Free Fall in Stilettos

by Catherine Louise

‘Sunday 24th,’ I replied.

  ‘Sunday? Who has a party on a Sunday?’ she asked.

  ‘People working on aeroplanes, aircrew – that’s who. Anyway, you’d have to book off the Monday,’ I said.

  ‘No problemo. If you’re up for it, then so am I,’ she said, raising two thumbs up.

  Emma was right about him playing on my mind. A whirlpool of thoughts still spun in my head, despite having promised her I’d forget all about him. She knew I wasn’t capable.

  The sangria had turned warm. I jabbed at the remains with my straw, mainly fruity chunks of apple left floating at the bottom. Standing the beaker in the sand, I left the rest.

  ‘Fuckit. Okay. You’re on,’ I said.

  ‘That’s more like it. Hurray.’ She clapped. ‘We’ll sort the details later. For now, let’s get back to sunbathing and totty-spotting. Oh, and you’re not allowed to change your mind. We’re going, it’s final,’ she added.

  The warm sun soaked through my body, making me feel good. I allowed myself to fantasise freely. I smiled. A little rainbow of contentment flourished in me, knowing I would see him again.

  A Girls’ Night In

  The Following Weekend (August 2003)

  It was fizzy wine Friday night and I’d been willing it to arrive. Having battled the airline assessment centre the day before, I was determined to enjoy myself. And despite having to work the Saturday, I wasn’t due in early. We’d topped up our glasses with the remnants of pink fizz, and had decided to play 007 smoking gun cocktails, partly due to having run out of sparkling wine and partly due to the lyrics that boomed from the stereo. My eighties double CD set was on. The Human League was playing Don’t You Want Me, sparking the idea for our cocktail game, all whilst chair dancing to the beat and simultaneously scoffing mouthfuls of crisps.

  Emma’s latest charity shop investment was being put to good use. Her complete set – well, almost – of retro champagne glasses, minus the one that was missing, adequately assisted our game. Their bowl shape reminded me of my gran’s delicate glasses that she displayed on the top shelf of her kitchen unit. They made brief appearances on special occasions before immediately being washed, dried, then put back in place. Holding the stem of the glass, it felt familiar. And with each sip, thoughts of my gran’s kitchen gradually blotted away.

  The topic of conversation was Marc, again, or it had been before we’d turned up the volume. There’d been enough time between having a holiday and getting back to change my mind about Marc’s party about a zillion times. There were so many reasons why it wasn’t a good idea. Amidst the zillions, we’d already booked the tickets to Paris on a whim. But I hadn’t fully committed to whether I had the balls to attend his party. My mind was busy, tossing around the idea.

  ‘His invite probably doesn’t still apply. We’ve not been in touch,’ I said.

  ‘It won’t matter. Let’s go anyway,’ Emma said, as she knocked back the last of the cheap pink fizz, but we liked to pretend it was champers. Her eye was resting on a bottle of lager, which she’d easily down, prior to cocktail making.

  ‘But what if he tells me to get lost or something? Oh my God, can you imagine what that would be like? Or maybe he’s got a girlfriend. That would make sense about him not being able to see me again,’ I said.

  ‘We’ve been over that. Just chill. He doesn’t sound like the type. But maybe you should let him know we’re coming,’ she said.

  ‘Yeah. No! Hang on a minute. What if he tells us not to come? We’d end up not being able to go. Maybe I’ll send him an email… a couple of days before. That way he won’t get the chance to tell us not to,’ I said.

  ‘Might ring you on your mobile,’ Emma said.

  ‘I won’t answer,’ I said.

  ‘Devious. I like it. So, are we going?’ she asked, looking at me for an answer. ‘Are we going or what?’ she demanded.

  ‘Fuckit. What the hell. Okay!’ I said.

  ‘Yay,’ she shouted, high fiving me with her spare hand, whilst lifting the bottle of lager to her lips with the other. We toasted our agreement. As her bottle chinked my glass, I was reminded how wine always had that sort of relaxing don’t give a shit kind of effect. ‘You just needed a bit more encouragement and a whole lot of alcohol. Luckily, I’m here to get your ass to that party. Just call me your fairy godmother,’ she said.

