Prologue
I find travelling stressful. No matter how many times I have to catch a plane, I can't get used to the routine. All that crap about getting to the airport on time: Do I get there two hours in advance, like it says, or just saunter in at the last minute? What time of year is it? Will there be queues of deeply unattractive British holiday-makers clogging up X-ray machines? Where do you put the tickets? Or boarding pass? Passport? Get them out, put them away, stand up, sit down, stand up again, take your socks off, this toothpaste is too big.
Just thinking about it, makes me want to detonate my shoe.
However, this is a flight to France. And waiting in the departure lounge, for the call to board, a strange thing happens to me. Hearing French accents, and seeing very attractive French women, dressed in their perfectly sensible way, is enough to put me in a completely altered mood.
On a seat across from me is a young, tousle-haired version of Juliet Binoche. She’s probably only nineteen or twenty but is quietly observing her fellow travellers, until she sees me, and looks down. With her head bowed, I think she’s trying to observe me through her fringe, like a cheeky schoolgirl. I look away, in case she is a cheeky schoolgirl.
We are called to board the flight, and pass through the corridors, down the steps and out to the plane. I find my seat, and with my winter coat on, it's pretty cramped and uncomfortable. Added to that, I've been putting off a shoulder problem for months, and carrying luggage has exascerbated it to the point where I realise I should have had it treated weeks ago.
The cabin is warm and stuffy, and seated with my coat on, I realise I am going to have to manoeuvre myself back into the narrow isle, and put my coat in the overhead locker. Awkwardly, I lean forward in my cramped chair, to make enough room to get my coat off.
Unfortunately, my painful shoulder-blade doesn't allow me the flexibility, and in the ensuing struggle, I accidentally elbow the woman next to me, in the tits.
Scene: Aeroplane cabin, somewhere over England. Trajectory: Southern France. Turbulence: Minimal. Visibility: Good.
‘Oh, my god - did I hit you?’
‘What? Oh, non. T’s okay.’
A minute earlier, she’d already stood up to place a bag up there for me. As you can hear, she’s French, and thirty-ish at the most. Short, light brown hair. Looks kind of like an older version of Emma Watson from Harry Potter. And no, I do not mean the grown-up version of Emma Watson as we see her on the red carpet now. I mean a grown-up version of the old Emma Watson. Fuck it, you know what I mean.
‘I didn't realise the plane would be this small,’ I said, turning to her and trying to calculate if I did make contact with her breast. ‘I suppose it’s a small, business flight?’
‘Yes, I think it so. A business flight.’
‘Are you a native of Lyon?’
‘Non. Grenoble.’ She draws a map in the air with her finger: ‘It iz slightly to ze side, and down.’
She shrugs, and makes a lot hand-gestures and facial expressions. It’s been a couple of years since I was on the Continent, and I forgot how much hand-gesturing is involved. It’s actually very charming. She’s probably doing it to help me understand, because the British always have a problem with accents – even their own. She has just been to Birmingham after all, where most people - especially the men - still communicate via enzymes.
‘Grenoble? What's it like there?’ I ask. ‘I love France - Lyon is one of my favourite cities.’
‘Ooh, it iz mutts nice-aire zan Lyon. It has ze fresh ayre, and ze montayns. I prefair living zair, to ze cities.’
Okay, I'm dispensing with the accent at this point - you can add it yourselves.
‘What do you do there?’ I ask.
‘What do I do?’
‘Oui - what's your job?’ - The first opportunity I get, I start speaking French. Goes down well with the locals.
‘Oh, I am a PA.’
‘For what?’
‘An engineering company.’
‘Do you need to know engineering to do that?’
‘Oh, non. Not at all.’
‘Do you like it?’
‘Oui, I love my job. I have two great bosses. But - ’
- Here we go, folks, get this -
‘-I really want to live in England.’
‘What? You're kidding? - Why?!’
‘I like ze people. They’re so friendly.’
‘You’re joking. They’re bloody awful.’
‘Why?’
‘Too fat, too vulgar, too many tattoos.’
‘But that is what is good about England. It is okay to express yourself there. Nobody cares. In France, unless you look a certain way, people judge you. The French are too judgmental.’
‘I never thought about the English like that. Maybe you’re right.’
‘Anyway,’ she says, ‘I have a tattoo.’
‘Really? Where?’ This could be good.
