‘Go around,’ bellowed the captain. ‘Flaps,’ he shouted. ‘Flaps,’ he yelled again. Ron went berserk with a massive bollocking aimed at Tom. It felt awkward, being there.
A crash landing flashed through my mind. As we descended, I saw the runway and closed my eyes on coming in to land. It was better if I couldn’t see an imminent disaster. And I didn’t want to die. Moments later, we smacked down to a jerky journey down the runway with heavy jolting on the brakes pushing me into my seatbelt. And a bit like first-time sex, I breathed a sigh of relief at getting it over with.
Four months later, back on the Dash
Working down at the rear of the aircraft and preparing for a landing in Cork, I felt sick. It was hot. Almost too hot. I rubbed an ice cube over my forehead, thinking perhaps the coolness would ease the nausea. I’d been fine earlier on the last two sectors. I thought the heat was getting to me. The captain bellowed over the tannoy: Cabin crew seats for landing.
Earlier, on the way through the airport, I’d had half a chicken wrap. Thoughts of warm chicken now made me want to spew. I held my stomach. As the plane started to descend, the undulating motion felt like a fairground ride after eating too many sweets, and with already feeling ill, the effects seem multiplied. Strapped in, unprepared, too close to landing and with no airsickness bag within grabbing distance, there was nothing I could do. And never having been good under pressure, I had a split second to decide… lap or floor.
Projectile vomit neatly swam in the lap of my skirt. One of the passengers got up and pulled the curtain across. I considered resigning.
In a daze, I found myself being dragged to the loos, stripped and washed. It was sod’s law I wasn’t carrying a spare skirt or my just-in-case pants. The pilots decided that they weren’t waiting for a replacement crew member. They wanted to go home regardless. Too ill to care, I went along with it. The number one spritzed me with eau de toilette. It amplified the pungency of vomit. The plan was to do the demo with my stinking skirt pulled round to the back. The stain was less visible from behind. Never had I felt so ashamed or embarrassed.
Introductions
March 2003
Beginning early on the Whisper Jet, with a first sector flight from Glasgow and shuttle runs to Paris, we were due to night-stop in Glasgow. We’d just landed in Paris and awaited a change of flight deck. (Aviation law prevented the pilots working as many hours as flight attendants.)
Timescales of passenger disembarkation and boarding meant frantic preparation. I’d finished checking seat pockets for rubbish (a gross gloves-on-job that involved delving a hand deep into where passengers stuffed nasty surprises) and threw off the gloves to prepare the tea and coffee service, ready for the passenger onslaught or self-loading freight. Almost oblivious to anything else, I felt a gentle tap on my shoulder.
‘I don’t think we ’ave met,’ said an unfamiliar foreign voice. I turned to see a smiling face. ‘Marc,’ he said as our eyes met, thrusting his hand towards mine.
He looked French, if that were possible, but his accent confirmed it. His appearance seemed to match. His hair looked too long, needing attention, but he had the biggest warm smile, which revealed so many teeth for one mouth.
‘Hi, I’m April,’ I said, whilst running my hands over my skirt a couple of times and wiping off the wetness from the ice bucket I’d been adjusting, before accepting his handshake. The double gold stripe across each epaulette showed his first officer rank. I knew the details he needed for his journey log. ‘98721,’ I stated, reeling off my staff number in parrot fashion, just like every other time I’d met a pilot with a clipboard on a flight. He wrote it down.
‘Well, it is very nice to meet you, April.’ His toothy grin was back on display. ‘I guess this is yours,’ he said, handing me my black glove that had fallen from the seat where I’d dumped it.
‘Thanks,’ I replied and smiled back at him, taking the glove. Then I watched him walk back down the cabin. Reaching the entrance to the cockpit, he virtually crawled in, crouching down. I giggled. He didn’t need to bow his head, but he was probably used to hitting it on stuff, being so tall.
*
Later that evening, after landing, we completed the usual duties of looking for leftover property in the overhead lockers, closing down the bars and my not-so-favourite job – seat pocket checks. A blissful thought occurred of kicking off my shoes and landing face first onto a large hotel bed, fully clothed. But obeying the unwritten flying rule, as was dutifully expected by consensus, I’d packed civvy clothes for the bar.
