‘I thought you were about to tell me something,’ I said.
‘Yes, to talk to you. To see ’ow you are. I’m suffering with you being ’ere like this,’ he said, pulling his hands through his hair and readjusting himself. ‘Seeing you flirting with that guy over there, I was so jealous. I ’ate ’im. The thought of you with someone else. But that is selfish of me.’
‘I’m not interested in him…’ I said.
‘Let’s not do this again. It was bad enough the first time. You know ’ow I feel. There, I’ve said it.’ His eyes gazed directly at mine.
‘But it’s not enough,’ I said.
‘It’s circumstances… you know that,’ he replied.
He was right. But I couldn’t prevent the feeling of being torn apart inside. He took hold of me and wrapped his arms comfortingly around my shoulders, stroking and kissing my hair. I had to pull away. I unlocked myself from his embrace. Defiantly, I wiped away a tear.
‘I’m so sorry. I wish things were different,’ he said.
‘Think it’s best I go now,’ I replied, biting my lip.
‘’Ow are you getting to your ’otel?’ he asked.
‘I’ve got the number of a taxi to call,’ I replied.
‘That’s not gonna work,’ he said, raising both his eyebrows. His expression changed to a look of genuine concern. ‘You don’t understand. Taxis don’t work the same way ’ere as they do in the UK. If they don’t want to come out at night, then they won’t. And it’s past midnight now.’ He shrugged. ‘Wait ’ere. I’ll sort you a lift out.’ Then he walked off, leaving me to pretend I was okay. I flicked my wrist over my cheeks and wiped underneath each eye with a finger to remove any smudged liner. If I told myself I was okay, then perhaps I could convince myself.
Outside, I saw Marc speaking to Pierre. It was all sorted in a matter of moments. Pierre was all grins when he made his approach to tell me he was only too pleased to help take us back to our hotel.
‘Shit, that was never the plan,’ mumbled Emma, just audible enough for me to hear.
I managed a strained wave to Marc and swiftly departed with Emma, purposefully avoiding saying goodbye. I couldn’t trust myself not to blurt out something completely ridiculous if we’d spoken. He didn’t attempt to stop me. It was best that way. I knew there’d never be a tinge of regret on my part.
*
The morning after, I awoke as the sunlight filled our room. There were no blackout curtains afforded to our hotel. The sun highlighted the shabbiness of everything about the room. My memory was on catch-up, so far remembering that I’d crashed into bed fully clothed, minus my shoes. Emma was still fast asleep and semi-conscious on the bed, lying flat out, also fully clothed in last night’s outfit. Her mouth was open, and a rumble of snores escaped periodically and compounded how odd she appeared. I laughed. Distracted by needing to pee, I held on, trying to squeeze my pelvic floor tight, which I only managed when I clenched my teeth. I didn’t want to pass up the opportunity of a golden moment and lifted the camera from its case. Trying to stifle my laughter and avoid waking her or wetting myself, aware of how desperate the need had become, camera in hand, I tilted forward. Positioned over the top of her head, finding the best angle, I zoomed in and snapped comedy gold. Her eyes blared open.
‘You… bitch,’ she croaked, like an old witch, squinting her eyes partly open. In slow motion, she raised her middle finger at me.
I let out a roar of laughter then rushed to the loo, trying not to completely piss myself on the way and already alarmed by the trickle that had escaped.
‘Good morning, gorgeous,’ I shouted from the loo.
‘What time’s it?’ she grunted.
‘Too early, but we may as well get up now you’re awake,’ I shouted again from the bathroom.
‘I’m still in my clothes,’ she said, as I re-emerged from the toilet.
‘Me too.’
I passed her a glass of water.
‘Last night, I didn’t do anything bad, did I?’ Emma said.
‘What; like the stuff you did to that Frenchman?’ I asked. ‘I reckon he thought his lucky day had finally arrived. Anyway, you weren’t paralytically drunk, just bladdered enough.’ Emma never suffered from convenient forgettery of the night before. She was just seeking approval for her actions. ‘I think we’ll remember this for quite a long time,’ I said.
‘Good. That’s okay then. I’m starving. Shall we see whether the breakfast in this place is edible?’ she replied.
Breakfast was a continental affair, which was a relief as everything came in packets. I’m not sure we would have risked it otherwise. We had some standards.
As we chatted over breakfast, every now and then one of us would giggle, remembering something from the night before.
‘Do you remember the look on his face when we turned up?’ Emma said.
‘His eyes practically jumped out of his head. He totally hadn’t expected us to show up,’ I said.
‘I actually felt a bit sick for you when we arrived in that taxi, but I didn’t want to say.’ Emma giggled.
‘Imagine how I felt,’ I replied.
‘You’ve got balls, I’ll give you that,’ Emma said, in between shovelling in heaped spoonfuls of cereal. ‘It was crazy, but brilliant.’
