Late afternoon and I was in the car en-route to Gatwick Airport. Same old, same old: I take the Wizz Air flight to Krakow for work at least once each month; out at 8:15pm on a Wednesday evening and back on Friday's 6:00pm flight. Actually not quite the same today, I'd set off an hour or so earlier and picked-up a couple of passengers along the way.
Those passengers were my mother-in-law Kay and her friend C-J. Sorry, but I can't tell you what C-J's actual name is and my wife Helen, despite being C-J's God-daughter, doesn't know it either. I suspect that besides Kay -- they've been friends for more than thirty years -- barely a handful of people in the whole world know.
The ladies weren't coming to Krakow with me, I was just giving them a lift to the airport, where they were going to spend the night in the Bloc Hotel, within the airport itself. They were booked onto a morning flight to Tenerife in the Canary Islands, where they would be spending a month in a villa belonging to one of C-J's ex-husbands; I think the second one?
Having parked-up in the south terminal car park just after six o'clock, I helped Kay and C-J to schlep their luggage over into the queue at the Bloc Hotel's reception desk. Then, and with a sigh of relief, I said my farewells to the two ladies before heading back downstairs to catch the shuttle-train; my flight departed from the north terminal.
I said 'with a sigh of relief' and I meant it, time spent with C-J is exhausting, most especially when Helen's not on hand to... protect me. Not only does Helen's absence encourage C-J to be even more teasing and flirtatious than usual, it seems that Kay then also feels free to join in with the fun too. Yes, I know I'm talking about two ladies of a certain age, but believe me, they can be scary.
Kay and C-J met thirty-odd years ago when they were both working as models. Looking at them even now, you wouldn't find that surprising, both ladies are pencil-slim, attractive, blonde and VERY tall; I've always suspected that C-J's 'blonde' comes out of a bottle, but Helen assures me that Kay's hair colour, like her own, is natural.
When I say the ladies were 'models', I'm not talking Paris fashion week or the cover of Vogue magazine, though neither am I meaning Playboy or Penthouse. Kay and C-J's stock in trade was most often in modelling clothes for mail-order catalogues, prancing around half-naked at sporting events, or draping themselves seductively across the stock at the opening of car dealerships and such.
Kay has more than once asserted that the high-point of her modelling career was: "Standing in the pouring rain, smiling at a TV camera as I held an umbrella over the cockpit of some also-ran's car at the Formula-1 Grand Prix at Silverstone; I was dressed in a bikini-top, hot-pants and black leather thigh boots and was so cold that I thought my nipples might fall off."
Modelling had never been a full time or serious career for Kay, she'd just taken on a few jobs to help pay her way through Warwick University, where Kay had studied History. Nor had Kay's career lasted very long either; it, along with her History degree, came to an abrupt halt when she fell pregnant at nineteen (with Helen) to the owner of one of those car showrooms.
They always struck me as an odd couple; Harry was (he died a couple of years ago) twenty six years older than Kay, bald as a coot and despite his being about six inches shorter than Kay, was at least twice her weight. It must've worked for them though as while there were no further children, they remained married and to my eyes happily so, for thirty years.
For C-J too, the modelling business was a short-term thing; she saw it as her stepping stone to becoming an actress and getting into the movies. C-J got and I believe still holds an equity card, but she never made it to Hollywood, other than perhaps on holiday. From comments that Kay's made and the Googling that I've done, C-J never got more than a bit parts in TV-dramas and few low-budget B-Movies.
To quote the lady herself: "My speciality was getting my tits out. I usually got the part of the girlfriend, or bar-room pick-up, of a leading character, who I'd go to bed with -- tits out. - Then get assaulted -- usually tits out. -- Or maybe murdered -- sometimes tits out -- In which case I'd make one final appearance laid out on the mortuary slab -- invariably tits out and maybe showing a hint of my pubes besides."
While C-J was never very successful in securing acting parts, she was a big hit at snagging husbands: C-J had married three times, with each husband seemingly more wealthy than the last. All three marriages had ended in divorce and despite there never having been any kids, each one had apparently secured a substantial financial settlement for C-J.
What I found especially intriguing, was that despite those pay-offs, some seemingly still ongoing, C-J remained on friendly terms with all three of her ex-husbands and indeed with a couple of their subsequent wives! While Kay was due to fly home in four weeks time, C-J would be staying on for a further week in Tenerife, with Kylie, Max - husband number two's - current wife.
Nowadays Kay is a well respected pillar of her local community, but I've long suspected that she too has, a... history and as mentioned a while ago, when she and C-J are flying in tandem, they can be an incorrigible pair. Something I'd been reminded of once again when I'd arrived at Kay's place to collect them earlier that afternoon:
Kay & C-J must have been watching out for my arrival as they had appeared at the front door lugging suitcases and lots of them, even as I rolled to the stop. Kay was first through the door and dressed exactly as one might expect for travelling: Cream silk blouse, a light sweater draped around her shoulders, tan chinos and low heeled loafers; the whole rig looked well fitted, classy and expensive.
