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.

From my brain to this blog part 2

The post is following the creative exercise,  started and hosted by Brooke Bluestocking Guide. The first part you can find clicking here. Feel free to comment and join in, writing a short story which begins like this:


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

At that time I studied at a uni and so my income was erratic to say the least of it. I survived mainly on allowances from my parents and a performance grant. Let me explain it a bit - in order to qualify for a performance grant you had to get high scores in all your exams and you was reassessed after every semester. The higher you scored the more money you got – it was thought to be a kind of incentive to study hard and be diligent. My parents encouraged me to try to score as high as possible; after all the money I could get were almost equal to an average salary of a young person working full time. It did make sense; I went to university to study not to work so if I could additionally get paid for it, there it was, a win-win situation, the best that can be.

Only it wasn’t the best for me any longer. I wanted badly my luxury shoes which came with a luxury price tag and I didn’t even qualify for a loan. Who could guarantee whether or not I will be awarded the grant in the next semester? Perhaps a psychic. The shop manager didn’t believe in psychic powers, though; he pondered over my problem for a while and decided that I wasn’t trustworthy and solvent enough. He could only promise that my pair of shoes would be waiting for me two months at the back of the shop: either I manage to earn/steal/beg/wheedle/whatever the necessary sum of money or not. The choice was mine. It was kind of him but not too kind. Apparently I weren’t able to charm him sufficiently well. I must admit charming middle-aged men in shops had never been my strong suit. I wasn’t attractive, I wasn’t pretty, I wasn’t cheeky or funny or dashing. As you see I did need those shoes.

 

I returned to my hall of residence with a bad financial headache. I had some money put aside but not nearly enough to cover one third of the grand total. I could go and ask my parents but it was a loathsome option. I didn’t want them to know about my strange desire which, let’s be honest, bordered with a folly and was hardly sensible. Like most parents, my mom and dad would instantly draw some far-fetched conclusions like: somebody evil (no doubt a boyfriend or even worse, a foreign boyfriend) is touching her for money or she is pregnant and wants to abort or she’s found a foreign boyfriend (the second one) and wants to go with him clandestinely to some barbarian Arabic country (and yes, she will be forced to convert and marry him and she will be abused, beaten and kept imprisoned forever and she will never be allowed to contact us again…you know the drift). The longer I thought about it the less I liked the implications. No parents involved, full stop.

What about friends? I did know one rich student who owed me some favours and would be able to lend me the sum I wanted but still she would also grill me what I needed it for. I didn’t want to tell her about my shoes. She might have played me a dirty trick, buying them and preening herself on wearing them. Oh well, trying didn’t hurt and I didn’t need to be totally honest with her either. It was enough to think up a good cover story.

Finally of course I could look for a part-time job or any odd jobs available around but I was adamant about one thing - my marks and grades at the Uni couldn't suffer as a result. Losing my grant would be very painful indeed so I wasn't prepared to take too great risks.

From my brain to this blog part 1

The post is following the creative exercise,  started and hosted by Brooke Bluestocking Guide. Feel free to comment and join in, writing a short story which begins like this:


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

That’s what happens when you follow your heart: you end up standing in front of a shop window, drooling over the nicest pair of red stilettos you could imagine and knowing fully well you can't afford them. They were cherry-red beauties, made of calf leather in Italy (where else?), and very, very high - about 5 inches or 12 cm if you live across the pond.

The price tag was taken straight from my worst nightmares, though; a four-digit monster starting with 3...let me only tell you that I could have bought 10 (say:ten) pairs of decent, sensible, genuine-leather shoes for such an amount of money. Why love at first sight can't be cheap? I fell head over heels with these ones nonetheless. I couldn't eat, I couldn't sleep. I felt I would be a better, happier person having them on. Without them, my life seemed to be utterly miserable. I had no choice.

I spotted them on a Saturday. Two days later I dressed up for the occasion, put on a bit of make-up and returned to the shop to talk with the assistant and try on the sweethearts. My first date with a pair of shoes. Fortunately you don't have to pay for trying them on. The stilettos were comfortable but painfully high- definitely too high to walk around town or dance or just stand and be bored at functions and such. Not that I go out a lot anyway. Usually I wouldn't even bother looking at them too long - what's the point, after all? You can't wear them - you don't buy'em, as simple as that. Love makes you foolishly blind though, and I was blind enough to ask about any possibility of purchasing one pair on the installment plan. After all for such a sum of money I would be able to get a new laptop or an old car. The assistant was understanding about my inquiry but she had to talk to the shop manager first. I promised to return soon and asked to put aside one pair of the right size. I was sure they might disappear overnight despite the outlandish price - who wouldn't want  a pair of such beauties!