Free Fall in Stilettos Page 6

  As I entered the bar, Marc and the rest of my gang waved to me from across the room, all with pints in hand. They’d removed their identifying bits and bobs, but it was easier for them, being an all-male crew, wearing plain trousers and a white shirt. Approaching the bar, Jim cupped his hands around his mouth shouting, ‘What you drinking?’

  ‘Half a lager, thanks,’ I replied.

  Looking over Jim’s shoulder, I glanced further down the bar.

  ‘Pint,’ Jim shouted across to Marc just as he caught my eye.

  A pint of lager was passed down to me via the hands of each of the crew members. I perched on the end bar stool. Raising my glass to Marc, I thanked him, wondering whether we’d get a chance to talk, although the music volume would make it challenging.

  Brown sacks of monkey nuts were dotted around the room. Piles of broken nuts littered the floor and grew bigger as I chatted to Jim. It was shouty chatter, the type I reverted to at nightclubs – bellowing into an eardrum, a pitch below my usual tone to try and make my words heard. I watched people cracking open nuts and throwing empty shells on the floor. Not that anyone seemed to care. With the bouncers on hand, the Parisian management were relaxed, no doubt having turned a blind eye, being used to the business and abuse from aircrew. Had it been a five-star UK hotel, someone would have complained.

  ‘Just lob it on the floor, man,’ yelled Jim.

  Eager for me to join in, Jim demonstrated his proficiency with a flick of the wrist action, sending his leftover nutshell to the ground. Unaccustomed, I used the ashtray. Jim was a hooligan.

  The tables started to empty, and we moved to a free spot, further away from the speakers booming out dance music. Sinking into a comfortable chair, I found Marc beside me. Jim bought the next round of drinks. The alcohol loosened my behaviour, enough to join the camaraderie of chucking my empty monkey nutshells on the floor, which was surprisingly fun.

  ‘You should go to Marc’s party,’ said Henri.

  His comment, directed at me, seemed to come from nowhere. Feeling the buzz of alcohol, I’d drank almost one and a half full pints of lager and I needed the loo, but it wasn’t urgent. It felt a skin-full after a long flying day. As a self-confessed lightweight since student days, it was apparent amongst the drinking standards of some aircrew.

  I glanced at Marc and giggled.

  ‘Well, Marc,’ I said confidently, ‘if I’m going to your party, I need your address.’

  Marc took out the bar receipt from his pocket and wasted no time in scribbling down his details on the reverse. He passed it to me. On it he’d written his address, mobile and home telephone numbers and his email.

  Positioned at an angle, my eyes craftily studied his face in detail without having to directly turn my head. I took in the appearance of his kissable full lips and wondered how they’d feel pressed against mine. I thought back to the sauce incident.

  He wasn’t my usual rugby type – the thicker-set, bigger-built muscle man. That wasn’t Marc. But the exception was a bum that looked good in a pair of tight-fitting jeans in a Darcy-esque manner, and Marc had already passed the trouser test. He had a great rear view. I’d established that fact earlier, and much more… in my imagination.

  Marc’s hefty pilot watch flashed as he picked up his pint. Watch bling – an expensive bit of shiny couture on a man was something I liked. It suggested an interest in dress sense. But it stopped there. Other chunky jewellery, like a gold medallion soap-on-a-rope or the fat ring of a rap singer, was not my thing.

  Marc’s hair flopped in front of his face, curtains style. He had a look of stubble coming through this late in the day, his past five o’clock shadow, which suited him in a rugged kind of manly way. He looked about mid-thirties, much older than any man I had ever dated. But he was probably past the stage of relationship avoidance or commitment phobia that men in their twenties often suffered. Maybe in France it was different, and phobia type issues had yet to spread and infect the continent. Did French women find him a hottie?

  The longer I looked, the more attractive he became and the more points he scored. Was alcohol pushing up his ratings? He wasn’t typically handsome, but it didn’t matter. His charismatic appeal made him strangely seductive. He exuded confidence, in the manner of a man stepping up to take charge, which I concocted in my head, probably because of his job.

