French Kissing & Not Telling

Chapter One: Airport

The sun had only just begun to rise, and Newt was already on her fifth cup of black coffee. My Art teacher Mrs Newton or ‘Newt’ as I preferred to call her was perched unsteadily on a metal stool in ‘Le Rustique’. One of those French themed cafes, there always seemed to be in airports, which serve stale croissants and lukewarm coffee. I flipped through a gossip magazine that was jammed under my hard chair, and skimmed over an article about celebrity plastic surgery, before slumping back into my seat with a sigh. This trip was supposed to be the highlight of my school year, though I was yet to have any fun. Rolling up the glossy mag, into a paper telescope, I surveyed Glasgow International departure lounge through the dark glossy tube. The airport was already brimming with businessmen, scruffy backpackers and screaming children being dragged along by mothers with bigger bags under their eyes, than those at check-in.

Marie O’Neil and her usual crowd of designer-clad followers were lurking outside the J&R Tennant Bar, trying to appear casual. However much to my amusement, I had seen them being thrown out for trying to buy cocktails a few minutes earlier.
“Ahoy there!” A familiar voice, cried out beside me. Lowering my spyglass, there was an unpleasant feeling rising in my stomach. My fears were justified when I turned to see Tim Wark, settled down on the seat to my left and blowing me a kiss. My day was certainly not getting any better.
“Tim, can you do me a favour and bog off, or do I have to get another restraining order?” Instead of getting up, Tim flashed me one of his frog-like grins. Which in his twisted mind, was probably meant to appear alluring?
“How I adore your little jokes Kimmy-baby! Just think in less than a few hours, we will be together in the city of love.” I couldn’t help but retching, especially when he pronounced ‘love’ as ‘lurrrve’. Pass me the sick bucket. I held out a hand in front of me, pointing a finger at him in warning.
“Listen-up Toad-features. If you ever call me ‘Kimmy-baby’ again, you will not live long enough to regret it!”
Tim had been pestering me with his advances, ever since nursery school. At the age of four, he had given me a soggy card, constructed from macaroni and glitter and proclaimed his intentions to marry me; I of course turned him down, as my heart was set on the Blue Power Ranger. It was thirteen years on and he was still chasing me, even though I had given up on the Blue Ranger years ago.
“Come on Kimmy, you know you like me really.” Tim insisted leaning in closer.

And that’s how I found myself missing breakfast and consigned to the airport’s prayer room. Being told, by the Paris Trip leader Mr Walton, to reflect on the phrase ‘Violence is not the answer.’ Though if he was faced with Tim Wark’s chapped lips trying to kiss him, I’m sure he would have reacted the same way. In my opinion the whole punishment thing seemed slightly unfair.