Free Fall in Stilettos

  Copyright © 2019 Catherine Louise

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Matador

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  Leicestershire, LE8 0RX

  Tel: 0116 279 2299

  Email: books@troubador.co.uk

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  ISBN 978 1838598 860

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  Matador is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd

  Dedicated to all those who believe in me and especially my Mum, who didn’t bat an eyelid at the rude bits!

  :O xxx

  Contents

  Glamour Puss Fantasy

  Trolley Dolly

  A Goddess in Training

  Intensive Training

  The Captain’s Log

  Introductions

  The Full Scottish

  The Mother of All Roster Changes

  The Paris Night-stop

  Pizza, Parties and Plans

  The Rendezvous

  Yoga Tantrics

  A Goodbye Kiss

  The Flight Home

  French Kissing Rules

  Sun and Sangria

  A Girls’ Night In

  Returning to Paris

  The Taxi Ride

  The Final Chapter

  Glamour Puss Fantasy

  January 2002

  The kettle hissed as it boiled. I peered out of my kitchen window and gazed at a swirl of smoke escaping a neighbour’s chimney pot, which rose then dissipated amidst the blanket of grey clouds looming above; rain looked imminent.

  Dirty mugs stacked up by the sink. Stirring my tea, the empty biscuit packet that I’d discarded on the worktop, rather than the bin, reminded me that I’d already eaten the last chocolate digestive. Milk and cereal were the only food left. And unwilling to settle for another takeaway, I was doomed to brave the winter chill and drones of Saturday shoppers. Letting out a sigh, I’d do it later.

  Emma, my best friend and flatmate, kept telling me not to get disheartened, in between making me endless cups of tea and filling me up on chocolate biscuits. She always said that cups of tea help solve everything.

  A yoyo dieter herself, she’d become a feeder. Secretly, I loved it, even though I kept telling her to cool it with the biscuits. At times, it was hard to resist scoffing a plate of biscuits put under my nose, but no more than four… usually. Except on a bad day when troughing my way through an entire packet was effortless, but only the milk chocolate ones, and just the mini variety you find at corner stores. Things had been depressing lately.

  As kids, Emma and I lived down the road from each other. Growing up together, we knew each other’s secrets. She had dirt on me and vice versa. She wasn’t your stereotypical librarian, usually preferring to chat rather than read books. She said that the chilled-out feeling in the library was calming, and good for her soul, apparently. And that the smell of the library made her want to poo, which we’d both agreed was probably due to her feeling relaxed, more than the smell of books.

  Her long, bright and bushy dyed-red hair matched her cherry Doc Marten boots, which she wore without fail; well, mostly. She discovered “vintage” before it was even fashionable, hanging around charity shops spotting great finds. Having invented her own rebellious style, including several piercings, she delighted in lovers discovering her mainly hidden, but large tattoo of a phoenix across her lower back. Sometimes she exposed it wearing a crop top, usually reserved for music festivals. Emma was a natural beauty, just not in the conventional sense.

  We both retrospectively shared an appreciation for Madonna in her 1980s phase, each of us owning a pair of long black lacy gloves that we’d discovered in Emma’s favourite local charity shop one afternoon, when Emma had dragged me along. We used them for our karaoke and fizzy wine nights in at home, and being short of cash, this was often. Like true fans, we knew all the words to our favourite Madonna songs, Like a Virgin and Into the Groove, which we regularly murdered. They reminded me of our early teenage years spent at the skating hall roller discos on weekends, wearing baggy trousers, hooded tops and hanging out with boys. They kicked off with the old 80s classics then moved through the era on to stuff like Pump Up the Jam and Dub Be Good to Me, finishing with up-to-date hits at the time like Let Me Be Your Fantasy. A few years later, we swapped the skating for Saturday yoga, but we still clung to the love of music from our youth.

  Promising Emma that I’d make progress by myself, reluctantly she’d left for yoga without me. Laboriously, I’d plonked myself back down at the computer, unsure whether I’d keep that earlier promise. Most distractions were welcome, like checking horoscopes and browsing for clothes I couldn’t afford.

  Clicking the internet icon, I waited for the dial-up connection. It sounded like a Dalek was contacting another robotic machine and waking it from naptime, which always took a stone age before any action occurred on screen. A drowsy tortoise would have been faster. It suited me perfectly.

  The lethargy of churning out letters in response to job advertisements (and having built up a stack of rejection letters) had drained my enthusiasm. I wasn’t lazy. I just didn’t know what I wanted to do. For too long I’d settled in my mundane role in the retail store. The money was poor, and since the rent had gone up a few months ago, I needed to leave. Confirmation arrived with each bank statement landing on my doormat.

  I’d been at the same clothing store since starting student life four years ago, gradually increasing the hours. Then reluctantly, after finishing university, I’d unavoidably drifted into full-time employment. That was almost a whole year ago now, and with no ambition to get promoted, moving on was inevitable because the thought of ending up drawing my pension there made me feel like sticking my head in an oven. It wasn’t a bad job. Sometimes it was even quite nice. A bit like a comfy cardi, cosy and familiar when you put it on.