  ‘Why do you keep looking at me weird like that?’ said Marc.

  Oh fuck, had I been staring? Emma had warned me numerous times about my one-eyed-snake look – a bad, creepy habit of peeping out the corner of my eye.

  ‘Like what?’ I replied, pretending it was no big deal.

  He gave me a quick demo. Shit, I was gutted. And Emma was right. Damn drinking so much bloody lager. Why did I have such a freaky habit? Did he now want to retract those details he’d just given me because I was acting like some sort of freak?

  ‘Sorry, I was looking at the bar. I thought I recognised someone,’ I said, attempting a shot at recovery, but surprising myself with on-the-spot thinking, however weak.

  ‘And do you?’ Marc said.

  ‘What?’ I said.

  ‘Do you recognise them?’ he asked.

  ‘Urghh, nope. I thought I did but it’s a bit dark in here, isn’t it?’ I replied, feeling stupid.

  Bloody hell; I wasn’t expecting a quiz. But it was apparent everyone had been earwigging, because they all looked in the direction of the bar.

  Whilst I’d been imagining Marc naked, he’d been watching me watching him – the whole time. The naked thought lingered and made me blush. I couldn’t look at him.

  Marc had been elevated to the new Mr Potential, aided by beer goggles. How did men do that? It worked when there was absolutely no attraction to begin with. Then by some clever trickery, they made you like them. It’s what I termed a grower, and that was Marc. There’d been no instant interest, not in the sense that I’d looked and immediately fancied the pants off him.

  It never worked the other way around. Men could be growers but girls / women were only ever in the yes or no list from the start. That was my experience. The exception was the bedroom category. This category was only ever about a fast fuck, and if he thought you were willing then you were in. It was almost open to all, but you’d never become a keeper. He didn’t even need to like you. Men made assessments based on looks. Women did the same, but opinion could shift, based on getting to know someone – personality over looks, whereas men often rated looks over personality. Girls had beauty products and hair straighteners for appearance. Personality kicked in much later to make her a keeper.

  A left-field question from Henri disturbed my contemplative thoughts.

  ‘What do you think I should send?’ he asked me.

  ‘What are you talking about?’ I asked.

  ‘Daniel,’ Henri replied. I still wasn’t following. ‘You know, a text saying something nice to Daniel.’

  ‘Come on, April. Henri wants to get his leg over with Daniel and wants your help to make it happen,’ added Jim.

  ‘Sorry, Henri,’ I said, realising Jim’s lack of tact and Henri’s plea for help. ‘I’m a bit knackered but let me have a think.’

  ‘Yes, I understand. Working for a company like Jet Xpress you are naaykid today, naaykid tomorrow, always naaykid,’ said Henri.

  Who was I to correct his English when my French was terrible? I smiled, used to the little nuances from some French crew.

  ‘Knackered… not naked!’ Marc said, stepping in immediately to put him right. Suddenly it was hilarious.

  ‘Oops. You knew what I meant,’ said Henri, laughing.

  Henri got out his mobile.

  ‘ ’Ow about: the weather is beautiful, wish you were ’ere with me? Don’t you think that’s romantic?’ Marc said. His eyes directed that question at me, with a smile. ‘Wouldn’t you like to get a text saying that? They’re words from
my favourite song.’

  ‘Sounds like a postcard message,’ I replied, trying not to look too impressed. What was his favourite song? Clearly, he was a charmer, but I hoped he wasn’t a player.

  ‘You could be anywhere,’ Marc said, and shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘That’s brilliant, man,’ said Jim. ‘Think I might send that to my girlfriend. That should score me some points.’

  Henri, all enthused with Marc’s suggestion, eagerly began tapping out his message.

  ‘You don’t think it’s too much?’ Henri turned to me. ‘Do you think he’s gonna like that?’

  ‘That’s probably gonna do the trick for you, Henri,’ I replied.

  Marc caught my eye again. We smiled.

  ‘You’ve got to tell us if this comes off. Marc, I think I’m gonna name you King of Gay Text,’ Jim announced as he slapped Henri on the back.

