Learning to Fly
by
Jane Lambert
Blog Tour
I'm delighted to be hosting the Blog Tour for Learning to Fly by Jane Lambert. I have an extract and guest post for you......enjoy!
Blurb
Forty-year-old
air stewardess Emily Forsyth has everything a woman could wish for: a glamorous,
jet-set lifestyle, a designer wardrobe and a dishy pilot of a
husband-in-waiting to match. But when he leaves her to ‘find himself’
(forgetting to mention the bit about ‘… a younger girlfriend’), Emily’s perfect
world comes crashing down. Catapulted into a mid-life crisis, she is forced to
take stock and make some major changes. She ditches her job and enrols on a
drama course in pursuit of her childhood dream, positive that, in no time at
all, she’ll be posing in Prada on the red carpet and her ex will rue the day he
dumped her – right? Wrong! Her chosen path proves to be an obstacle course
littered with odd jobs and humiliating auditions; from performing Macbeth
single-handedly at Scone Palace to chauffeuring the world’s top golfers at St
Andrews – and getting hopelessly lost.
If she is to
survive, she must learn to be happy with less and develop a selective memory to
cope with more than her fair share of humiliating auditions. She tells herself
her big break is just around the corner. But is it too late to be chasing
dreams?
EXTRACT
It is never too late to be what you might have been ̴ George Eliot
Reasons for and
against giving up the glitzy, glamorous world of flying:
Pros:
- No
more cleaning up other people’s sick.
- No
more 2 a.m. wake-up calls, jet lag, swollen feet/ stomach or shrivelled-up
skin.
- No
more tedious questions like, ‘What’s that lake/ mountain down there?’ and
‘Does the mile high club really exist?’
- No
more serving kippers and poached eggs at 4 a.m. to passengers with
dog-breath and smelly socks.
- No
more risk of dying from deep vein thrombosis, malaria or yellow fever.
- No
more battles with passengers who insist that their flat-pack gazebo will fit into the overhead
locker.
- No
more wearing a permanent smile and a name badge.
- No
danger of bumping into ex-boyfriend and his latest
‘I’m-Debbie-come-fly-me’.
Cons:
- No
more fake Prada, Louis Vuitton or Gucci.
- No
more lazing by the pool in winter.
- No
more ten-hour retail therapy sessions in shopping malls the size of a
small island — and getting paid for it.
- No
more posh hotel freebies (toiletries, slippers, fluffy bathrobes etc.).
- Holidays
(if any) now to be taken in Costa del Cheapo, as opposed to Barbados or
Bora Bora.
- No
more horse riding around the pyramids, imagining I’m a desert queen.
- No
more ice skating in Central Park, imagining I’m Ali MacGraw in Love
Story.
- Having
to swap my riverside apartment for a shoebox, and my Mazda convertible for
a pushbike.
‘Cabin crew, ten
minutes to landing. Ten minutes, please,’ comes the captain’s olive-oil-smooth
voice over the intercom. This is it. No going back. I’m past the point of no
return.
The galley curtain
swishes open — it’s showtime!
I switch on my
full-beam smile and enter upstage left, pushing my trolley for the very last
time ...
‘Anyheadsetsanyrubbishlandingcard?
Anyheadsetsanyrubbishlandingcard? ...’
Have I taken leave
of my senses? The notion of an actress living in a garret, sacrificing
everything for the sake of her art, seemed so romantic when I gaily handed in my notice three months ago, but
now I’m not so sure …
Be positive! Just
think, a couple of years from now, you could be sipping coffee with Phil and
Holly on the This Morning sofa …
Yes, Phil, the rumours are true … I have been asked to appear on Strictly Come
Dancing. God only knows how I’ll fit it around my filming commitments
though.
Who are you
kidding? A couple of years from now, the only place you’ll be appearing is the
job centre, playing Woman On Income Support.
This
follow-your-dreams stuff is all very well when you’re in your twenties, or thirties
even, but I’m a forty-year-old woman with no rich husband (or any husband for
that matter) to bail me out if it all goes pear-shaped. Just as everyone around
me is having a loft extension or a late baby, I’m downsizing my whole lifestyle
to enter a profession that boasts a ninety-two percent unemployment rate.
Why in God’s name,
in this wobbly economic climate, am I putting myself through all this angst and
upheaval, when I could be pushing my trolley until I’m sixty, then retire
comfortably on an ample pension and one free flight a year?
Something happened,
out of the blue, that catapulted me from my ordered, happy-go-lucky existence
and forced me down a different road …
‘It’s not your
fault. It’s me. I’m confused,’ Nigel had said.
‘I don’t understand,’
I said, almost choking on my Marmite soldier. ‘What’s brought this on? Have you
met someone else?’
‘No-ho!’ he
spluttered, averting my gaze, handsome face flushed.