  Occasionally, I wondered if I’d missed out on life’s adventures by not having chosen a gap year. At the time, budget travel, a lack of funds and roughing it in hostels had seemed the off-putting reality, rather than escaping for freedom and adventure. Champagne taste and beer bottle pockets – I could hear Emma repeating with amusement after having first heard my mum’s expression. She was right.

  In a ponderous state, I took some printer paper and picked up Emma’s unicorn pen lying beside it, toying with possibilities. She always said her pink magical unicorn pen produced her best ideas, which was ironic being chunky to grasp and almost impossible to write with. Vaguely hoping some magical inspiration might rub off, I began compiling a list. I’d finished it by the time it took for Kylie’s Can’t Get You Out of My Head to play in
its entirety.

  Playing with the irresistible soft tail dangling from the unicorn’s bottom, I twirled it around my finger, reviewing the options. First was chalet girl. Posing around in ski wear with attractive, foreign male instructors. The hot man factor was enticing, but I couldn’t ski. Not unless you counted a miserable day I’d once spent at a snowdome in preparation for a week’s holiday. And although I baked amazing, mean chocolate brownies, I doubted my cooking skills were sufficient. Next on the list was seeing the Big Apple. But Camp America was all I could envisage to get me over the pond. There was zero appeal in having responsibility for annoying kids, along with the accompanying aggravation. Then there was holiday rep. A paid-for holiday in a sunny climate seemed attractive, although entertaining was never really my forte. Lastly, I’d scribbled air hostess.

  As a kid, an air hostess ranked in the same league as princess, pop star or model. Any game involving dressing up, being pretty and getting attention. The same concept applied nowadays. Splurging hours over getting dolled up for an occasional night out, with music pumping, accompanied by a glass of pink fizz. Princess rated favourably too, but my fairy tale lacked a prince. Those early fantasies likely inspired my future lust for a uniform.

  The closest I’d been to international travel was a ferry to Brittany on a school trip and a brief holiday to Italy (if you could call it that). Both had induced mal de mer type scenarios, rather than invoking world exploration. Visiting my grandad on his yacht in Italy sounded glamorous, but the reality had been an ordeal to get there with a car stuffed full of kit, followed by an uncomfortable stay on what can only be described as an overgrown boat, loosely termed a yacht. But it was the Brittany school trip that had left a permanent scar on my memory. Visiting Paris had been the highlight, despite having suffered the embarrassment of a further puking incident on the torturously long coach journey. Someone had told me that a diabolo menthe would help ease my queasiness. At the services, I’d naively ordered one in a café, thinking it might help. I’d liked its sophisticated sounding name. But it had tasted disappointingly disgusting, like minty lemonade. Then I’d humiliated myself in front of all my classmates by throwing up and leaving a stench on the coach. But eventually it had been worth it to gawp at the height of the Eiffel Tower and find myself in the French foreign capital. I’d bought a red beret to try and blend in, mistakenly. Well, I was only thirteen at the time.

  Circling a ring around air hostess, I felt sure that flying would be different to boat and coach travel. My experiences of working at the student bar and some waitressing had to count as a positive, even if the jobs themselves had been definite negatives, the biggest difference being on an actual aeroplane rather than on terra firma.

  Picturing myself – a glamour puss, gliding through the air, blue skies on sunny days. Then parading through airports, accompanied by a pilot – preferably a hot one – wearing aviator shades; the glasses were optional.

  Trolley Dolly

  March 2002

  I’d spent two solid hours since 6 am accomplishing the look. Putting tremendous effort in to get a no-effort type look (sexy without trying hard). Feeling prepared and minx-like; finally, I was ready.

  Wearing my favourite pair of platform stilettos, the shiny red patent ones gave me confidence, even though they made me totter, ever so slightly. They looked good. Emma called them my filthy, fuck-me heels to be worn without knickers. When teamed with a short skirt on a night out, slutty or not, they worked fabulously well in bars for getting bought drinks. But an altogether different look was achieved when combining shoes with a suit, giving me an air of finesse, thanks to the versatility of the stilettos. And, I was wearing knickers.

  Thoroughly inspecting myself in the full-length mirror close-up, a thick layer of make-up stared back. Well-trowelled-on-foundation with a dusting of powder. Black eyeliner made my eyes pop and my lips looked larger than usual, which I’d achieved with perfect precision, colouring in using a lip pencil. I’d meticulously planned my outfit in advance, making sure that it clung to me in all the right places. A long navy pencil skirt with a short matching jacket, skimming my boobs. Nails filed and licked with bright red paint and well-groomed hair tied up in a neat bun. My aim was a modern twist on chic and classy, yet elegant like the airbrushed effect in glossy travel magazines. Satisfied at having accomplished the look, I pouted and blew a kiss. I visualised myself joining the ranks of the super-babes and headed out the front door.

