The driver opened the door, and the smell of aviation fuel flooded into the limo. With practiced ease she swivelled her legs on the leather seat to get out. As she did so, the skirt of the pale cream Chanel suit rode up just a fraction, and she smiled inwardly as the driver caught a glimpse of her stocking tops through the slit at the side of the skirt. She could have prevented it of course, but she loved the feeling of power. Men are so easily manipulated. A flash of thigh or a hint of cleavage and they lose all sense of proportion. Well, most men did anyway. But in her profession (or was it professions?) you get to know the little tricks that will grab the attention of even the most reluctant man.
Sara thanked the driver who summoned a porter to take her luggage. The doors slid open and she flicked the Ray Bans so they perched like a tiara on the top of her head. With a few confident, measured strides, her four inch heels (Gucci, matching cream of course) clicking out a steady rhythm on the shiny floor, she made a bee line for the first class passenger check-in.
The male check-in attendant was practically salivating by the time she crossed the 20 meters from the door to his desk. His female colleague at the next desk also had a few thoughts she'd rather not reveal to her boyfriend.
"Sara Devonshire, for Riyadh."
The attendant smiled, asked for her passport and as he typed in the name a red alert came up on his screen. She was flagged as a priority passenger – he probably saw this kind of alert once a week. She was clearly a very important passenger. With only a couple of sideways glances at her cleavage, he unconsciously licked his lips and allocated her the seat she requested. He knew she was way out of his league – almost certainly connected to the royal family, or some very senior politician, maybe a high class professional hooker one of the Royal Family had in tow.
Sara registered the licked lips, but she knew she had him before that – maybe it was the stalks his eyes were attached to, or the three furtive glances he had made at her breasts. After the second one she decided to give him a little reward, and leaned forward slightly. God, men really are so easy to influence!
Her priority passenger status saw she was whisked through immigration and passport control. The rather unkempt looking immigration officer had taken a few seconds to study her passport and compare the photograph to the spectacularly good looking woman in front of him. For him, this was a pleasant change from the steady stream of drab business men, or former rock stars that normally filed past him in this channel. Her blonde hair rolled lazily down her cheeks in gentle waves, and rested effortlessly on her shoulder. Her cool, blue eyes and her lips, which were glossed to match her outfit, both had the merest hint of a smile. Her passport said 1.59 metres, though because of the heels she looked taller. She was just starting to get impatient, and about to use one of her techniques to speed him up a bit, when he smiled, handed the well used passport back, and wished her a pleasant trip. She in turn smiled and nodded her head, and as she did so, there was a flash of gold and diamond earring from within the blonde waves of hair. As she walked away from him she left behind the intoxicating fragrance of her expensive perfume.
There are times when it's cool to be late, and times when it's cool to be early. International air travel definitely fits into the latter category. It's very hard to look stylish and dignified if you're scrabbling around trying to wave a passport at someone while dashing to the gate with your hand baggage falling apart behind you. In the First Class Passenger lounge she had time to relax, read (she had brought Vogue, The New Scientist and the FT), and watch people, which as a psychology graduate, is what she really enjoyed.
Passenger Lounges were always a good place for people watching. And Sara loved people watching! Besides, in her profession, it's also quite important. Over there is a woman who is desperately trying to look cool, calm and collected but in reality is scared shitless at the prospect of the journey she's about to undertake. Her medium length dark hair is getting increasingly unkempt, and she has enough pills in front of her to open a pharmacy. Of course, Sara knew that most people who fear flying are actually control freaks, and their fear comes from not being in control.
And there, in the corner is a businessman and his secretary. Well, let's face it, you don't have to be a rocket scientist to read that body language. From the travel guide she's looking at they are off to Singapore – conference no doubt. Aha, just a hint of a touch there. Whoa, just look at that eye contact; they aren't even going to make it to the hotel! The mile high club looks like it's got a couple of potential members there.
Oh and look at him, poor bloke, frantically sweating over his presentation. Now he's on the phone for last minute figures for his proposal. Funny, there's another guy in the same position – making last minute changes for a big deal or a proposal. But he's just the opposite. Same frantic activity, but he loves it, being on the edge - because secretly he knows he's got it all under control.
By the time she'd got back to Vogue she had summed up half the passengers in the lounge. She needed to decide on the dress for the BAFTA award ceremony that Richard would be taking her to next week. She liked Richard. In fact, she liked most of her regulars – nothing kinky with Richard, not that that was a problem – but he was considerate, always paid her well, and never baulked at the price of her clothes. And at the end of the day, he knew it was just business, and that he was just another name in her book. But the reason she was so good at her job, and was paid so well, was because she knew how to make men not think about that when they were with her.
