‘It’s six o’clock already.’ Rain drips from the points of her umbrella as Jasmine checks her watch and tries to move faster through the Friday evening crowd.
Despite the weather, her mouth turns up at the corners. She does a little skip over the next puddle, dreaming about her coming flight and Brendon’s plans for their weekend in Paris. His emails were necessarily brief and vague, sent from his computer at work to the computer at the boutique where she sells high fashion garments to wealthy women living and working in the West End.
Never mind the lack of specific directions, he’ll be at Orly Airport to meet me, she re-assures herself while jostling with the other sardine shufflers making their way through Knightsbridge Underground Station. She squeezes into the carriage and manages to claim a small section of rail to hang onto.
‘You’ll catch your death love.’ The elderly woman sitting in front of her, points to Jasmine’s soggy boots.
Jasmine looks down at the brown suede boots which she had bought to wear on the flight.
‘I’m okay. Thanks.’ She turns away, suppressing a grin. Well, I’m sure Brendon will love my underwear. She sees herself taking off her coat, jumper and skirt. A shiver ripples up her spine as she imagines Brendon slowly removing the black stockings and suspender belt, the lacy French knickers and the deliciously naughty new bra which she discovered in her lunch break.
Her father is standing in the front hall when she arrives home. He rattles keys and breaths heavily while his daughter flings wet clothes over a chair in her bedroom, wriggles into the extravagant new underwear and covers it with a smart, woollen suit, giggling to herself as she remembers the story she has told her parents.
‘It’s for business Mum. Martina, the lady who owns the boutique where I work, wants me to study layouts and stock in the fashion houses along Boulevard St Germain.’
Well, I guess I’ll take advantage of the trip, stroll along the fashionable streets of Paris. Jasmine’s breath comes in short bursts as she imagines herself waltzing along arm in arm with the charming, witty, black haired Irishman.
Some of her earlier imaginings have not quite worked out as she wished. At sixteen, being blessed with long blond hair, a size six body and perfectly proportioned, long legs, she had assumed that the modelling school she attended would launch her into a brilliant, easy career. Three months later, poorer and wiser, she started working for Martina as a sales assistant.
‘We all make mistakes,’ she tells herself, dismissing the possibility of anything but bliss awaiting her in Paris.
She turns her attention to the suitcase which has been partly packed for several days. Opening it on her bed, she finds a surprise gift from her mother. A pair of brown leather gloves rest on top of the sensible, business apparel that would be required for a real business trip.
‘Whew! Mum would be very suspicious if she saw this little number.’ Reverently, Jasmine lifts the nightgown, which consists of a few bits of lace held together with tiny ribbons, from its hiding place amongst the track suits on the bottom shelf of her wardrobe. She places her secret purchase in the middle of the case, then throws in two casual jumpers, a pair of jeans and a pretty shawl that will soften her plain clothes when Brendon takes her out to dinner.
‘Okay, Dad. I’m ready.’
‘Don’t you want something to eat?’ Mum calls from the kitchen.
‘Too late,’ her father replies for both of them.
Heathrow is chaotic as usual but the flight is only delayed for thirty minutes. Once airborne, Jasmine tries to calm the fluttering in her stomach by looking at the fashion magazines which Martina gave her. Next to her, an elderly couple prattle on, excitedly.
‘This is our first trip abroad,’ the man proclaims to anyone who will listen. ‘All paid for by our son.’
‘Do you have children, dear?’ The woman accosts one of the hostesses who seem practiced at dealing with frightened passengers.
‘No, but I’m sure you will have a wonderful time in France,’ she says. ‘Dinner will be served soon and we’ll get you a nice wine to go with it. Must get used to the French way,’ she adds with a little laugh, seeing the surprised expression on the old woman’s face.
Dinner, served in foam packages, looks inedible. Jasmine knows that Brendon will meet her at Orly Airport but, even allowing for French late-night eating habits, she thinks that finding a meal might be difficult. She picks at the wilted lettuce and swallows a few lumps of gravy-covered, greyish meat. The hostess gives Jasmine an apologetic smile while taking her order for a small bottle of white wine.
Trays are whisked away and the captain announces that during the descent the ride might get bumpy. Passengers and crew are advised to stay seated with belts firmly fastened.
The old lady’s dinner comes up first. With staff stuck in their seats, Jasmine attempts to help, pointing to the bags provided for such emergencies. The woman is distraught, crying and trying to cover the mess with the scarf she had wrapped around her neck. In coming to his wife’s assistance, the man starts to heave. The passenger on the other side of the aisle shoves a bag at him.
As the smell of vomit wafts around the cabin, stirring up her stomach more than the undulating aircraft, Jasmine tries to concentrate on Paris and the wonderful time she will have with Brendon.
She wishes there was something other than wine and a few stringy bits of meat in her stomach. Forcing their way out, they burn her throat and cause her to continue gagging when there’s nothing left but a gripping pain in the pit of her stomach.
‘Sorry about that. Rather more turbulence than we anticipated.’ The captain’s voice sounds cheery, as though he is apologising for a patch of rain at a tennis match. ‘We’ll soon be out of here and have you on the ground in about fifteen minutes. For your safety, please stay in your seats until the fasten seat belt sign is extinguished.’
The elderly couple are looking like five year olds who have wet their pants. Most of the other passengers sitting near them wriggle their noses or turn their heads away, obviously trying to not inhale the polluted air. Jasmine feels a bit sorry for the oldies, but a lot more sorry for herself.
How can she meet the gorgeous young man with whom she hopes to lose her virginity, when she stinks of puke and her mouth tastes like a two day old rubbish collection. Not that she has ever tasted two day old rubbish, but that is the image which pops into her head as she sits, forlornly holding her offensive bag.
Eventually, the plane lands. Passengers and crew disembark and Jasmine heads for the nearest toilet. The sign ‘Femmes,’ reminds her that she’s in Paris; excitement returns.
‘If only I packed a toilet bag in my carry-on luggage,’ she mutters to her reflection in the mirror. ‘How can I return Brendon’s kiss with this ghastly taste in my mouth?’
She presses down on the liquid soap dispenser. A desperate solution, especially as she can’t know who or what has been in contact with it before her, but that is a risk she must take.
‘It will be worth it,’ she tells herself, gagging on the sticky pink liquid.