  *

  ‘April Budd,’ said a loud voice, reeling off my name from a list.

  My stomach lurched, and I sprang to my feet. Making my way steadily from the tiled floor in the lobby area of the hotel to the conference room opposite, being careful not to have any mishaps in heels, I was ushered into a room of would-be flight attendants. Stepping onto the low pile carpet, I relaxed my shoulders, feeling relieved at avoiding an embarrassing arse-over-tit topple. Chairs were laid out in rows with a projector screen at the front.

  The chit-chat conversation grew noisier as more hopeful candidates filled up the room. Choosing the end of the middle row, I sat quietly checking out the others. They did likewise, coyly glancing at name badges. We’d all obediently pinned them to ourselves, having been instructed by the brisk lady at the door on the way in.

  Competition from the immaculately dressed was fierce. Scanning the room, some girls were stunners, with flawless make-up and slim figures. There were only two mature ladies, sat further along my row. The rest, I guessed, averaged early twenties. Towards the back were three exceptionally smart lads, grouped together. Curiously, I wondered if they were gay. They were kind of cute, although not my type and more like handsome contenders for a boy band. The room hushed as someone official started the introduction. Group assessments were next.

  Huddled around tables of eight with an assessor hovering, the challenge was to decide the essential items needed on a flight. In the middle of our table was a carton of orange juice, water, a pack of cards, face paint, a pen, a book, toilet roll and biscuits. My stomach rumbled. I quite fancied a nibble of chocolate biscuit. Glancing at my watch, it was only 10.30 amish and still a long way off lunchtime. I had yet to tackle scenario-based discussions, a presentation and interview. I sighed.

  *

  Days later, it was no surprise to get knocked back by a polite rejection letter. Privately, I admitted a dismal lack of under-preparation, except for my outfit. Emma held nothing back. She called it piss-poor planning. And she was right. I should have at least eaten breakfast. It might have prevented the can’t-be-arsed lethargy that had kicked in, despite the passing placebo effect of a double shot of espresso when I’d been faced with two interviewers. But I let myself off, having read somewhere that you live a far happier life if you’re not self-critical. It was easy to forgive myself knowing I had another shot lined up with a Birmingham-based airline. And being closer to home, it suited me better.

  Beforehand, I reviewed the list of tips I’d scribbled from memory. I’d learned that being asked Have you flown before? meant Have you worked in the industry? Sim meant simulator – where the pilots trained, and not the insert for a mobile phone. Air hostess was not something I’d naively jabber on about; the correct lingo was flight attendant, cabin crew, trolley dolly or dragon wagon – for the unlucky ones. Opting out of the voluntary language test was essential. My schoolgirl abilities had previously let me down. Asking about hair and eye colour and what time someone got out of bed in the morning was not enough to be considered basic skills. It left me thinking that a blind date was the only time my limited French would come in handy.

  Days later, after the interview, Jet Xpress offered me a cabin crew job by phone, starting in the summer. It was a calm conversation. I politely accepted. Then I replaced the receiver and went hysterical.

  A Goddess in Training

  July 2002

  Stuck in traffic and feeling nervous, made worse by needing a wee, I dug my nails into t
he steering wheel and swore at the cars barely moving ahead.

  Finally, pulling up in a car park in the Birmingham suburbs, I got out, loitering briefly to decipher the way in. It looked disappointingly industrial. Pre-fab buildings were dotted about and there was an abandoned, knackered old van in the corner with a flat tyre. Double checking the address, I was in the right place. Faced with what resembled an aircraft hangar, I downgraded my expectations. From the outside, the place didn’t mirror my high expectations of a training centre for cabin crew.

  Approaching in my direction from down the street, I spotted a very attractive brunette in tortoiseshell sunglasses, wearing a tight-fitting pencil skirt. She was wolf-whistled by a guy in a passing car. I bet she was cabin crew. Looking down at myself, having not been sure of the dress code for training, I’d settled on selecting pleated trousers with kitten heels and a cream coloured, slinky top. Before heading out, I’d given myself the okay in the mirror, but compared to her, I wasn’t stylish. My outfit was practical and presentable. Feeling frumpy, I regretted following my mum’s advice on what to wear when she’d visited last weekend, which was a safe look of casually smart appearance. I’d only asked her opinion as Emma’s less-than-conventional dress sense had left me in doubt. Mentally, I kicked myself for having not adopted the sass of my interview apparel. The girl walked straight past me like I was invisible. I possessed neither elegance nor sex appeal. I told myself that I’d consult my wardrobe for style-savvy options tomorrow. The only problem was that other than party dresses and suits (I was accustomed to wearing in-season business style suits in the retail store), I didn’t own hot, racy clothes to wear for work. And having almost reached my credit card limit, I doubted it could take the battering required to get my wardrobe up to scratch.