‘ - It is very discrete.’
At this point, you can imagine my train of thought. I go -
‘Show it to me.’
‘Non.’
I'm searching her body for any signs of ink: ‘Tell me where it is.’
‘Haha,’ she says, ‘you will not find it.’
‘Tell me!’
‘It is on my leg. What is that plant that creeps up a house, and has little feet that stick to the wall?’
‘Ivy?’
‘Oui. This is how I am, when I get a man, I hang on and never let go.’ She wiggles her fingers at me, a clawing gesture, right in my face.
It’s funny, and I laugh. She then indicates her ankle.
‘And I also have a butterfly there. It is a symbol of Guadeloupe, where my family lives.’
‘Guadeloupe? Isn't that in South America?’
‘It is in ze Carib.’
‘Is that their holiday home?’
‘Non, they live there.’
‘Wow, what do your family do there?’
‘My dad, he makes those - how you say? - those things you pull down on windows?’
‘Blinds?’
‘Oui.’
‘Does he export?’
‘Non, he just sells to people on the island.’
‘How come you don’t live there?’
‘I don’t like the people. The Men. I thought I might like an English boyfriend...if I ever get another boyfriend.’
‘If you ever get one? How long have you not had a boyfriend?’
‘Two years.’
‘Good grief! Why is that? What’s wrong with you?’
‘I am a strong, sex-ee woman. Men don’t like that. I am sex-ee, non? Look at me!’
She’s gesturing for me to look at her body: ‘Completely sex-ee!’
The sibilance of the word sexee is easily audible over the loud drone of the plane. People are starting to listen in, because they can tell we only met five minutes ago.
‘Sexee!’, she shouts, and then makes herself comfortable in her seat, satisfied that she has pointed out something so obvious. Maybe it is.
‘Men are weak, feeble,’ she continues, and once again motions for me to admire her figure. ‘Zey cannot handle zis.’
Frankly, I'm not surprised.
‘Okay, so come on, how come you haven't had a boyfriend for two years? You’re an attractive woman..?’
‘My last boyfriend cheated on me. He had a girlfriend the whole time.’
‘Bastard!’
‘Ah, oui. I even found were he lives, and went there to give him back some things. His woman was there.’
‘Did you say anything?’
‘Non.’ She waved away the notion dismissively. ‘He is my greatest love. We are still friends. I have nothing against him.’ She shrugs.
‘Really?’
‘Oui. Besides, ‘e is dying.’
‘Dying?! - Of what?’
‘Oui. How you say? - Arterio - ?’
‘ - Arterio sclerosis?’
‘Oui.’
‘Is he fat?’
‘Non. It is a condition.’
I decide to get off the subject. ‘So, were you in Birmingham for business, or - ?’
‘Non, to see my friend.’
‘What does your friend do?’
‘She’s a student.’
‘Studying what?’
‘English.’
‘Okay. So what did you do in Birmingham?’
‘We went to Mondo’s’.
‘Isn’t that expensive?’
‘Oui.’
‘Any good?’
‘Non.’
‘What else did you do?’
‘Went shopping.’
‘In Birmingham? Why?’
‘I buy the things I cannot get in France. I got a black dress. It’s beautiful, like - ’
She sits up straight in the chair, arches her back, and motions behind her, indicating that the dress is open right down to her arse, - ‘and zen down ze front’ - and she then indicates with both hands a deeply low-cut V-shape to her belly button, and then mimes the subsequent exposed cleavage ( or decolletage, as it’s called ).
I take a few moments to picture it. Believe me, it’s a bloody great dress. ‘Sounds fantastic.’
‘Oui, it is.’ She sits back in the seat, evidently very pleased with her purchase.
At this point, readers, I have to revert to type. I'm sorry, but the guys reading this will understand.
‘Are you on Facebook?’ I ask. ‘I have to see this dress.’
‘Non,’ she says flatly. ‘I am not on Facebook. There’s not enough control. Too much work.’
‘Oh.’ Damn.
‘But I am on MSN.’
‘Oh really? Me too!’
‘Then maybe I show you the dress. If you're good.’
‘Ha. Great. Okayyy... so how long does it take for you to get home after we land?’
‘Maybe two hours.’
‘You get there on the TGV, or local train?’
‘Local.’