‘But you always
said we were so perfect together …’
‘That’s exactly why
we have to split. It’s too bloody perfect.’
‘What? Don’t talk
nonsense …’
‘I don’t expect you
to understand, but it’s like I’ve pushed a self-destruct button and there’s no
going back.’
‘Self-destruct
button? What are you talking about? Darling, you’re not well. Perhaps you
should get some help …’
‘Look, don’t make
this harder for me than it already is. It’s time for us both to move on. And
please don’t cry, Em,’ he groaned, eyes looking heavenward. ‘You know how I
hate it when you cry.’
I grovelled, begged
him not to go, vowing I’d find myself a nine-to-five job so we could have more
together time, swearing that I would never again talk during Match of the
Day — anything as long as
he stayed with me.
Firmly removing my
hands from around his neck and straightening his epaulettes, he glanced at his
watch, swigged the dregs of his espresso, and said blankly, ‘Good Lord, is that
the time? I’ve got to check in in an hour. We’ll talk more when I get back from
LA.’
‘NO!’ I wailed.
‘You know very well that I’ll be in Jeddah by then. We’ve got to talk about
this now. Nigel … Nigel …!’
For three days I
sat huddled on the sofa in semi-darkness, clutching the Minnie Mouse he’d
bought me on our first trip to Disneyland,
as if she were a life raft. I played Gabrielle’s ‘You Used to Love Me’ over
and over. I wondered if Gabrielle’s boyfriend had dumped her without warning,
leaving her heartbroken and bewildered, and the pain of it all had inspired
her. If only I had a talent for song writing, but I don’t, so I
channelled my pain into demolishing a family-sized tin of Celebrations
chocolates instead.
Cue Wendy, my best
friend, my angel on earth. We formed an instant friendship on our cabin crew
training course. This was cemented when she saved me from drowning during a
ditching drill. (I’d stupidly lied on the application form, assuming that it
didn’t really matter if I couldn’t swim, because if I were ever unfortunate
enough to crash-land in the sea, there would surely be enough lifejackets to go
round.)
‘Look, hon, this
has got to stop,’ she said in an uncharacteristically stern tone, a look of
frustration on her porcelain, freckled face. (As a redhead, Wendy has been
religiously applying sunscreen since she first set foot on Middle Eastern soil
as a junior hostess twenty years ago; whereas I would roast myself like a pig
on a spit in my quest to look like a Californian beach babe.) ‘Okay, so it’s
not a crime to scrub the toilet with his toothbrush, but who knows where that
could lead? You’ve got to stop playing the victim before we have a Fatal-Attraction scenario on our hands.’
‘Eight years, eight years of my life spent waiting for
him to pop the question, and now he’s moving out to “find himself”. I think I’m
entitled to be a little upset, Wendy.’
Prising Minnie out
of my hands and hurling her against the wall,
she straightened my shoulders and looked deep into my puffy eyes.
‘I promise you
that, in time, you will see you’re better off without that moody, selfish,
arrogant …’
‘I know you never
thought he was right for me, but there is another side to him,’ I said
defensively. ‘He can be the most caring and sweet man in the world when he
wants to — and I can’t bear the thought that we won’t grow old together,’ I
sobbed, running my damp sleeve across my stinging cheeks.
‘Come on now; take
off that bobbly old cardie. I’m running you a Molton Brown bath, and you’re going to wash your hair, put on your uniform and
high heels, slap on some make-up and your best air hostess smile, d’you hear?’
she said, pulling back the curtains. ‘And while you’re in Jeddah, I want you to
seriously think about where you go from here.’
‘But I want to be
home when Nigel …’
‘You always said
you didn’t want to be pushing a trolley in your forties, and how you wished
you’d had a go at acting. Well, maybe this is a sign,’ she said gently, tucking
a strand of greasy hair behind my ear. ‘It’s high time you did something for you. You’ve spent far too long fitting
in with what Nigel wants.’
‘It’s too late to
be chasing dreams,’ I sniffed, shielding my eyes from the watery sunlight. ‘And
anyway, I just want things to go back to how they were. Where did I go wrong,
Wendy? I should have made more effort. After all, he’s a good-looking guy, and
every time he goes to work there are gorgeous women half my age fluttering their
eyelashes at him, falling at his feet. He can take his pick — and maybe he
did,’ I whimpered, another torrent of tears splashing onto my saggy, grey
jogging bottoms.
‘Get this down you.’ Wendy sighed, shoving a mug of steaming tea into
my hands as she frogmarched me into the bathroom. ‘And don’t you dare call
him!’ she yelled through the door.
Perhaps she was
right; she usually was. She may be a big kid at heart, but when the chips are
down, Wendy is the one you’d want on your flight if you were struck by
lightning or appendicitis at thirty-two thousand feet.