  ‘Well, call me Cinderella,’ I said.

  ‘Wicked! I can’t wait.’ Emma giggled. ‘I like this devious streak. Must be living with me that’s doing you a favour.’

  She was exactly the right person to talk me into doing something stupid with her misbehaviour and devilish sense of adventure. She was exactly who I needed on my arm at the party.

  In a wave of excitement, we got off our chairs, throwing ourselves around the room. We danced to the remainder of Don’t You Want Me before crashing back down again.

  There wasn’t much for us to lose. We, in partnership, didn’t have anything to lose. There was more at stake for me, such as damage to my pride, dignity and self-respect. But if we flew to Paris knowing a party was happening and avoided it because of the potential to make fools of ourselves or acting like a couple of tits, as Emma often described our antics, then it would be wasting an opportunity for a whole lot of fun. And the chance to attend another Parisian party was never likely to present itself again.

  ‘This calls for cocktail celebrations,’ Emma said, reaching for the gun.

  She’d bought the dodgy cocktail firing gun from the market after seeing a guy in full-swing hard-sell sales pitch, pretending to be James Bond. She’d been his victim. To her delight, she’d discovered that it fired out cocktail recipes. There were only five recipes, one for each chamber, but that was adequate for us. Taking it in turns, each of us became the female version of James Bond, firing off bullets in random directions. The other player had to run after the bullet. The timer allowed one minute to make the cocktail, including locating the bullet, which ended up in all manner of our kitchen orifices. (There was this time when it got wedged above the cupboard door and ceiling, and I’d tried to lift Emma in a fit of laughter and tears; then I’d nearly wet myself as she fell over, screaming, still clinging to the broom handle to poke it out.) The player had to make the cocktail recipe before the timer caused a bang-bang. Cocktail complete – within set time – then James Bond downed it. Whomever finished making the most cocktails after firing five rounds was the winner, although we usually lost track.

  Setting out the ingredients, mainly vodka, rum, sugar, dried-up mint leaves and a bit of Blue Curacao, we got started. Mojitos were my favourite. Emma’s coordination was always a bit lacking. She usually ran around like a donkey, trying to grab the bullet.

  After playing two games, which involved ten cocktails (they were only minis), I blew the tip of the gun, declaring myself the winner. Emma pretended to act sozzled, rolled her eyes and stuck out her tongue.

  ‘I’m so ’cited to be goin’ to a party in Paris,’ she slurred.

  ‘Me too!’ I laughed.

  It was settled. We would gatecrash his party, sort of. I didn’t know if the invite still stood, which made it seem like a game of truth or dare, half-crazy but fun. Excitement pelted through my body.

  ‘What you wearin’ then?’ she asked.

  ‘No idea. You?’ I said.

  ‘Something seductive… quite fancy meeting a Frenchman, but he must be rich of course,’ she said.

  She meant every word. If we were gatecrashing, we owed it to ourselves to do it in style. It would cost a small fortune, but it would be worth it. I was now pleased she’d blown me off earlier when I’d said that we could still have fun in Paris without a party. She knew that my sensible head just needed further alcoholic persuasion to convince me of the right thing to do.

  ‘Let’s see what outfits we’ve got. I can sense a shopping spree coming on,’ said Emma, disappearing to her
room. ‘Whatever you wear, it needs to be eye-catching, mouth-watering and sassy whilst remaining… stylish, elegant and classy. A difficult combination. You don’t wanna look overly tarty; but you still need to be a bit loose and slutty. Your red fuck-me-heels will do nicely.’

  ‘Nah, he saw me in those in Paris. I do love them, though,’ I said.

  Her contradictory advice made good sense. Short and tight-fitting usually worked well. I dashed to my wardrobe and pulled out the highest pair of black strappy heels that I owned. Finding shoes was never a problem. There were hoards in my wardrobe, which would have adequately kitted out a boutique shop. The only issue with the selected shoes was my inability to walk in them. They required the expertise of Paris Hilton looking like a sex kitten on a pair of stilts. Instead, I resembled a child having stolen her mum’s high heels. Stiletto heels, the killer variety and without a platform, only made an appearance on rare occasions where I knew no real walking was necessary. But I loved owning glamorous shoes, unable to resist elegant and transformative objects of desire for my feet, even if only to delight in ogling them, more than wearing. I made my appearance, strutting through to the lounge.