‘What will you do today when you get to Grenoble?’ I always want to know how the Europeans manage that seemingly-idyllic lifestyle. They haven’t completely lost the plot, and devolved into waddling, trans-fats-processing mutants, like the English have.
‘I go get my cat. He is staying at my friend’s.’
She’s a cat-woman! I LOVE cats, so I have to ask: ‘What’s your cat’s name?’
It’s a ridiculous, multi-syllabic name so long, that with her hand in the air, she chops it up into roughly five digestible chunks. However, with the noise of the plane, I still don’t catch what she’s saying.
‘..but for short, I call him Bobo,’ she says.
‘Ah.’
‘He’s - how you say? - genetique..?’
‘Er, a pedigree, you mean?’
‘Oui, a pedigree. An English short-hair. He will be so happy to see his mama.’
In the middle of talking about her cat, we notice that the very striking flight attendant, a beautiful black lady with stylish, square glasses, begins the tea-run at the far end of the plane.
In anticipation, my companion flips the table down in front of her, and folds it out, fully extending it. She then inexplicably starts folding it back in, getting it out, folding it back in. I think about the poor guy in front, whose seat she’s rattling as a result. Frankly, I’m annoyed on his behalf. I put my hand on hers, and whisper as best I can, over the droning engines: ‘Please don't do that. You’re shaking the guy’s seat.’
She pauses for a second. I take my hand away.
Then she starts again - !
Jesus Christ.
The subject of beverages, reminds me that, by this point, I am dehydrated, bordering on organ failure. My pre-flight anxiety, as usual, prevented me from taking adequate food or drink, and there is No Way On God’s Earth I’m ever gonna pay airport prices for any kind of sustenance, either on a plane or in an airport. I am a starving artist – literally.
Minutes later, as she hands me the tea, the flight attendant tells me that she found a safe place for the painting that I am to give to my aunt, which is now stashed at the back of the plane. I thank her, and the tea turns out to be pretty good, which is unusual. Normally, aeroplane-tea is bloody horrible.
Moments later, the trolley comes back in the opposite direction, with everybody handing over their empties along the way.
Unfortunately, I realise that I need a second drink, as I am still horribly thirsty. I desperately look up and down the plane for the customary second run of the tea-trolley, but it appears to have been stashed away.
I tell my companion that it simply does not do, to deny an Englishman his second cup.
‘Zen ask for anuzzer one,’ she says, doing the usual Gallic Shrug.
I don’t know what to do. I REALLY need another cup, but now feel like I would only inconvenience the crew if I asked for more. I feel like a blasted airborne Oliver Twist.
After a few minutes of indecision, I give up, and slump back in my seat, defeated. ‘I don't know what’s the matter with me. I normally always ask for more. Something’s disrupted my thought-processes.’
Then I turn to her: ‘It’s you. You’ve done my head in.’
She shrugs again, not even looking at me, in that oh-so-fucking-French way. ‘Just ask for anuzzer. What is ze problemme?’
Even when the beautiful attendant leans over my companion to speak to me directly, I still can’t summon the courage. Instead, the lady hands me a pen and a questionnaire to fill in..!
‘Er, wait,’ I say, ‘- am I the only one doing this..?’
‘No, we choose three people on each flight.’
I look at the paper, and after the tea denial, decide I want to tick all the boxes marked ‘Crap’.
1 ) What do you think of the Air France Crew? [ Crap. ]
2 ) What do you think of the condition of the cabin? [ Crap. ]
3 ) What do you think of air travel in general? [ Crap. ]
My pen is poised to strike, and then the hideous realisation dawns: I brought one of my latest paintings on board - intended as a present for my French Aunty - and handed it to the crew to keep safe during the flight. The bastards have got my painting! The cheeky French swindling bastards have a hostage!
4 ) What do you think of the snacks provided on this flight? [ Superb. They couldn’t be more generous. ]
5 ) What do you think of the flight attendants? [ Gorgeous, can’t get enough. Hope to marry one, in fact. ]
My companion waited for a while in silence, then took out a paperback. I looked over to see what it was, but she had opened it right out, so I couldn’t see the front. After filling a couple more questions, my curiosity gets the better of me, and with my pen, I lift the corner of the front cover to see what exactly she’s reading.
I’m expecting Proust. Sartre. Or at least – please God! – ‘The Sexual Life of Catherine M’.
Instead, it’s – ‘You are kidding me? Sophie Kinsella?!’
