The Females of Wadi Ya Noh.

Getting married to my darling, next week, and with serious hopes of a job promotion, I had been blissfully floating along on the proverbial 'Cloud 9'.

At the Departures Drop-Off area of Manchester Airport, Terminal 2, I retrieved my single piece of luggage from the boot of the car. And then I kissed, hugged, and said my fond goodbyes to the sweetest, most adorable and most beautiful girl in the whole world.

Sandra, my fiancee, was twenty-three - two years younger than me. Sandra was the girl of my dreams. And she was the girl to whom I was engaged to be married, next week, just in time for Christmas.

I was a very lucky man. A golden, happy future lay ahead of me. I had everything to live for, everything to look forward to. Gratefully, I counted my blessings.

Sadly, as things turned out, I had 'counted my chickens', too.

I did not - could not - know at the time, that, as I had climbed the aviation steps with a spring in my step up to the waiting aircraft, every step I took was taking me another step away from the life I knew; the life I loved. My life with Sandra.

I felt a hand firmly grip my wrist. "Hi, Sandy ..." said the familiar voice of my boss, Miss Susan Smith, addressing my fiancee, "... very touching, I'm sure," she added sarcastically. "Sorry to cut the love-birds' stuff short, but we're running late, as it is. Come on, David. Get a move on! Or you are going to make us miss our flight," cajoled Miss Susan Smith, in deliberately trying to make me look small in front of Sandra. And who, I might add, in having only just arrived at the airport by taxi, had only made our flight by the skin of her teeth, herself.

Sandra stood close to me, and she carefully adjusted the knot on the pale blue silk tie that she had bought for me, especially for my business trip with my boss. After a final hug and kiss from Sandra, there was an emotional catch in my voice, when I told her, "I'm going to miss you like crazy."

"Oh, per-leeese! You'll have me in tears," mocked Miss Susan Smith. "You are going on a three-day business trip, David. Anyone would think you were going on a ten-year mission to Pluto."

As soon as Sandra had driven away in her car, Miss Susan Smith immediately let fall the thin veil of 'civility' that was purely for Sandra's benefit, and she returned to her - where I was concerned - usual, nasty persona.

Domineeringly, she instructed me, "Go and find a trolley for our luggage, David ... and be quick about it, too! If we miss this flight, I'll have your balls for a game of conkers!"

Oh! That woman! To myself, I thought, 'Up yours, lady!' But I replied, obediently and respectfully, "Yes, Miss Smith," and I went to do her bidding.

Life (usually, but not always) went easier for me, when I simply put up with her bullying attitude, and subserviently played the role of her Yes Man. I didn't like it, and I wasn't proud of myself. But it meant less aggravation, in the long run. Besides - and, more to the point - jobs in junior/middle management were very hard to come by and, well ... I had Sandra to think about, too.

Miss Susan Smith was not the easiest person to get along with. Our relations were somewhat strained - to say the least. And I knew the reason for that ...

This was the first time that my boss had taken me with her on a Company business trip. Hence, Sandra's tasteful present, to me, of my pale blue, silk tie. To make a good impression: "It suits you, David," Sandra proudly told me.

This was to be a 3-day trip. A rather short visit, considering the travelling distances involved: We were going to Arabia ... some place I'd never heard of.

Our Company - 'Jordan's Climate Control' - sold air-conditioning units, and we were very hopeful of winning some highly lucrative contracts, in that very hot region of the world.

Miss Smith had led me to believe that if all went well, on our business trip, I would be suitably rewarded. She had strongly hinted that I could even be in line for a step up the promotion ladder. She had also alluded to the higher salary that would be commensurate with the new position.

The extra money would certainly come in useful, that was for sure. Especially so, now that I would soon be getting married to my darling Sandra. Perhaps even starting a family soon, I mused, in blissfully contented reverie as I searched for a luggage trolley in the very busy Departures Terminal.

There were a lot of 'early bird' flight departures at this very early time of the morning and, as I could not immediately spot a vacant luggage trolley, I made my way to the front of the queue at the Arabian Airways check-in desk. There, I grabbed the next trolley to become vacant, after its contents were unloaded onto the luggage conveyor belt, and I returned with it to Miss Smith, as quickly as I could ... Not quickly enough, though, for Miss Susan Smith's liking.

"How dare you, David? Keeping me waiting here for you, for all this time?" she complained peevishly, while making a big show of rubbing her gloved hands together for warmth, on this bitterly cold mid-December morning in Manchester.