‘No, just stupid,’ I replied.
‘What were we doing to that Spanish man?’ Emma asked.
‘You mean, what were you doing? You started it. Anyway, who cares? He seemed to enjoy himself,’ I said.
‘Yeah. He probably got jealous when I ditched him for a slice of Pierre,’ she said.
‘Do you think Marc will think about me?’ I asked.
‘I doubt he’ll ever forget you after that stunt,’ she replied.
Despite feeling slight heartache, I smiled inwardly, knowing there’d be no one as foolish as me that he’d likely remember more.
‘Ha ha. It was fun, wasn’t it?’ I said.
‘Yeah. Now we need to find us another party to go to,’ she said.
‘We might struggle, unless you hit it off with Pierre,’ I replied.
‘Oh my God.’ Emma put her hands over her face. ‘I just remembered that I gave him my number.’
‘No,’ I said in disbelief, recalling the smiley faces I’d seen her draw.
‘Well, he just kept trying so hard,’ she said.
‘What, like a pest?’ I asked.
‘A bit, I suppose. Yeah. But a nice one,’ she laughed.
‘You callous cow. He’ll think he’s got a chance now,’ I laughed.
‘Don’t remind me. If he calls, I just won’t answer. Kindest way,’ she said. ‘What time we gettin’ back?’
‘Midday. We’ll pack and head out after this.’
*
We checked out of our prison block and caught the bus back to the airport, both of us still buzzing from alcohol. On the bus, the motion made me doze in a contented slumber. But as it jerked over bumps or abruptly turned corners, it caused my head to occasionally smack the window and my eyes to flash open. Emma laughed, every time.
The Final Chapter
Marc had been a taste of something different. And having tried just a sample, I wanted more. He’d introduced me to a world away from my own, and all the ingredients had combined to produce a recipe for a high-octane and addictive adventure.
He was an obsession for a while – the route of my addiction, and the darker side of love. When I allowed my mind to wander, he invaded my thoughts… hearing his soft French accent, picturing his tanned body and sensing his tender touch. And unable to let go altogether, even though we were miles apart, I kept him with me in my dreams, closing my eyes to be with him.
Even months later, occasionally, he stirred my mind – a mention of Paris on the news, and when the French café opened in town, and when I gazed up at a plane flying ove
rhead on a sunny day. Sometimes, I’d smile and whisper a quick hello to my pilot in passing as he glided across the sky at around six hundred miles per hour. He’d always occupy a little tucked-away corner of my heart, the place reserved for fond memories.
Those feelings were never lost. But over time, they got shelved. Hidden away like forgotten items stored in a dusty cardboard box.
*
One evening, during a wardrobe clear-out, I’d been tugging at some clothes. A folder fell, bumped me on the head and landed on the floor. It was a diary and scribbled notes. I took it as a sign. Four years later, I completed my novel.
At the time, I promised myself that if it got published then I’d tell him. Like a poetic justice to the past. He was my inspiration. But as my fingers had tangoed with the keyboard, I’d wondered whether to leave the past alone. Eventually, I gave in to temptation with a few clicks on Instagram. And there he was.
He looked a bit George Clooney-esque, sat on a sailing boat. He’d grown a beard and wore mirrored sunglasses. I trawled his stories and brought his past into my present. The what if scenario played out in my head, wondering. And I let him intimidate me again. In a weak-at-the-knees kind of way, picturing myself on his boat. Two sunset lovers sailing the sea on calm waters. I giggled at the thought. And bet his boat doubled as a love palace, although in my mind he remained a free spirit in the sky and a prize fish swimming in the ocean, rather than working on his count of reef knots.
Then I wrote to tell him. I reminded him that he’d promised to buy it. But I didn’t really expect a reply. Years had passed, and I doubted he’d remember me.
Days went by. But when Marc’s name popped up on my screen, a shot of adrenalin rushed through my body. He apologised for the delay, saying he’d been at sea. And he told me about living in Germany, where he’d been for almost fifteen years. After that, we corresponded for a few weeks.
He never took the job in Indonesia. He became a captain at a German airline. At the time, he’d tried contacting me by email to let me know. But he never heard back. When I asked why he hadn’t tried my mobile, he’d assumed that I’d moved on with my life. And I had, but not in the way he thought.
After getting the long-haul job and with Emma’s promotion, we upgraded our address to an apartment with modern technology and broadband. We got new internet-based email addresses and let our old technology lapse. Neither of us got many emails back then.
Today
I’m holding in my hand a copy of my novel, Lost in Bittersweet Clouds. The inscription inside my book reads: To Marc, wherever you are in the world…
And about to board a plane for Paris, a half-way meeting point for old times’ sake, I have just as many butterflies as that girl in her twenties.
I hope he likes it.
Free Fall in Stilettos Page 19