‘Oui! You know of her?’
‘‘The Lovesick Shoplifter’?’
The cover is – you guessed it – bright pink with floating hearts and poodles. Or something like that.
‘Why are you reading this?’ I ask.
‘It’s funny, non? Besides, it helps with my English.’
‘Well, I suppose. Loads of women read them in England. I don’t know why. They sound awful.’
‘Oui. Well, I read it because it is funny and romantic. I am a romantic!’
‘Yeah. I bet you are. Okay, so when you’re not working, or reading, or playing with your cat, what do you do in Grenoble?’
‘I walk. I cook.’
This reminds me that I haven’t eaten all day, let alone had a proper drink. I say this to every woman I ever meet: ‘What’s your best meal?’
‘All kinds. My parents are both Italian. Even though I’m French, I’m actually totally Italian. We love to cook.’
‘Oh God…don’t. I love Italian food.’
‘Then maybe I cook for you.’
The attendant returns for the questionnaire, and – oddly – says ‘keep the pen.’ She has a big smile on her face, like it’s a great souvenir or something.
Curious, I study the pen closely. Nothing. No Air France logo, nothing of any interest – it’s just a plain blue and white biro.
Then I get it. I see a sick bag protruding from the pocket of the seat in front of my companion. I reach over, and take it out. The bloody French. Always randy. The flight attendant is one step ahead of me..!
‘As we’re close friends,’ I say, ‘give me your details.’
She takes the bag and the pen, and starts writing. When she’s finished, she goes through every letter and digit with me, to make sure that I clearly understand her handwriting:
‘V-i-r-g-i-n-i-e.’
A typical PA’s attention to admin: You can always block any future correspondence if you change your mind or get cold feet, but with a bouncing email, that’s it – game over.
Then she takes the sick bag from in front of my seat, and hands it to me. ‘Give me your details, too.’
While I write, she tells me that in my inbox, I will see the name Esperanza, and to not be confused by it.
‘That’s beautiful,’ I say. ‘Is that your last name – or a middle name?’
‘Non. It is a name used by both Sicilians and North Italians, like my parents. I use it for my jazz singing.’
‘Woah - you sing?! I love jazz! Do you have any recordings? – You must send me some!’
‘Non, non, non. I just do it for myself.’
‘Please. You have to let me hear you. Send me a disk!’
‘I can’t. It’s just for me. It makes me happy to sing. That’s all.’
‘You don’t do concerts?’
At this point, dear reader, my notes seem to fail me. But I don’t think she did any local gigs, either.
‘What music do you like?’ she asks me.
‘Anything dark and heavy. Heavy metal.’
She pulls a face like a five-year-old, and I laugh. I seem to have been doing a lot of laughing on this flight, and people are still looking around to check where all the noise is coming from.
In the seat directly in front, La Binoche turns around, sees that it’s me, then looks at my companion, and turns back.
I scrutinize the typically-loopy and embossed female scrawl of Virginie's handwriting.
‘From now on,’ I declare, holding up the sick bag, ‘whenever I see one of these, I will think of you.’
She laughs, and retrieves the one with my details. ‘And I will think of you.’
Now it’s her turn to scrutinize my writing. ‘It’s a Greek name,’ I say. ‘I’m half Greek.’
‘I didn’t think you looked English. I thought maybe you were Italian, like me.’
Then it occurs to me - all the hand-gestures: She may sound French, but her mannerisms are pure Italian.
She combs through my writing. On my phone number she’s confused, and after a quick check, she does that horizontal strike-through, that differentiates the sevens from the ones.
The captain announces that we are beginning our descent, and for the first time on the trip, we both stop talking. Being in the window seat, I am mesmerized by the French mountains, and the glorious countryside. France is so huge. I turn to Virginie, and remark at how much space the French have. She nods.
The flight attendant hands me my painting. A cursory feel through the wrapping, and it appears unharmed.
Ten minutes later, we have landed. Being an impatient-type, Virginie stands up in the aisle immediately, and collects her bag from the overhead locker. She gets mine for me too, as I decide to stay in my seat until the doors are opened.
I wonder if she will just disappear off the plane, or if she has to wait at the carousel. I’m already thinking: I’m going to miss her.
‘Avez-vous une baggage?’ I say.
Looking down at me, she raises her eyebrows, impressed.
‘Was that correct?’ I ask.