Miss Smith then added acerbically, for good measure, "I certainly hope that this is not an indicator, David, of how much use you are going to be to me on our business trip!"

My God! The woman was insufferable. Concerned, though, at getting off to a poor start, I tried to apologise. "I'm sorry, Miss Smith ... but, it's very busy in Departures. I couldn't find a vacant trolley, and---"

"Oh, just shut up, David! I don't want to have to listen to your pathetically lame excuses, all the time - I have quite enough of that to contend with, at the office ... And, if anything is vacant, David, it is your thick, stupid head. Well, come on then! What are you waiting for ...? My God! Do I have to tell you everything? Do I have to spell everything out? Get this trolley loaded up with our luggage so that we can join the check-in queue!" instructed Miss Smith; her voice steadily rising in scale, as she issued her order to me in her customary, deliberately over-the-top, theatrical exasperation.

I cringed in humiliation, as fellow air passengers turned their heads towards us, in looking to see what the decidedly unseemly ruckus was about. Looking to see, what poor, downtrodden sod was being openly berated by his domineering female companion. Looking to see, what hapless, unlucky sap was being publicly castigated, by some overbearing, loud-mouthed, bitchy female.

At seeing the looks on the faces of my fellow passengers - male and female, young and old - regarding me with their various expressions: curiosity, amusement, pity, sympathy, contempt, my face went hot from my acute, keenly felt embarrassment.

Oh! That woman!! Always putting me down. She was a piece of work!

Hastily turning away from that sea of openly staring, inquisitive faces, I obeyed my Superior's instructions, and I loaded our luggage onto the trolley.

We then joined the queue to the Arabian Airways check-in desk. And, after passing through Passport Control, we headed for the Departure Lounge to await the call for our long-haul flight: to Wadi Ya Meen ... somewhere in Arabia.

Of course, I knew the reason, that accounted for Miss Susan Smith's sour, tetchy, irritable mood. For her snappy, sniping, bitchy way, with me. And when we had sat down in the Departure Lounge she duly confirmed, what I already knew, when she said vindictively - cattily - "I have absolutely no idea, David, what Sandra sees in you. No idea, at all. She is absolutely, totally wasted on you ... On any man, come to that."

Yes ... It was an open secret at the office that my boss, Miss Susan Smith, was a lesbian. And ... that she fancied my Sandra.

In fact, she had had ‘designs' on Sandra, for some time. From the first moment I had introduced them, in fact, almost a year ago, now, at Jordan's office Christmas party. I had reason to remember the occasion well ...

Miss Susan Smith had been ‘hitting on' Sandra, at my Company's Christmas party. Quite openly. For anyone to see. For everyone to see. As if she was ... 'staking a claim'.

Miss Smith had hardly left Sandra alone, all evening. Miss Smith had drank heavily. Glass after glass of red wine, thinning out - dissolving - what few inhibitions she had, and fuelling her lustful, out-of-control ardour. Her pawing, exploring - ravishing - hands were everywhere. She was shameless. She was unsubtle; didn't even have the basic, common decency to at least wait until my back was turned, before touching my Sandra up.

Needless to say: I was not looking forward to this year's upcoming office Christmas party, in less than two weeks' time. In fact, I had told Sandra that we needn't go to the party; we could say that we'd made other plans, this Christmas. I had suggested that we could go to Sandra's Company's office Christmas party, instead. But Sandra had surprised me. She said she wanted to go to my office's Christmas party; was looking forward to it, had been for months. It would be "more fun," she'd said.

At last year's office Christmas party, during a brief interval when Sandra had gone to 'powder her nose', Miss Susan Smith had brazenly told me that she "knew" that Sandra was bisexual. "Maybe a 'closet' lesbian," she'd mused blithely. She could "always tell," she claimed boastfully. Miss Smith had also declared to me, quite frankly, that she would be "working on" Sandra - to take her away from me. "Sandra will be mine, David ... You'll see," she had predicted confidently. Sandra was "wasted" on "the likes" of me, Miss Smith told me, matter of factly.

Such was the convincing and persuasive, one hundred percent certainty of Miss Susan Smith's conviction as to Sandra's bisexuality - "latent lesbianism" - that I did not deny the apparent truth of it: telling her, instead, that "Sandra loves me. We are going to be married ... perhaps start a family, soon."

To which, Miss Susan Smith had ominously replied, "No, David ... I won't let Sandra squander herself on you, like that. I've told you before, and I'll tell you again: Sandra will be mine. One day, Sandra and me - we'll be an item."

