sand burned the soles of my feet, making me wish I’d worn flip-flops too, like Emma. Close to the sea edge, we stopped. I stood on the damp sand and felt relief from the heat. I watched the toing-and-froing ebb of the tide and the ripples gather momentum until they travelled further up and spilled over my feet. Their coldness was a pleasant shock.

  We paddled. The water felt freezing. But we ventured further in as the waves flooded over my feet and legs and a second pelt took the water just above my knees unexpectedly. The cold caused me to draw a sharp intake of breath and giggle.

  Heading over to the small beach shack café, I noticed how imprints of seagulls’ feet were left behind like tridents stamped in the sand. It was a sign and I was being tormented by the devil.

  ‘Oh, go away,’ I said out loud.

  ‘Why? You not getting fed up of me already, are you?’ Emma asked.

  ‘Just talking to the madman living in my head,’ I replied.

  ‘That’s okay then.’

  We passed a guy with a wild carpet of black chest hair. I’d never seen such a thick and bushy growth on a man’s chest. Judging by the extended stare that Emma gave him, neither had she.

  ‘Can you imagine him getting a wax?’ I asked, whilst cringing at the thought of the used wax paper.

  ‘Don’t. That’s foul,’ said Emma, sticking two fingers in her mouth, pretending to gag and vomit. ‘I’m wiping that thought. You’ll put me off ice cream.’

  We successfully negotiated buying ice cream via the well-known language of international pointy method. Each of us settled on a Cornetto of dark chocolate. It was less trouble choosing the same and to mutter the word dos rather than ask for two different flavours. Then we went full Spanish and ordered a couple of sangrias via the same method.

  Getting back to our spot, the air was soon filled with a waft of cigarette smoke. Out of curiosity, I turned onto my tummy to lazily peruse the offender – a man with moobs, a huge belly, moustache and a tan. He was lying next to a big bottom clad in white briefs, also tanned. He spoke or sort of grunted at her in a deep, husky voice. She was probably his wife. I imagined them being a functional couple, long past the stage of romantic passion, but being a comfort to each other. I had no idea what he was saying, but as I licked my ice cream, I pictured him riding a bull, rodeo style. His voice seemed to fit the image, although maybe in his younger days. My inquisitive thoughts turned to the couple along with the associated knowledge of the black bull statues from earlier. They were going at it rodeo style. The repugnant image replayed without a stop button. My ice cream became less appetising.

  Urgently, I rolled onto my back and tried to refocus. My line of sight caught a young, dark-haired, bronzed and well-defined man in skimpy briefs – the type requiring the right package. That was more like it. He reminded me of Marc, in a foreign way. Naked in my mind’s eye, he swung freely and knocked against his own thig
hs. Then he strutted into the sea and tackled the waves with ease as the sea caressed his muscles before he dived in. A prize bull. And on top in a filthy dirty rodeo conquest.

  ‘You okay?’ Emma asked.

  ‘Yeah, course. Why?’ I asked.

  ‘You’re too quiet. This guy has really got into your head,’ she said. Emma was right. Like a horribly horny teenage boy with raging hormones, I was constantly thinking about sex. I couldn’t share my perverted thoughts. She’d confirm it was weird.

  We both picked up our drinks. Emma sucked up the remainder of her sangria through the black straw then stirred the fruit left at the bottom, before thoughtfully picking it out and popping it into her mouth a bit at a time.

  ‘Well, how about you don’t forget all about him? It’s obvious you don’t want to,’ she said.

  ‘What you on about? The whole point of coming here was to wipe my memory,’ I said.

  ‘Don’t bite my head off, but what if you go to his party? Wouldn’t it at least be a bit of fun?’ she said.

  ‘I can’t do that,’ I winced.

  ‘Why not?’ she said

  ‘Let me think about that… oh yes, I remember; because he won’t want me there,’ I said.

  ‘You told me he said you were welcome. What you got to lose?’ she asked, looking at me with her serious face.

  ‘He said that before we met up. And people say all sorts of things they don’t mean,’ I said.

  ‘He won’t mind. It’s only a party he invited you to. Anyway, I’ll come and hold your hand. I wanna see this Romeo for myself. Find out if he’s worth it. Then when I discover he’s not, I can kick your arse back into reality. Oh yes… and I quite fancy continuing to be an international jet-setter with you. I could get used to this lifestyle. Spain one week, Paris the next. Anyway, when is it?’