  ‘Not sure that’s much of a compliment to an ’eterosexual male,’ Marc said.

  We all laughed.

  ‘I thought you were sending it to your girlfriend,’ I reminded Jim.

  ‘It’s versatile,’ Jim replied.

  ‘Sent,’ said Henri, proudly holding up his mobile.

  Henri and Jim started to chat again. Then Marc leaned in close towards me.

  ‘Tell me about yourself,’ he said.

  The low sound of his foreign voice made me nervous. I couldn’t think what to say. I reached for my hair and coiled a section around my finger. His big brown eyes drifted down to rest on my body. I clasped my hands together. My palms felt sweaty. The drink was no longer having a lasting effect. I could feel him, watching me. He made me feel exposed and vulnerable, the way he looked at me. I folded my arms across my chest.

  ‘There’s not really much to tell,’ I said.

  The high-pitched squeakiness of my voice surprised me, and I hated it. I drew a breath and tried to get a grip, struggling to keep cool. But as Marc sat back in his chair, I immediately began to relax.

  ‘What are your ambitions then?’ Marc said, his body tilting forward towards mine.

  I drew another breath.

  ‘Well, I’d like to learn to fly. I wouldn’t mind learning to play the piano, but as I can’t fit a piano into my flat I’ll settle for the guitar. I’d also like to write a novel, learn French and run the London marathon,’ I blurted out.

  I surprised even myself with the marathon running. It had never been a goal I was consciously aware of, until now. But still, I was pleased at having rolled off a list of ambitions in an articulate fashion. Then I congratulated myself on having not sprayed him with speckles of spit when I’d talked.

  The effects of drinking more than one pint were often that I lost control of my ability to talk without accidentally spitting and shouting. Not outrageously. But according to Emma, I got noticeably louder than was necessary.

  ‘I can play the piano,’ he said.

  ‘Really. Maybe you can teach me then?’ I said, concentrating hard to avoid both shouting and spitting at him.

  ‘Sure. Only by ear. I’m not good at it.’ He smiled at me. ‘But I could teach you French. Then I’ll teach you how to fly and after that we’ll go learn to play the guitar together!’ He laughed.

  Clearly, he’d graduated from charm school with a diploma and possibly written a manual or two. But hooked on his attention, I wanted more.

  ‘And what about running?’ I reminded him.

  ‘That’s easy. I ran the Paris marathon last year, so we can go running together,’ he said.

  A smoker and a runner, how did that work? I was convinced that with all my yoga I was bound to be fitter than him.

  ‘You ’ave an unusual name, April,’ he said.

  ‘Yes. Nothing to do with me. All down to my folks. They wanted something to do with being a springtime baby, and it fits my surname. It’s the Latin for to open meaning buds, like my surname,’ I said.

  ‘Really. I like it. So, the French version is Avril. You like that?’ he asked.

  ‘I like how you say it,’ I replied. Why was I so obviously slobbering with lust?

  It wasn’t a good time for a toilet exit, ruining the ambience to nip off for a quick wee. But I’d been cross-legged for a while, and aware of the increasing urge, I couldn’t wait. There was never going to be a convenient time. Once I started on lager, it was approximately twenty-minute stints to the loo. I’d discovered a certain technique for prolonging the timed gaps – holding off for as long as possible the first time around, then increasing them to thirty-minutes, which avoided the frequency of visits, so long as no one told a funny joke.

  Emma and I first tested this theory in the pub one night. We played a stupid game after making a ridiculous bet over who could hold out the longest. Laughing usually made her wee with the force of a horse. (Privacy was almost impossible in a hollow-walled flat.) But after bursting into the cubicles together, she held out to win until finally pissing Niagara Falls.

  ‘Excuse me,’ I said.

  ‘Of course,’ Marc replied, moving his chair aside to clear an exit.

  Walking in a straight line required a steady focus. Trying hard not to look fuddled, it wasn’t easy to attempt my most eloquent strut whilst simultaneously squeezing everything hard to prevent a dam from busting open.

