My mind drifted as I thought about his email and sipped my tea. I knew the tired old hotel in Guernsey where he’d stayed. It was unlike most other places. It was vintage and similar to a rustic French hotel. Breakfast was served in its huge dining room with its distinctive green forest-coloured velvet curtains, finished off with swags and pelmets – (something I’d learned about from my gran talking about her interiors, along with carpets and curtains which I’d since relegated to the world of domestic boredom). There were old woven rugs on the floor and curvaceous ancient wooden chairs. Heavy linen magnolia tablecloths were laid out with matching napkins, which stood in a fan shape at each place setting. The shiny cutlery was ornate, and there were tiny bowls of brown and white sugar cubes, with a little silver sugar server in the middle of the table – the type found in an antique shop. I imagined older clientele feeling at home. I wondered if Marc liked it.
The door creaked open.
‘So, what’s the latest in your romantic saga?’ said Emma, interrupting my thoughts.
She filled her bowl with cornflakes, glimpsing at the TV she’d just turned on, whilst sheltering her eyes from the sunlight and trying to talk to me all at the same time. Sensory overload was typical of Emma.
‘I suggested meeting up. I’m thinking of phoning him. What do you reckon?’ I asked.
‘Ooh. Things have progressed. But ooh… a phone call? You sure about that? Could be tricky,’ she said. Emma became busy shovelling mountains of cornflakes into her mouth, which didn’t prevent her from speaking. She paused briefly, then said, ‘You know what… do it. What you gonna say?’ She looked at me for a response, taking a break from her noisy crunching.
‘Why the sudden change?’ I asked.
‘Well, you may as well go for it. He likes you… you like him…’
She rocked a spoon in her hand, backwards and forwards, as she spoke.
‘Well, I’m gonna get it all planned out, just in case the conversation dries up. Optimum planning and maximum effort to ensure no awkwardness,’ I said and took another sip of tea contemplating what to say.
‘So funny. That’s you all right. Taking care of every detail. I should try that some time. Anyway, gotta rush. Love ya,’ she said and disappeared off, taking her bowl of cereal as she went. ‘Good luck,’ she shouted from her bedroom.
‘I’m not doing it until Saturday,’ I called, ‘more chance of catching him.’
I got out a notebook from the kitchen drawer and started to scribble some prompts. I put stuff on there like work, weekend plans and drew a ring around spare time – a need to know, so we could meet. Other than flying, I wondered if he had many interests. Did he have other women in his life? I hoped not. I thought about the women in the Paris bar and jabbed my pencil into the paper. Trying to dismiss jealous thoughts, I reminded myself to pick out the CD, Chilled-Out 80s. Background music was necessary as a relaxed distraction, better for the flow of conversation.
*
It was Saturday at 6.50 pm. I planned to ring after 7 pm UK time, making it 8 pm in Paris. It was all detailed on the notepad with military precision. I’d calculated that if he were planning to go out, I’d catch him beforehand. I had no firm affirmations of his plans. My only rationale or logic was that it was a Saturday night in Paris. And if he wasn’t working then I guessed that he’d probably be going somewhere, whilst I, on the other hand, had absolutely no plans and wasn’t going anywhere.
Running over a potential conversation in my head, I had my list of prompts to hand. Nervously excited, I scrolled through my mobile as far as the name Marc then pressed call. I listened to the sound of the international ringtone, my ear firmly pressed to my mobile as jitters filled my stomach. With its long tones, it confirmed that I was ringing abroad. It rang three times, making me start to wonder if it would divert to voicemail.
‘Allo.’
I felt a surge of adrenaline.
‘Oh hi. Is that Marc?’ I asked shyly, more nervous than I thought. ‘It’s April.’
Like a cold caller, I waited for his response. Holding the mobile to my ear felt like listening to my own heartbeat.
‘Avril. Hi… just a moment… I ’ave someone on the other line… just a moment. I’ll put that one down and be straight back with you.’
Prioritising me over someone else was a good sign. I smiled. There were faint mumblings of French in the background.