  ‘Jesus. You’re gonna need some practice in those,’ Emma said.

  ‘Do you think? I’m not that bad, am I?’ I said.

  She didn’t answer. ‘Help me roll up the rug; we may as well get started. This calls for serious party preparations,’ she said, getting down on her knees and beckoning me over.

  ‘But you hardly ever wear heels,’ I said.

  ‘Exactly. I’m not the one trying to be a slutty sex slave on stilts. I use my natural assets,’ she said, shaking her cleavage and making a face at me whilst bent over the rug. ‘Anyway, I’ll keep you company and squeeze my feet into your shoes. Not that I’m an ugly sister, but it’ll be fun.’

  After we’d shifted the sofa and rearranged the furniture, we carried in the long dress mirror from my bedroom to our lounge and set up the runway. The laminate floor of the Penthouse was perfect for practising model walks. The big mirror was great for posing. Emma borrowed a pair of my heels, and having spent most of her life in Docs, she was like a bandy-legged cowboy.

  Madonna blared out of our music system. Strutting down our make-do catwalk to Like a Virgin, then Papa Don’t Preach, in all manner of outfits, wiggling our hips, swaying our shoulders and trying to lift our knees high to imitate runway models, we tried to find our sexy. Pausing only to hunt through our wardrobes for costume changes, I remembered my tight-fitting little red dress with the tiniest spaghetti straps and a v shape cut-out that plunged down my chest. I raced to put it on.

  ‘Hard candy,’ Emma shouted over the music as I twirled around. ‘You look great in that. I think that’s the one. You can just prop yourself up by a wall and look amazing. A proper bum-tit. He can’t not notice you in that.’

  ‘I think just turning up will get us noticed,’ I laughed.

  As I looked at my reflection, the dress hugged my figure in all the right places, giving me a pleasing silhouette. The pair of sheer tights helped hold my tummy in a bit firmer. I turned to check myself out from different angles and adjusted my posture by pulling myself upright and standing tall in the seductive black five-inch shoes. The shoes accentuated my chest and bum, like Emma had said. Outfit sorted, I slung my large case on the bed, ready to pack.

  ‘You still need just a tiny bit more practice in those heels, though,’ Emma added.

  ‘Yeah, you’re probably right,’ I said.

  In the mirror, I looked fine in a fixed pose. The issue was when I tried to walk. I’d got used to wearing a mid-heel court shoe most days and was a little stiff wearing the killer heel variety.

  ‘I’m totally right if you’re planning to wear them to try and impress Mr French,’ she said.

  ‘Better get practising then. They look so fancy and seductive, but they’re such evil items of foot-burning torture,’ I said, staring down at my feet.

  *

  It was early one morning. The buzzer rang. I was up and wearing my heels about the Penthouse and about to get ready for a mid-morning flight. I knew it was the milkman; no one else called so early.

  The only reason we had a milkman was after Emma had spotted the athletic milkman that delivered down the road. He had biceps and a firm-looking arse. So, she’d called the company to get him to deliver to us, which had upped our grocery bill, but I’d fully supported her. I hadn’t wanted to stand in the way between Emma and her eye candy. But when he’d first called at our door, on closer inspection, she’d found he wasn’t that amazing. He was much older in the face than she’d realised. We both knew he’d been a disappointment to her, but neither of us had got around to cancelling him yet. He’d come to collect payment.

  As I stood at the door, wearing my fluffy pink dressing gown, it was clear that he was more accustomed to the slipper look. Giving me the once-up-and-down manoeuvre with his head, he repeated then focussed on my feet, as if his eyes had deceived him. Looking like a hooker had become my new fresh-out-of-bed look. But I was civilised enough to be wearing a dressing gown, even if it was mid-length.

  ‘G’morning,’ he said, as I handed him a note and he rattled around for change in his bag, strapped over a shoulder.