*
Approaching the bar, I could see Becky, Ron and Jim. I ordered a Malibu and coke and sat quietly with the crew. As I sipped on my drink, the conversation drifted on without me.
At the next table sat the regular prostitute. Unaware as to whether anyone else knew, I’d seen her before. Different night, different punter. There were two men with her tonight. All three were sitting drinking. She held a wine glass, and the two men had pints resting on the table between them. Candidly, I studied her. She was dressed in a short, tight-fitting pastel skirt and jacket. She looked hardened in the face with worn and haggard skin, and the deep lines across her forehead aged her. She wore her straw-coloured hair scraped back, which revealed grey at the roots and looked straggly, even in a ponytail. I couldn’t gauge her age but guessed she looked older than she was, possibly late forties. Bruises down her bare legs were evident, even in the dim lighting of the bar.
She parted her legs, pulling her knees apart in an exaggerated manner, revealing that she wore no underwear as she flashed her crotch to the gazes of the men. The film Basic Instinct came to mind, although she was no Sharon Stone. As I looked around, everyone else was too absorbed in banter to have noticed. The three of them got up to leave. I wondered whether she kept herself sober or if she needed the drink.
Then Marc arrived. He plonked himself down in the comfy empty seat almost opposite me. Adjusting the angle of his chair, he almost faced me directly from across the table. He sprawled back. I couldn’t help studying him, unintentionally. His seemingly thickset body filled the space. He set down two packets of cigarettes, which he balanced on the narrow arm. Having already half smoked the one he’d lit, he threw back his head, confidently puffing out smoke. Cigarette fumes filled the air. I became mildly interested in his smoking abilities, unwittingly paying him more attention. Inhaling the smell, it wasn’t unpleasant. It reminded me of being out in a nightclub, even though it was just a bar in Glasgow on a work night. He had a way of authoritatively throwing back his head as he exhaled. Guessing it was an inherent learned trait of being a smoker, I continued watching as he rolled the cigarette around his fingers in a seductive fashion. He was good at smoking – if there was such a thing.
The dark circles around his eyes suggested he needed more sleep, but so did we all. I noticed that when he laughed, it radiated through his face, making his eyes light up and exposing just a few smile wrinkles, but not in a bad way. In an older man type of way, he was attractive. His mannerisms – especially the way he did things with a cigarette in his hands, lips and mouth was sexy. Accidentally, I caught his gaze. Looking across at his face, his eyes fixed directly on me for seconds longer than just a glance.
The Full Scottish
Rudely awakened by the harsh and abrupt sound of a mechanical alarm clock, on my mobile I saw it was 5.45 am. I moaned and rolled over. The agitating ringtone needed changing to something more soothing and harmonious-sounding, like a harp. I kept promising myself I’d do it but somehow never did. Reaching for the bedside lamp in the dark, I fumbled for the switch. Trying to recall what I was doing, remembering it was Saturday; Emma would be going to yoga without me again. I lay there, thinking about it.
Yoga had fascinated me since attempting a trial class. Having fallen in love with the idea of trekking off to India one day to learn more and experience the spiritual side of things, I’d signed up for a three-day get away from it all
convention in Croydon. My dreams were big, but as usual the budget was tight at the time. My now usual class, when I got to attend, was a village hall on the outskirts of Birmingham. And Jessie, a new age hippie, had been my instructor ever since.
It wasn’t a natural place of beauty, but it didn’t matter. It made me feel de-stressed in the same way as drinking green tea but without the slightly fishy taste – give me a builder’s brew any day. I also loved how bendy my body was at moulding itself into a pose. And how it felt when I flexed it into a stretch and the release afterwards. It was a feel-good hobby. The yoga trousers made me look great too. The wide band at the top snapped back against my little round bulge in exactly the right place, giving me a perfectly flat tummy. And the tingly feeling all over my body at the end of the session added to my state of relaxedness. Beginning as a yoga virgin, the “three oms” we chanted in class used to make me giggle, but on reaching maturity as a yoga bitch, I’d suddenly got it.