  On my return, I bought the final drinks round. Feeling hammered, I ordered a large water. The crew numbers had thinned. Throwing-out time was approaching, and no one was going to argue with the beefy black bouncer on patrol, encouraging everyone to finish their drinks, which we all did.

  In the lobby, Marc met with more airline staff. A small crowd of three pretty French hosties flocked to Marc like a magnet. His easy-going nature around women was evident. He chatted confidently, even though I couldn’t understand a word. They didn’t notice me. There was too much giggling.

  ‘Bye, Marc,’ I said with a raised voice, as I turned to leave with the others.

  ‘Wait. One moment, Avril,’ said Marc. ‘I ’ave to get the lift too. My car is parked basement level.’

  He raised his hand to say goodbye to the group and strolled towards me. I felt smug. We walked towards the lift together. As the doors opened, he gently placed his hand on the curve of my lower spine, as if to guide me through. A tingle rushed through my body. Then he removed his hand as naturally as he’d placed it. All four of us got in.

  The June heat was intensified in the close confines of the lift space shared between four bodies. It made my head woozy. As the lift moved down to the basement level car park, I experienced a similar sensation in my stomach to being on a fairground ride. It churned with too much booze.

  ‘What a night,’ Jim began. ‘Marc’s sorted it out for Henri to get his end away, and he’s not done badly with you.’

  Jim poked his finger into my shoulder. I tapped him back. Then I shot an awkward glance at Marc, feeling embarrassed by Jim’s remark. Marc looked at Jim with a grin.

  ‘Do you promise you’re coming to my party? I might be disappointed if you didn’t,’ Marc said, his face beaming at me.

  ‘Seal the deal,’ Jim said.

  I needed no encouragement. The forced proximity of our bodies seemed to enable me to shed regard for usual inhibitions.

  ‘I think I’m just going to give you a French kiss,’ I announced audibly, louder than I’d anticipated.

  Marc’s eyes almost sprang out of his head. It didn’t deter me. Tiptoeing up to him, I pressed my lips together and planted a fat kiss on each cheek. Instantly, this was met with a woooooo sound from the other two, and a loud clap. Then Jim went one step further and raised his index finger in an upright direction, attempting to show… well, it was obvious.

  ‘There’s your promise,’ I said.

  The lift arrived and before Marc stepped out he said, ‘Wait. I don’t ’ave your number.’

  ‘I might e
mail you,’ I replied.

  Pushing the button for the second-floor bedrooms, as the doors began to close, I waved goodbye, knowing I had every intention of following up. Stepping out of the lift, Jim and I had a customary hug before strolling to our rooms.

  Flinging myself onto my bed, I scoffed the half-eaten chocolate I’d left there earlier. Alcohol always gave me the munchies, and the monkey nuts hadn’t plugged a gap. Lying back on the bed and studying the bar receipt containing Marc’s details in my hand, I grinned and felt awesome.

  The kiss had been classy, considering. There hadn’t been time to worry about accidentally dribbling or fumigating beer breath. Perhaps I’d have ravaged him if we’d been alone with a full-on tongues Frenchie washing-machine style, although I doubted I’d have had the nerve.

  I grappled in my bag for my mobile and composed a text:

  Amazin nite Ems. Just kissed a frog. Giv u the goss l8r obvs.

  I’d dissect the finer details with Emma at home.

  Pizza, Parties and Plans

  I put the key in the lock and the door swung open, almost taking me with it.

  ‘Oh my God, oh my God. So, what happened?’ Emma said, simultaneously stuffing her face with pizza and forcing words out of her mouth.

  ‘I’ll tell you all about it,’ I said.

  I straightened myself up, after having nearly fallen into the porch. The speed of the door being swung open so unexpectedly fast had almost caused me to topple over. She’d obviously heard my car pull up onto our drive.

  ‘Wine first and I’m starvin’. Any of that pizza left?’ I asked.

  She handed me the remainder of hers. But seeing the bite marks and imprint of teeth left in the cheese made me change my mind.