C-J was an entirely different kettle of fish: A gaudy and midriff exposing camisole top, leather skirt which didn't even come close to reaching her knees and high-heeled sandals, of the 'fuck-me' variety. The outfit would've suggested cheap-tart on a girl of twenty, on C-J it screamed middle-aged slut; like her name, C-J's age is a secret too, but I know she's a little older than Kay, so I'd guess at mid-fifties.
Loading their bags into the car fell to me of course; if what C-J wore today was an example of her holiday wardrobe, how in the hell had she managed to fill three suitcases? The ladies meanwhile argued like two kids over seating arrangements: "Dan's my son-in-law, so I should get the front seat."
"Maybe he is, but my legs are so much longer than your stumpy pins darling, so I need the extra leg-room."
"There's barely and inch between our leg lengths, you just want the front seat so that you can flash your legs at Dan and the drivers of every truck that we pass. Then again, I suppose you need to... it takes their attentions away from those mosquito-bite tits of yours."
"My legs are almost two inches longer than yours, as you know damned well! As for my boobs... (C-J took a moment here to squeeze and jiggle said tits) They've caught and held many a man's attention and I've never once received a complaint about them."
"Only thanks to a good plastic surgeon... In fact two plastic surgeons."
"I might've had the odd nip and tuck along the way, but there's no silicone in there, they're all mine and even you couldn't find any scars." At that point C-J gave her tits a second lift and jiggle and I for one certainly wasn't about to complain.
"OK, I stand corrected... Your skinny-tits are courtesy of to two 'expensive' plastic surgeons."
"Cow! They're not that much smaller than your fat udders anyway."
"But they are smaller and by more than that inch your legs exceed mine by. And mine of course are just as God made them... No need for any maintenance; though given all the extra handling your tits have taken over the years, it's perhaps no wonder they've needed re-treading from time to time."
"Oh you bitch! You know it's two inches; my legs haven't shrunk since we last measured them and anyway, your tits will fit in either seat" With that C-J wrenched opened the passenger door, plonked herself into the front seat and snapped on the seat belt.
I'd noticed C-J manoeuvring herself between Kay and that front door while they'd been bickering. The grin and wink that Kay tossed me across the roof of the car suggested that she'd noticed too. No real dispute, with Kay always knowing that she'd be sitting in the back seat; just two old friends enjoying themselves.
Kay had perhaps made one fair point though: when I climbed into the driving seat, I couldn't fail to notice that C-J's leather skirt had ridden-up, or perhaps been adjusted, to show even more of her slim thighs. I never once caught C-J touching her skirt, but as our journey progressed, the one that her skirt was making up her thighs did too.
I don't know if any of the truckers we passed got distracted by the view, but I certainly did. At least that progression answered one question that had been bugging me: I'd spotted straight away that C-J wasn't wearing a bra beneath that camisole top, but before we were half-way to Gatwick, I learnt that she was wearing panties at least; they were pale blue.
The conversation en-route was far more mundane and to be honest most of it just washed over me; with the heavy traffic and C-J's slowly revealing legs sharing my attention I hadn't the spare capacity to listen to their holiday plans. There were several suggestive double-entendres directed to me along the way -- not all of them from C-J -- but those too I chose to ignore.
I realised there was a problem within a minute of reaching the north terminal; the first departures board I saw had my flight highlighted in red, with an instruction to 'Go to Airline Flight Desk'. There was a scrum of people around the desk, but I managed to grab one of the Xeroxed handouts which told me that due to 'technical issues' the flight wouldn't be leaving until 8:15 in the morning.
Rather than joining the crowd demanding that the two girls manning the desk do something about it -- neither one looked like she carried a set of spanners or a spare air plane about her person -- I gave the girls a sympathetic smile, accepted the proffered accommodation and meal vouchers and headed off in search of my bed for the night.
That accommodation voucher I found was for the Bloc Hotel, so it was back onto the shuttle-train to the south terminal. It crossed my mind that I should perhaps phone Kay and invite she and C-J to join me for dinner, but having recalled how exhausting our journey to the airport had been, I decided that with a busy day lined-up for tomorrow, I couldn't spare the energy.
The line at the Bloc Hotel's reception desk was bigger and even rowdier than the one at the flight desk; I was in for a long wait. I quickly gleaned that the hold-up was the proportion of travellers who like myself, were travelling individually; the hotel was out of single rooms and they were trying to pair-up strangers prepared to share a twin room for the night.
