From my brain to this blog part 3

The post is the final part of the creative exercise, started and hosted by Brooke Bluestocking Guide. The first part you can find clicking here and the second - here. Feel free to comment and have fun!


That’s what happens when you follow your heart...

I started looking for jobs which didn’t require a full day’s work. There were plenty of them available for a willing person and soon enough I was very busy earning money for my dream shoes. I babysat in the evenings for a week, I cleaned some flats for elderly people, then I filled in for a friend at McDonalds and I wrote several French homework short stories meanwhile. It was ok although I was always tired. If only it was equally profitable…As you might guess I earned little and managed to save even less. Carrying on like that it would take me probably a year to amass the sum I deemed necessary for my happiness. I had less than a month. I got desperate. It was high time I spoke with my rich friend, Greta. I hated to admit it but she was my last chance.

Greta was very short, very slim and rather attractive. With an owner of several wholesale shoes and clothing companies for a mother and a bank manager for a father she could certainly afford it. Her hair was always professionally cut and dyed, her teeth – even and whitened to the extreme, her nails manicured and varnished, her clothes - of the latest fashion and the highest quality. She drove a red Volkswagen Polo which added greatly to her charms. Fortunately Greta didn’t like studying much; that’s why from time to time she needed a poor, scruffy nerd - in other words yours truly - to make her head less muddled up. So far I hadn’t asked her to pay me for bouts of private tutoring because I profited from them as well. As a result, she always gave me a peck on the cheek when seeing me in public and generally was rather nice around me although normally she would give everybody short shrift, especially her female friends.

I arranged a meeting in a café and as soon as Greta arrived I asked her for a favour.

“What kind of favour?” she inquired in her low husky voice

“I need money,” I blurted out. “Would you mind lending me some?”

I didn’t have time for beating around the bush. In half an hour I was expected to clean a flat and then I had some classes to attend. My direct-and-almost-honest strategy seemed to be working, though.

“What for?” asked Greta, also without a preamble, but I saw the curiosity sparkling in her large, perfectly made-up gray-blue eyes.

Live wire. Proceed with caution.

“You know I’ve met someone recently and now I want to go to Paris with him. Such a perfect thing, spring in Paris. I can’t ask my parents because they would never allow me to go there.   I will pay you back, you know I will.”

Her knowledge was even fuller than that: she knew I spoke French tolerably well (as we both attended the same French classes) and she knew I always wanted to visit Paris. So far so good. I added a bogus boyfriend because I knew she enjoyed reading those tacky Harlequin romances and watching equally cheesy soap operas. One thing I didn’t know, though.

“Oh, how awful. I am very sorry, sweetie, I can’t give you a loan. How much money do you need by the way?”

Stunned, I wrote the sum on the napkin. Hope does die the last.

 “That much? Dear me, that’s a lot. I would love to help you, I really would, but I can’t. I set up my own company last month and what with all these taxes and premiums to pay I am close to broke. I’m sorry, it seems your little trip must wait but surely there’s luck in leisure, isn’t it?”

I didn’t expect that and I was shocked. Greta sipped her coffee with a small satisfied smirk on her face. It made me think she was pulling my leg as much as I was pulling hers. A tug-of-war. Great. Anyway I knew I lost the last chance of buying my dream shoes and it left a bad taste in my mouth. With tears in my eyes I paid for the coffee, declining Greta’s generous offer to foot the bill, excused myself and left. She made the right noises (I almost heard her thinking that she might still need my services in the future) but I knew something was off. In that moment I hardly wanted to find out what. The most important thing was that I lost. I could kiss my shoes good-bye.

I would dwell on my misery longer if only I had more time. The examination session approached – I had to put my nose to the grindstone in order to get high marks and secure my living for the next semester. I managed to do that again and, almost happy, I decided to let my hair down a bit. Some of my friends were going to a popular club and I joined them. When my eyes accommodated to semi-darkness I recognized a short, slim figure wobbling rather clumsily on a dancing platform in the middle of the club. It was Greta. I noticed she was a bit higher than her usual self. Wearing incredible high-heels. I didn’t need the strobe light, pulsating from time to time above her head, to guess what kind of shoes they were - cherry-red and expensive.

I wanted to go out and howl with rage to the moon, I wanted to strangle Greta with my bare hands and drink her blood. I move away from her as far as possible (so directly to the bar) and ordered a beer to occupy my shaky hands. The evening turned out to be a complete failure. I declined any dance offers that came along not even bothering myself with looking at the offering guys. My friends, seeing the sudden change in my mood, tried to engage me in a chit-chat. I wasn’t responsive enough so they moved away from me. I could hardly blame them - they came there to have fun, not to cry over red shoes. I finished the ordered beer and was almost leaving when I heard a muffled shriek and saw a commotion on the platform. People were leaving it in a hurry as somebody was lying next to it on the floor, swearing profusely. The DJ stopped music and then I recognized that voice. Greta. I came nearer, intrigued. She was clutching her leg and her face was streaked with tears. A tall man next to her was very busy dialing a number. Calling an ambulance. I went outside with others but decided to wait a bit longer to see the end of the story. Paramedics arrived after a while and Greta was stretchered off, one of her red shoes positioned squarely on her chest. People gaped at her and commented; listening to them I found out that she was pushed and fell off the dancing platform, breaking the heel of one of these incredible stilettos and probably her leg as well.

The rumours proved to be quite correct. Greta spent four days in hospital and then her leg was in plaster for a month, undoubtedly ruining her holiday. I’ve never asked whether she knew about my shoes and how come she bought the same pair I wanted so badly but I guess her mother must have known the manager of the shoe shop I had negotiated with. All these business people gossip a lot. Anyway my brief fling with posh stilettos taught me a lot about the responsibility and earning a living - not easy tasks, both of them.