My alarm went off on repeat, disturbing my thoughts and reminding me to get out of bed. I’d allocated half an hour to swing into action, including an extra five minutes to get up. Sprawling out starfish style, I briefly hugged the pillow next to me, feeling not at all like leaving the warmth of a double bed that I had all to myself for another five self-indulgent minutes.
The getting-up routine involved pulling on last night’s jeans and top, assembling my hair into some sort of up-do, cleaning my teeth, then making myself smell acceptable before departing for an almighty breakfast. They served an unbeatable all you can eat Scottish fry-up. Their breakfast was the best the morning after a thirsty night on the booze. Not that I drank much; it was probably more the dehydrating effects of the hotel air conditioning.
Inspecting my face in the harsh bright light of the bathroom shaving mirror, I peered in to see a magnified and distorted view, providing a revolting close-up of my skin’s appearance. All my imperfections were highlighted, and the dark half-moon shapes under my eyes looked a bit slug-like, but there wasn’t time for a face mask treatment, not that I could be bothered. As usual, I let myself off by using two fingers, one either side of my lips, pushing them into my cheeks, creating a dimpled happy face and convincing myself it was a passable complexion for an early morning. I’d apply my fake face later – the version I much preferred.
I always checked my appearance in the shaving mirror; it was like getting a worst-case scenario of what I really looked like, in the same way a changing room mirror worked to make me feel grotesque, especially on a big tummy day, accentuating all the wobbly bits I preferred not to notice.
Changing room mirrors were a scam. They made me want to cover up immediately. In shops, I always looked worse than at home. It was all a ploy to make me buy their clothes. But the purpose of looking at ugly me meant that I always knew I looked better than my reflection, because no one saw me that close up – a habit that ironically worked to make me feel good.
I tied my hair into a sort of grunge-style doughnut and left some loose, long blonde strands either side. There were benefits to having long hair in providing camouflage. That will do, I told myself, scrunching up my nose at the reflection staring back. Anyway, I’d most likely have the breakfast bar to myself; there were never too many people around at that time of the morning to notice.
Strolling in for breakfast, I was starving. Jim was sat in the corner, scoffing the remainders of what was probably a full Scottish, judging by the empty sauce packets. He waved his knife and gave me a nod. His bloated cheeks obviously contained an overly large mouthful.
Passing by with a casual wave in return, I helped myself from the breakfast bar like a pro and piled up: bacon, sausage, eggs, tomato, mushrooms, a bit of fried bread and toast, all to be washed down nicely with a large mug of English breakfast tea. I walked over to Jim’s table with my well-loaded tray.
‘Hiyaaa,’ said Jim, too full of beans for the crack of dawn. Greedily, he eyed up my plate of food. ‘Get it down yer, doll face. Nice one.’
‘You’re up early,’ I said.
He smiled, winked exaggeratedly and skewed his head to one side whilst pointing his knife at me, all at the same time. He always called me doll face. I didn’t mind. It was Jim. He was an honorary girl. Doll face was his pet name for me and any other trolley dolly.
The girls often joked that Jim was afraid to come out. He defended himself against being gay, mainly in the form of a picture of a gorgeous girl he produced from his wallet, conveniently pulling her out when it suited. Everyone had seen it. It was a rare day when Jim didn’t refer to being heterosexual.
There were a few gay guys working as cabin crew. The ones that weren’t gay would go well out of their way to make sure you knew they were straight. You could usually tell the ones that were gay because often they were better at the job than most of the girls by way of being more attentive to the passengers. Jim didn’t altogether fit the gay stereotype. He was more interested in himself than the passengers and was outrageously flirtatious and completely vain – forever checking out his appearance, stroking down his hair and wearing out the mirrors in the toilets. He walked with a quirky bounce to his step, possibly an old dancing habit. He took delight in reminiscing about being a dancer at a nightclub in one of Birmingham city centre’s hotspots. I could imagine he was talented on the dance floor. It was in the wiggling of his hips and reminded me of the film Dirty Dancing and Patrick Swayze’s moves, although it wouldn’t be the same sexy with Jim. He was a typical girl in terms of revelling in idle hostie gossip and embellishing stories, probably to get attention, which we all knew he lapped up. But still, it was entertaining. He had a way of rolling his eyes and pressing his lips together to show disapproval. And although funny to watch, I’m not sure he even knew he was doing it. He was great to have around for keeping the conversation light and flowing with tales of his previous girlfriends and the latest gossip about the last night-stop, usually involving one of our girls having had a one-night stand with a pilot from another crew. We all loved Jim.
