The Best Kept Secret In Normandy

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

THE BEST KEPT SECRET IN
NORMANDY

* * *

"So how long has it been?" Tammy said as she took a tequila gimlet from the flight attendant's perfectly manicured hand. "Since..." She raised her eyebrows suggestively.

"Oh,
let's see. Last one told me to get off of him because I was too heavy. Then he limped out of my bedroom and I never saw him again. That was about five years and twenty five pounds ago." I sipped a glass of red wine, and adjusted a foam pillow behind my head. "How about you?"

She
glanced at her watch. "About forty five minutes ago."

"What!"

"Uh-huh. While you were asleep."

"With
who?" I waved my fingers in the air. "Your handyman? The one with the spirit fingers?"

"The
guy in the second to last row. The Pierce Brosnan look alike."

I
peered over my aisle seat, and sure enough, a dead ringer for Pierce Brosnan stared back at me, twirling a Mont Blanc pen between his fingers. Tammy peered over the top of her seat and gave him a wide, red lipped toothy grin. He smiled back, inhaling as if he were trying to breathe in the scent of her. He brought his hand to his mouth and blew her a kiss. She ducked back into her seat, flipping her hair over one shoulder.

"Nice,"
I said. "I'd call you a tramp but I wish I was one too. Which lavatory?"

"The
one on the left."

"I'll
be sure to use the one on the right. You need a moist towelette?" I threw a handi-wipe into her lap.

"Oh,
stop it," she giggled. "I'm single, and I'm going to make the most of my twenties. Or what's left of them. In two days, I'll turn the dirty thirty in old Par-ee, and you bet I'm going to make as many good memories out of this past decade that I possibly can. The flight attendant's cute too, isn't he?"

"Shouldn't
you shower first?"

"I'm
not going to seduce him," she said, slapping me on the elbow lightly and feigning shock. "I'm just saying he's cute. You should talk to him."

"And
say what? Plus de steak s'il vous plaît? Got an extra steak back there?"

Tammy
rolled her eyes and shook her head. "You are way too hard on yourself."

"You
mean way too soft," I snickered, gripping the belly roll under my blouse. "Looks aren't everything. Ask him if he lives in Paris. Or tell him he looks familiar, has he worked for another airline before? Make something up, for chrissake. Ask him what the craziest passenger's done during his shift."

"Sure.
Then I'll tell him how last week I helped pull a needle out of some poor construction worker's eye during my shift at the ER. How it made me so ill I spent ten dollars for snacks from the vending machine. That's my life, Tammy. You get to meet gorgeous people and try free products and get treatments, and I deal with sick babies and shot up adults."

"That's why you make the big bucks," Tammy sang.
"Would you just go and talk to him? Flirt a little. Keep the conversation light."

The
flight attendant in question glanced up from his conversation in the refreshment station with the rest of the attendants staffing the first class cabin. He glanced at me and Tammy, before looking up again and meeting my eyes. He was bald, but handsome in an Ed Harris sort of way. Striking blue eyes and a nice broad physique. Some say there are a lot of cute guys out there who are "chubby chasers" but I'll be damned if I'd ever met one. I lifted up the paperback novel I was reading to cover my face.

"You've got more game than you let yourself believe, Ceci. If you quit being down on yourself, you'd be surprised what could happen." She shook her head and pulled the shades she had received in a complimentary night case emblazoned with the airline's logo. Her unzipped purse lay slouched over at her feet, filled with a bottle of personal lubricant and flat colorfully wrapped objects that weren't candy. I picked one up off the floor next to my feet. Slick Slip for Fussy Ladies. The package was empty and the wrapper was sticky with goo.

"Ugh!" I groaned I dropped the wrapper to the ground. Tammy snored softly in response.

The cabin lights dimmed and voices quieted as passengers fell asleep. I rose from my seat to use the lavatory, glancing back at Pierce Brosnan's stand in. His eyes were fixated on the stomach that protruded out from my slacks. I pulled my shirt down to cover up. A look of disgust crossed his face before he replaced it with a pleasant nod.

The male flight attendant smiled at me as I approached the restroom. "Excuse me, please," I said. I emerged a minute or two later and he offered me a glass of champagne. "Thank you." I raised my glass to him.

His French accent was thick. "If I were not on duty, I would raise a glass to you. Celebrating a special occasion, oui?"

"
My friend's birthday." I gestured to Tammy. Even in sleep, with her mouth wide open and her head bent to the side, she was beautiful in an exotic, earthy way. Men were always attracted to her and she had her choice of suitors. She never noticed when anyone looked at her as she had drawn admiring eyes to her since the age of seventeen.

No
one would have guessed that when we first met in middle school, she was a pudgy duckling with braces and cheap plastic framed glasses. She had blossomed into a beauty, and after years of hard drinking, an occasional cigarette, and dozens of transient relationships, she still looked beautiful. Her skin shone like gold, and her smile could make someone forget who they were for a minute. I had the same feeling at certain times, when she shone her grin upon me, and I was pretty sure at this point in my life I was not a lesbian. At times I wondered what it would feel like to kiss her, but the thought of the action itself was so repugnant I squelched it as soon as it entered my mind. And this was for every woman, not just Tammy. Great. I'm on a plane with a poor man's Pierce Brosnan, Jennifer Lopez aka Tamara Lee, and Ed Harris. I'm typecast as John Candy.