For the last year
or so, hadn’t I likened myself to an aeroplane in a holding pattern, waiting
until I was clear to land? Waiting for Nigel to call, waiting for Nigel to come
home, waiting for Nigel to propose, waiting until Nigel felt ready to start a
family?
Yes, deep down I knew
she was right, but I was scared of being on my own. Did this make me a love
addict? If so, could I be cured?
Jeddah, Saudi Arabia
‘Hayyaa’ala-s-salah, hayya ’ala-l-falah
…’ came the haunting call from the mosque across the square, summoning
worshippers to evening prayer. It was almost time to meet up with the crew to
mosey around the souk — again.
Too hot to sunbathe, room service menu exhausted, library book finished,
alcohol forbidden, and no decent telly (only heavily edited re-runs of The Good Life, where Tom goes to kiss Barbara, and next minute it cuts to
Margo shooing a goat off her herbaceous border), the gold market had become the
highlight of my day.
Donning my abaya (a little black number that is
a must-have for ladies in this part of the world), I scrutinised myself in the
full-length mirror. No wonder Nigel was leaving me; far from looking like a
mysterious, exotic, desert queen, full of eastern promise, it made me resemble
a walking bin liner.
I read the fire
evacuation drill on the back of the door and checked my mobile for the
umpteenth time, then cast my eyes downwards, studying my toes. I know, I
thought, giving them a wee wiggle, I’ll paint my nails. It’s amazing what a
coat of Blue Ice lacquer can do
to make a girl feel a little more glamorous, and less like Ugly Betty’s granny.
As I rummaged in my
crew bag for my nail varnish, there, stuffed in between Hello! and Procedures
To Be Followed in the Event of a Hijack, was an old copy of The Stage (with another DO NOT
PHONE HIM!! Post-it note stuck to it). Idly
flicking through the pages, my eyes lit up at the headline:
DREAMS REALLY CAN COME TRUE.
Former computer programmer, Kevin Wilcox, 40, went
for broke when he gave up his 50k-a-year job to become a professional opera
singer. ‘My advice to anyone contemplating giving up their job to follow their
dream, is to go for it,’ said Kevin, taking a break from rehearsals of La Traviata at La Scala.
That was my
life-changing moment; an affirmation that there were other people out there —
perfectly sane people, who were not in the first flush of youth either, but
were taking a chance. That’s what I’d do. I’d become an actress, and
Nigel would see my name in lights as he walked along Shaftesbury Avenue, or
when he sat down to watch Holby City, there I’d be, shooting a
doe-eyed look over a green surgical mask.
‘What a fool I
was,’ he’d tell his friends ruefully, ‘to have ever let her go.’ Hah!
But revenge wasn’t
my only motive. Faux designer bags and expensive makeovers were no longer
important to me. I wanted the things that money can’t buy: like
self-fulfilment, like the buzz you get on opening night, stepping out on stage
in front of a live audience. Appearing through the galley curtains, proclaiming
that well-rehearsed line, ‘Would
you like chicken or beef?’ just wouldn’t do any more.
Inspired, I grabbed
the telephone pad and pen from the bedside table, and started to scribble
furiously.
- Apply
to
RADA/CENTRALany drama school that will have me. - Hand
in notice.
- Sign
up with temping agencies and find part-time job.
- Sell
flat, shred Visa, store cards, cancel gym membership, and Vogue subscription (ouch!).
From: academy@ads.ac.uk
Subject: Audition
Dear Emily,
Following your recent audition, we of The Academy Drama School are
pleased to offer you a place on our one-year, full-time evening course.
We look forward to meeting you again at the start of the autumn term,
details of which are attached.
Sincerely,
Edward Tudor-Barnes
Principal
Whey hey! It was
reckless, irresponsible and utterly mad, but I was tired of being sensible or
doing things simply to please others. Ever since I’d played the undertaker in a
school production of Oliver! I’d wanted to act. Okay, so I may be
running twenty-five years late, but now nothing and no one was going to hold me
back.
* * *
About the Author
Jane studied languages
at Stirling University then taught English at Hetzendorf Fashion School in
Vienna.
On returning to
the UK she joined British Caledonian Airways and visited some amazing,
far-flung places she’d never heard of before.
However, she’d
always dreamed of being an actress and at the age of 34 decided it was now or
never. She sold everything to pay for drama school. People thought she was mad
but she’s a great believer in seizing the day.
She has appeared
in “Calendar Girls”, “The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time” and
“Deathtrap” in London’s West End. Her journey has been a rollercoaster ride but
she wouldn’t change a thing. These crazy, amazing experiences provided the
inspiration for “Learning To Fly” and its sequel, “Marriage, Mafia &
Mozzarella”, due to be published next year.
www.facebook.com/janelambertauthor
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