‘Sorry about that. Just ’ad another call. So, ’ow are you?’ he asked.
‘Fine, thanks. And how are you?’ I replied, smiling.
‘I’m off work at the moment. Got a problem with my eardrum, means I can’t fly.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry to hear that,’ I said.
‘It’s okay.’
There was a pause whilst I wondered whether to question him further about eardrums or to just ignore it.
‘How long have you been off work?’ I asked.
‘About only three days so far, but I’m not going back until my ears get better. So, what ’ave you been doing with yourself?’ he asked.
The pitch of his voice was raised. I could sense that he was smiling at the other end.
‘Well, I survived skating with my flatmate Emma.’
‘Skating?’ he asked.
‘Yes, skating. I have a flatmate called Emma. She’s big on going to yoga, usually. We both are. But I went skating with her the other night. She thought it would be fun to try something different. It was a roller-disco. No kids allowed, except us. So we had a good go.’
He laughed.
‘And you still ’ave your legs intact?’ he asked.
‘Actually, I’m not too bad,’ I insisted. ‘I lived at the skating rink as a teenager.’
‘Maybe you can show me some time,’ he said.
‘Definitely. I wouldn’t mind watching you on a pair of skates.’
‘It would be bad news, I think,’ he said.
There was another pause. I consulted my list of prompts.
‘Well, I was just ringing to find out if you were free sometime soon, but I didn’t realise you were ill.’
‘Listen. I can’t fly, but I’m okay. I was gonna email you tonight.’
‘I think you still should,’ I said.
‘I was gonna suggest dates for meeting up. ’Ow about Paris?’ he asked.
‘Well, if you’re sure you’re okay. Maybe we could meet for a day.’
‘Sure… but just one day? You’ll spend most of it travelling. If you want to plan on spending a few days, you can stay ’ere, and I’ll show you round France. It’s up to you,’ he said.
‘Okay,’ I replied, feeling uncertain. I hadn’t expected him to suggest a few days. I’d thought a casual meet-up and lunch perhaps, for a first date. ‘How about sometime next weekend?’ The words rolled out of my mouth before my brain had fully engaged. ‘I’m working Saturday but off Sunday, Monday.’
‘Whenever you want. Just let me know what flight you’re on and I’ll come and pick you up at the airport,’ he said.
‘Okay. I’ll let you know,’ I said.
‘Okay. I look forward to seeing you. Speak soon.’
‘Don’t forget to send that email anyway,’ I reminded him.
I listened for him to hang up. But instead in the background I heard him say merde. And even I recognised that terminology in French.
‘Is everything okay?’ I asked.
‘Oh, it’s all right. I just burnt the sauce for my steak.’
‘So, you’re not a good cook then?’ I joked.
‘I do okay. I’ll show you when you come over,’ he laughed.
‘Okay. Speak to you soon – bye.’
I hung up. And just like that, an international hot date in Paris was set.
Then doubt crept in. What if things turned awkward? What if we didn’t get on? What if it turned to disaster and I wa
s stuck out there?
The Rendezvous
July 2003
As I flew down the motorway in my Mini, my sunglasses averted the bright sunshine filtering through. I twisted the volume knob to maximum and belted out the lyrics to Bon Jovi’s Living on a Prayer. And my CD pounded off the interior metal of the car, making it tin-pot deafening. I loved it.
Driving to the airport listening to music with no restrictions on noise, unlike in the Penthouse, meant I took full advantage. On the motorway, my Mini was like an electric racing go cart. Each dent of the road surface made it bounce along. The height of the traffic surrounding me, especially lorries, made the whole car feel totally unsuitable for long journeys. But I was used to it. And even though I was heavy footed on the right pedal, it took its time to build speed. But with a bit of concentration, I could get the needle to sit around eighty.
The traffic was light, which was usual for a Sunday. But despite there being no rush, it seemed to take forever to reach the airport, no matter how hard I stepped on the accelerator. The air conditioning was switched to cold, although it was never cool, just not as hot as pushing the control in the other direction.