Then Marc showed up. Jim slurped the remainder of his coffee all too quickly, guzzling it in the same way a thirsty dog might finish off a bowl of water before picking its head up and licking itself with its huge tongue. Jim ran the length of his arm across his mouth, wiping up the remnants of breakfast on his sleeve.
‘Right, girls; gotta go. Stuff to do, you know. Byeeee.’ He nodded at Marc, who was placing his coffee down at my table.
Hell. I looked such a mess. Most crew had breakfast in their room. Why didn’t he? Appearing without the aid of make-up was made worse when Marc sat down in Jim’s spot, directly opposite, with an unobstructed view of me naked in the face. Nothing against Mother Nature, but I preferred to buy my beauty in products, and happily slapped it on to enhance my assets and cover up the ugly bits. I hadn’t minded Jim seeing me in my raw state; he didn’t count. A close-up inspection was not something I’d prepared for. Resigning myself to being caught out on this occasion, that mistake wouldn’t happen again. Casually, I pulled a few more strands of hair down each side of my face, attempting to conceal a bit more; not that it worked, but it made me feel better.
I’d hoped Jim would stay, just a bit longer. He could have detracted from my lack of make-up. And sparked a conversation, so I didn’t have to make the effort of friendly banter with a foreign man I hardly knew, and at such an ungodly hour. No such luck. It was bad enough having to try with passengers; at least I was paid for that. Chowing down on a greedy breakfast had been my plan. But now the massive plateful that lay in front of me made me feel self-conscious. I poked my fork at it then stabbed a sausage.
Marc rested his elbow on the seatback of the chair next to him. I couldn’t work out if he was self-assured, like the way he smoked his cigarette, or just very chilled out. Maybe it was a continental thing. He looked casual and at ease, wearing a baggy grey and black stripy top.
After taking a swig of coffee, he fixed his eye
s on me. I could feel them even as I averted my eyes down to my plate. When I glanced upwards, his large teeth were so noticeable and on full display, accompanied by his huge grin. I couldn’t help checking them out. They seemed in good order. Now I understood what people meant when they talked about horsey mouths. As he smiled, his eyes seemed to shrink by comparison. Then I gazed back down at my breakfast for fear of staring. He put down his coffee cup and ran his fingers through his tousled dark hair before resting his other arm back on the table and picking up his cup again.
Maybe he’d start the conversation soon as he’d invited himself to join me at my table, and without asking me first. But even if he’d asked, I would have been obliged to say yes and if he’d have sat somewhere else, then I’d have been obliged to ask him over. So, I suppose it was irrelevant. He would have ended up sat there anyway. Forced to put on my smile, the one I used for passengers, I thought I’d ask him about Paris.
‘Nice guy, Jim,’ Marc said as he sipped at the dark, strong-looking coffee which resembled diluted tar. Seeing him drink it, I was confident of him being fully alert to fly an aeroplane, in much the same way a poker up his backside would have had a similar sobering effect.
Pleased that he’d taken the initiative, I replied, ‘Yeah, he’s a lively character all right.’
‘What is that you’re eating?’ Marc pointed at the toast I was eagerly devouring, piece by piece in manageable mouthfuls and in quick time to get out of there fast.
‘Marmite on toast. Haven’t you ever tried it?’ I asked.
Obviously, he hadn’t, or he’d have recognised the smooth brown goo. He eyed it up, with a kind of fascination.
‘No. It looks ’orrible,’ he said.
I laughed and tore off a small triangular segment. ‘Here. Try a bit. You’ll like it.’
Free Fall in Stilettos Page 3