‘Are you sure you don’t speak French?’
‘No, I don’t. But my aunty says my accent is good.’
‘Oui. It is.’
We file off the plane, and wait for several minutes on the bus parked on the runway, below. I motion for Virginie to hold on to the pole next to me, but she shakes her head. From the way she is standing, I can see she will fall over as soon as the vehicle starts forward. I insist that she holds the pole, but again, refuses.
Two personalities, clashing already. A volatile mix, perhaps?
Sure enough, the bus lurches, and she’s nearly thrown over her luggage. But she grabbed the pole in time, and manages to steady herself.
We disembark into Lyon Saint Exupery Airport, and begin queuing for the passport check. I’m thinking about how much I love France, and how - for some seemingly mystical goddamn reason - I am so fucking horny every time I visit this country.
I feel her hand in the small of my back, and realise it’s my turn to go over to show the guy my passport. A momentary glance, then he hands it back. ‘Merci,’ I say, and walk through into the carousel area.
I can’t even remember what plane I was on, I just keep walking until I realise I’m nearly out of the terminal, so I turn back. I don’t see her anywhere.
Then, over on an empty expanse of shiny floor, I see a silhouetted figure repacking her bags, right by the glass cubicles where they checked the passports.
I walk over to her. ‘Okay?’
‘Oui.’
After the amount of utterly tedious flights I’ve been on, I’m truly grateful for her company, and the irony is of course, that it was merely a short city-hop. What a pity it wasn’t a thrombosis-inducing transatlantic flight: We’d have probably met, flirted, gone for romantic walks, got engaged, had kids...and that’s before we even got as far as Nova Scotia.
I hold out my arms. ‘Come on. Give me a kiss, then.’
We embrace and kiss cheeks, European-style. Worst case scenario, I suppose Virginie could be annoying, petulant, stubborn and arrogant. But also very entertaining, and undoutbedly sexy in a hysterically French way.
‘You’re a very lovely person,’ I say. I can’t think of anything else. I’m talked-out.
‘Au revoir,’ she says.
‘Au revoir.’
She leaves, not looking back. Or at least, I don’t think she did, because I didn’t look either. I was wondering where the hell my luggage was.
Wait, what flight was it again?
.........................................................
Epilogue
Being the romantic soul that I am, I sometimes think back wistfully, to the hour-and-a-half with Virginie, and the first flight that I have truly enjoyed - probably ever.
I imagine that somebody as highly-strung as that would be a nightmare to live with. But of course, she’s French, so they’re allowed. It’s what we English expect. Anyone who’s seen Betty Blue knows that. Why go out with a French woman, if you don’t want to get plates hurled at you, or have stand-up screaming matches in the town square, that only conclude with a single sharp slap across her face in front of three hundred onlookers? Whereupon she would melt into your arms and thank you for bringing her back to her senses?
You can see, I've thought about this a lot.
Last week, I unexpectedly got an email from her. I say ‘unexpectedly’, because I've heard nothing since a couple of how-are-yous? during that week in France.
Subject heading: ‘RIP’.
In the body of text, the word ‘morte’ is repeated several times.
Oh shit.
...And she appears to have copied in about fifty other people. All of them are shown by their full email addresses, except me. I am just...my name.
She’s fucking killed herself. The daft French tart has fucking killed herself, no doubt over some completely trivial romantic entanglement.
Or maybe she hasn’t? Maybe she’s on a bloody bridge right now, in Grenoble, trying to steel herself for the plunge into the icy waters, rocks loaded into the pockets of her winter coat? In her gloved hands, she may even be clutching that sick bag with my name on it.
I look at the list of names at the top of the email. Which ones look like colleagues? Which ones, friends?
There may still be time - !
I Google the Gendarmerie in Grenoble. What do I say? Like I said, my French isn’t that good.
No, who am I kidding? Put this girl out of your head, I tell myself. I have a perfectly lovely girlfriend now, who is more than enough. So what if the French girl is about to kill herself? She’s just a random stranger you met on a flight!
I try to put it out of my mind, but I can’t. My conscience is really bothering me.
Then, I have a great idea - I copy the email, and send it to a French friend on Facebook, explaining the situation, and that I'm worried that the girl was crazy, and finally did herself in.
A day later, my friend replies:
‘It is nothing...
...she is just saying her laptop has died.’
Finis