The excitement of going to Paris gave me the jitters. My stomach flipped a fast somersault every time I thought about Marc. Approaching the airport, I wound down my window and took one eye off the road. A plane was taking off into a perfect blue setting. It climbed like they do with its nose to the sky. When it soared high enough, the magical vapour trail poured out behind like the foam of sparkling bubbles seeping down an overfull glass of fresh champagne. High on nervous energy, I giggled. What hot-blooded woman can resist the allure of a good-looking and seductive Frenchman? Not me, that was for sure.
The airline desk dished out my staff ticket and it all became more real by the minute – yet so surreal in equal measures. Endorphins kicked at the pit of my stomach as I realised that I’d arrive in Paris in less than two hours. Instinctively, I headed up to the crew room. It wasn’t necessary. But being familiar, I thought I’d wait there before departures. Had I considered things more carefully, then perhaps being sat with other passengers was more sensible. But I was carefree. It wasn’t until I saw Becky in the crew room that I realised I was unprepared. It prompted me to invent a fabricated bullshit story, just in case of nosiness – visiting a friend, not anyone connected with the airlines. It was my business and wiser not to tell. Not aircrew. I imagined the gossip and how easy it was to become the latest victim of idol rumours and ending up as one of Jim’s stories. That wasn’t happening. Marc was my special secret.
Becky didn’t even notice me. She left sharpish, almost getting her fluorescent jacket trapped in the doorframe as she rushed out. I relaxed back on the sofa; there were no stories necessary now. At home it was different. Sharing stuff with Emma was not only mandatory but crucial. I needed a confidante.
The flight was on time. And on boarding, my colleagues weren’t familiar, which was fortunate.
‘Hi, you positioning to Paris today?’ said a crew member. I knew her name was Rachel, but I didn’t know her.
‘Just visiting a friend,’ I said casually. She seemed to buy it, but why wouldn’t she? I tried to relax but couldn’t. Nervous energy flew round my body at a rate of knots. I rubbed the sweat from my palms on the lap of my smart blue jeans.
Dark jeans looked good on me, making my legs seem longer than the lighter coloured pair, which I reserved for cleaning jobs around the Penthouse. Even though it was a hot day, I opted to wear jeans when flying off duty – a must-have flying companion, disguising sweat patches and crumples.
Dressed in heeled sandals and a dark low-cut top felt suggestively sex kitten, but not overdone. Freely, I spritzed on a cloud of Coco Chanel Mademoiselle perfume. Moderation and toilet water were not required. I wasn’t working this flight.
Below the outerwear, I was hoisted up in my new underwear – a little black lacy number called Annie. When coupled with my red stilettos, a transformation into Bad Annie, sexy seductress, occurred in the mirror. But a less obvious look for a first date seemed the best option. I left them off. The filthy fuck-me heels were travelling in the case.
Strapped in, I wriggled, trying to get comfortable. I popped another mint chew into my mouth, hoping it would act as a distraction. My ample cleavage almost spilled over the top of the balcony bra – a tricky effect that had needed careful adjustment to hold my boobs with just the right amount of tension. The tight strap dug in. Damned Annie. I couldn’t wait to tear her off and break free. And despite having lost the thong buried between my cheeks, I sported a neatly trimmed topiary garden, complete with a waxed landing strip.
Preparation had become a priority after Emma had thrown a pack of dobbers into my case. She’d quoted a line about a happy and healthy, not herpes, sex life (having picked it up from a poster at the GUM clinic), and her advice was to bang whomever I wanted, so long as he wore a jacket.
Her interest in my potential sex life was the reason I’d put myself through a bloody agonising hour of waxing delicate parts of anatomy that had screamed to be left alone. I’d never intended to go au naturelle, but I was reminded how I needed to look good down there too, meaning more than a trim. It had taken gritted teeth to perform. But a perfectly primped bush was the result.