  ‘Morning,’ I replied, whilst leaning against the doorframe and holding out my hand for the change. Then the postman came as the milkman headed off. I smiled. He handed me a wad of post, including a large envelope. We didn’t make eye contact; I’d already done that with the milkman. I took the post, said thanks and closed the door.

  Wandering back up the stairs, I simultaneously checked through it all. The big one was addressed to me. Noticing the large logo in bright colours on the envelope, I recognised it immediately. Tearing it open, my heart was racing. Scanning the contents of the letter, I skimmed to the part which read: Delighted to offer you a position.

  ‘Oh shit. I got it, I got it,’ I shouted, running into Emma’s room waving the letter in the air. She was awake and sitting up in bed.

  ‘Got what?’ Emma said, looking bemused.

  ‘The airline job. I got the bloody job!’

  ‘Woo. High five,’ she shouted with delayed enthusiasm, following my prompt as her brain caught up.

  Jumping into her bed, I threw my arms around Emma and manically hugged her. ‘Aahhhh,’ I screamed. ‘I fucking did it. I can’t believe it.’

  Emma attempted a camaraderie scream too but having not properly woken up, sounded more like she was distressed than excited.

  ‘Ha ha. That’s great. We’ll have to celebrate. Great timing. A Paris party is just the thing. At least now you can be as bad ass as you want. And I can help with that.’

  Returning to Paris

  Sunday 24th August 2003

  ‘Paris, here we come,’ I said to Emma as we boarded the plane.

  ‘Take two,’ Emma added.

  I shoved our duty-free bags into the overhead lockers, including the purchase of a last-minute bottle of Glenfiddich, remembering that he liked whisky. I had no idea about brands of whisky, but having seen older men opt for it on flights, I figured it suited the mature man. Emma bought some perfume that was on sale after having tested (on both of us) what smelled like most of the bottles on show. We were pungent.

  I handed a distraction to Emma in the form of a copy of Glamour magazine – it had worked last time to dispel the nerves of flying, and although not her regular read, she’d been glued.

  Across the Channel, we disembarked into the heat of the morning sun, taking us both by surprise.

  ‘Bloody hell, it’s hot.’ Emma fanned her magazine in front of her face as she puffed out air from her cheeks.

  The weather hadn’t featured in my contingency plan. Kitted out for the chilly climate and rain that we’d left behind in unpredictable England, we were baking. I’d packed jeans and dark, heavy trousers and soon realised
I was going to suffer mercilessly in the heat. We had our, or rather my party clothes, which had been the complete focus. Emma had helped herself to the contents of my wardrobe and added a few choice items that she’d selected, based on bijou and chic sophistication (her words), such as her charity shop beads, colourful scarf and fishnets. But we always shared, except I rarely did the borrowing. She’d also opted for my black prom style dress with frills that she’d selected during our dress-up session. Her choice was based entirely on the layers of fabric having wafted upwards when she’d spun around fast, which had satisfied a naughtiness in being able to show off her knickers if she wanted. On a regular day, she managed to incorporate black fishnet tights into her gothic look with DMs and somehow it suited her. She said a more glamourous affair was necessary for Paris, so she’d swapped the DMs for a pair of my black kitten heels, which she thought were ooh la la – a phrase I’d become accustomed to hearing too often. We were all set.

  After collecting our bags and navigating the confusion of CDG Airport, we made it out of the terminal and luckily spotted a sign for the bus to the hotel. After a ten-minute wait of uncertainty, a minibus pulled up, displaying the name Hotel Iris on the side. We got ourselves on, found vacant seats and after a short drive we arrived at our Parisian destination. We weren’t expecting much, just a base to dump our stuff and get ready, although our first impressions from the window of the bus pleasantly surprised us. The rate had included bed and breakfast, which had been a swaying factor in the selection criteria.

  ‘Well, it’s not The Ritz, but it doesn’t look too bad,’ I said.

  ‘High praise coming from you,’ said Emma.

  ‘Well, we’ve only paid for three-star accommodation,’ I reminded her.

  Emma raised both thumbs before marching through the swing doors to the reception desk. After checking in, we were handed a large key on an even larger keyring of plastic. Leaving the reception area and trotting off to find our room, we soon discovered the charade. Once past reception, the grim reality of a three-star Parisian hotel lurked prominently.