"We plan to shop," I said after I took a sip of my champagne. The beverage was ice cold and sweet. The pre-dinner cocktails and wine had me feeling very relaxed. "Do you know of any good stores in Paris?"

"
Louis Vuitton, Hermes, Chanel, Gaultier. Try the Golden Triangle. On the Right Bank of the Champs D'Elysess," he said. A lovely attendant with long, sleek blonde hair and her uniform cap tilted perfectly on her head behind him snickered.

"Elle est trop grosse pour couture," she whispered in his ear. I translated the words too big for couture and knew who she was referring to.

"I
suppose I should ask you where I can find clothes for big women," I said as I handed him the empty champagne glass.

"Let me think," he responded, as he waved his finger in the air. "I will come to you and let you know where to go."

As
I made my way back to my seat, the blonde flight attendant cackled. "Tell her to go to the gymnasium," she laughed. My ears burned.

I squeezed into the wide first class seat. Reaching into Tammy's purse, I withdrew a heart shaped mirror and stared at my reflection. I barely recognized the woman staring back at me.

At some point in our lives, I think we remember ourselves when we were at our best, whether it be when we were the youngest or the thinnest. When we like ourselves, the feeling imprints in our mind. For better or worse. The woman staring back at me was a creature I didn't recognize. A creature with a hormonal problem that made her gain 65 pounds since that time she could look in the mirror and say she really liked how she looked. My blue eyes gazed back at me, with long, curly dark brown lashes, and my milky white skin shone soft and almost flawless. The rest of me was drowned in layers of fat.

When the weight gain first began, I blamed stores which changed their stock to appease anorexic pop culture junkies. Then I blamed was the clothing dryer, which I was certain was a mechanism in a conspiracy by some evil electronics manufacturer to shrink my clothes. My mother told me gaining weight happened naturally by simply getting older. By the time I sought help for my thyroid problem, my jeans actually ripped open at the seam when I sat down for dinner at the kitchen table in my apartment. Even the medication couldn't reverse the damage. I flipped the mirror shut, laid my head back, and tried to sleep.

I
woke up to a tap on my shoulder. It was the male flight attendant also known as Ed Harris. "Miss, I apologize for the rudeness of my co-worker. She is...how do you say...one who has no experience with troubled life."

"Lucky her," I murmured.

"I, too, know what it is like to be in pain. The type of pain that never shows, lest you look in the eyes of one who shares such a feeling." He handed me a slip of paper. "Go to this address in Normandy, and ask for Madame Noir. She will find something that fits you."

"It's
all right," I said. "Please. I heard what your co-worker said, and I don't want to be the butt of any more jokes. My butt's big enough." I laughed at my self-deprecating humor. He stared at me with kind eyes.

"I
urge you to try. She will find you something that fits. Something that will change your life."

"I
doubt an item of clothing can do that, but thanks anyway." I slipped the piece of paper with the address into my handbag.

"Tell her Jacques sent you. Jacques of Chesley. May I get you anything else?"

T
he seat belt sign illuminated with the sound of a high pitched ring. The pilot's nasally voice rang out over the speakers, notifying the cabin in both French and English that the plane would be landing at Charles DeGaulle airport in twenty minutes. Jacques patted my hand. He turned and made his way to the front of the plane.

Tammy
groped at my arm. "Robert? Paolo? Who's there?" she said in a drowsy voice. She removed her nightshades. "Oh, sorry honey. Do you want a piece of gum? Damn. This lube spilled all over my purse!"

*
* *

The
customs agent in a brightly lit airport stall handled Tammy's passport gingerly after she explained the source of the sticky substance. The currency exchange agent pursed her lips in absolute disgust as she took Tammy's slimy cash and counted out Euro dollars, and the taxi driver who brought us to our hotel on the Left Bank seemed so turned on by the story he could barely stop staring at Tammy in his rearview mirror.

Tammy's
high heeled boot clad foot pounded on the pavement to announce her arrival as the taxi driver opened the car door. She straightened her scarf after she emerged from the car, pulling a beret from the front pocket of her suitcase, and positioning the hat on her head. With a loud clacking noises of her heels upon marble, she strode into the Hotel St. Angeline in short shorts and thick black tights as if she owned the place. I waddled after her, my nose bright red from the chilly air.

The
lobby of the hotel was decorated with thousands of Christmas lights in pristine clear bulbs, and the check in counter was lined with boughs of evergreen exuding their heady holiday scent. After we received our room keys, Tammy and I ogled at the decor together, turning round and round in circles as we made our way to the elevator.

A
handsome man with broad shoulders and chiseled cheekbones stopped in front of us. "Attente," he said. He pointed upwards. "We are under the mistletoe." Sure enough, a sprig of mistletoe hung on the curved awning above our heads. He leaned in towards Tammy and gave her a kiss on the cheek. She giggled as we walked away.