The seatbelt sign illuminated. The crew made their landing announcement. I checked my appearance in my compact mirror, then reapplied my pink lipstick. Then I checked again, making sure my teeth weren’t coated vampire style. My hair fell in waves over my shoulders, which had taken a heap of time to volume up and give the appearance of being loose. But I’d applied a ton of hairspray to get it rigidly right.
As the plane touched down on the tarmac, I performed the breath sniff test. Discreetly, I licked then sniffed the back of my hand. All was good.
But what if he doesn’t turn up? What if he changes his mind about the whole thing? It was too late to go back. We’d arranged to meet in arrivals. If he didn’t show, then the fall-back option was shopping in the centre of Paris.
I walked through arrivals biting my lip. As I looked up, Marc was waiting. Suddenly my legs felt stiff and awkward. I bumbled over. He smiled, with a brief fleeting glance. When our eyes met, I could sense that he was anxious too.
‘You came,’ he said.
Then I knew he’d experienced the exact same thought process, excluding the part about shopping in Paris. If I’d have been a no-show, I guessed he’d have seen his mates.
‘You invited me, remember?’ I said, smiling.
He leaned in for a continental-style kiss, on each cheek. Instinctively, I closed my eyes as he leaned across me. A tingling sensation took hold of my body as I breathed in his musky scent.
‘You look nice,’ he said, reaching for my bag.
I looked down at my feet, feeling a sudden paralyzing nervousness that I hadn’t expected. Hiding behind my smile, the voice inside my head reminded me to try and act normal and stay calm.
‘It’s this way to my car. Was it a good flight?’ he asked, as we strolled awkwardly towards the car park.
‘Yes, thanks. It was nice, no delays,’ I replied.
I grinned at Marc, not quite believing I was with him on a date in Paris.
‘Did you tell anyone what you were doing?’ he asked.
‘Not any work colleagues. They don’t need to know,’ I said.
He nodded.
‘You?’ I asked.
‘No,’ he replied.
‘Obviously, I told a friend, just in case you turned out to be an axe murderer or something. They’ve got your details, just to warn you,’ I said.
‘Merde. That’s my plan out of the window then,’ he laughed.
It didn’t take long to reach his car. I stood by the passenger door and waited.
‘You don’t want to do the driving today?’ he said, prompting me to think about him having dr
iven me to the hotel that night.
‘Stop teasing me. Anyway, I’m not good at driving on the wrong side,’ I said.
We laughed.
‘It’s not far to my place. I ’ave champagne waiting for us in the fridge,’ he said. My eyes must have lit up. ‘You like champagne,’ he said as more of a statement than question.
‘Champagne would be nice, thank you,’ I said, stupidly trying to act cool, although it wasn’t working. It wasn’t just the outside temperature making me melt.
He wasn’t letting down the reputation of the French. I bet he had the proper stuff, not just sparkly or pink fizz like mine and Emma’s alternative version of champagne. He was a smooth operator. Emma would be well impressed. Who didn’t like champagne? Hardcore beer drinkers perhaps? Unless you counted getting tipsy on night-stops, there was nothing hardcore about my drinking.
‘Are you ’ungry?’ he asked.
Course I wasn’t. Nerves had quashed any hunger pangs, even though I’d only eaten a nibble of stale airport sandwich and I’d digested half a packet of chewy mints.
‘Are you going to try and impress me with your cooking skills or get me drunk on champagne, so I won’t notice if you burn the sauce?’ I asked.
‘Both!’ he replied.
As he drove us, I watched him out of the corner of my eye, the way I’d been told not to by Emma, but I couldn’t resist. He looked so self-assured as he sat upright with a strong grip on the steering wheel and grin on his face. I bet he flew planes in much the same way, taking charge of the throttle.
He opened the glovebox and fumbled around for a bit, and I managed a large stare, without him noticing. He brought out a CD, held it up and looked across.
‘ ’Ave a listen,’ he said, slotting it into the player.
His music was unfamiliar, but it had a calm feel to it, reminding me of Classic FM. By contrast, I doubted he’d think much of my eighties compilations and occasional dance tracks.
Free Fall in Stilettos Page 8