At the time - though I had, of course, tried to brush it off as the most implausible, absurd, absolute nonsense imaginable - still, I had actually shuddered, at hearing her terrible, unthinkable prediction. I was made uneasy, at hearing her disturbing, malignant words.

Words - like little black seeds - that Miss Susan Smith had planted, in the fertile soil of my mind. That would fester inside me; would thrive, in those perfect growing conditions. Their horrible black shoots; sprouting, taking root, growing, getting stronger ... taking hold. The fully grown black weeds, entwining their impossibly strong roots around the core of my being ... eating away.

I had felt a decided, icy chill. A freezing-cold, slimy tendril of fear had touch my heart, at hearing Miss Susan Smith's highly confident claims about my Sandra. As if of superstitious dread. As if I was, somehow, actually divining the immutable truth of her hideous, diabolical prophesy: "One day, Sandra and me - we'll be an item."

It wasn't long, before there was an announcement over the P.A. system, and Miss Susan Smith and I responded accordingly; making our way to Gate 16. And, after producing our boarding passes and our conveniently opened Passports for the inspection of an Arabian Airways air hostess, we were soon boarding our Arabian Airways flight: to Wadi Ya Meen.

Our aircraft would make one scheduled stop en route: at Wadi Ya Wan.

This was, explained the female pilot - Captain Jazmin - over the P.A. system, for the purpose of changing the air crew. And also to allow a small number of passengers to disembark, at that Arabian airport, whose vacated seats would then be taken up by newly embarking passengers. Then, said Captain Jazmin, the aircraft would continue on as scheduled, to its final destination: Wadi Ya Meen.

Wadi Ya Meen, was the city where Miss Susan Smith and I would be attending a series of business meetings over the course of the next three days.

I sat in an aisle seat, and Miss Susan Smith sat in the seat next to me. The window-seat, I saw, was occupied by a mature, distinguished-looking gentleman, who had a full head of thick, wavy grey hair, and who wore a pin-striped business suit that looked as though it cost more than I earned in a month. He was a man, I thought, who looked as though he was used to getting his own way.

The first thing that Miss Susan Smith did, once seated, was to kick off her black, office pumps. "Aaahhh! That's better, David," she informed me, as she rested her left foot on her right knee; her sole facing towards me. "Mmmmmm," she added in a blissful sigh of relief as, looking at me, meaningfully, she scrunched, wiggled and splayed her dark pantie-hose covered toes, while running her finger tips back and forth along the full length of her sole, as though in an ultra sensitive, feather-light massage.

"I know just how much you want to get on, in our Company, David ... But, if I do promote you - and, it is a big IF," cautioned my boss, "I think it will have to be on the proviso, that I write some new ... duties, into your job description. Top of the list: Massaging my feet, for me. Oh, and all of my office girls, of course. Massaging their feet for them, too," Miss Susan Smith told me, in all seriousness.

I felt my face burn from sheer embarrassment, at the very idea of my boss's ... proviso. Massage her feet ... and all of the office girls' feet, too? She had to be kidding! Well, as far as I was concerned, she could stick her damn proviso in her damn pipe, and damn well smoke it!

She couldn't possibly be serious - but she was. Very! I felt incredibly flustered. I had to say something. But what? "Er ... I don't know, Miss Smith ... I'm not too sure about that. Besides ... I wouldn't have the time ... surely," I blustered ineffectually.

I had to get my boss to forget her ... proviso, once and for all. I had to think of something, to steer her away from it. But what?

And so, by means of emphatically demonstrating my distinct lack of enthusiasm for her so-called proviso; as though as a response, to Miss Susan Smith's letting loose the rather pungent, decidedly offensive aroma of her freshly released pantie-hosed feet, in a sort of half-joking gesture, I made a great pantomime of waving my hands, in wafting the stinky odour away from me ... towards Mr Pin-Stripe.

Having evidently detected the malodorous intrusion, Mr Pin-Stripe looked past Miss Susan Smith - and glared at me, meaningfully. As though expecting me, to do something about the sudden pong. As though Mr Pin-Stripe expected me, to 'have a word' with my female companion. Ha! Fat chance of that! Miss Susan Smith was hard enough to get along with as it was, without needlessly inviting further trouble.

I thought that this was one occasion, when the mature, distinguished-looking gentleman with the full head of thick, wavy grey hair, and who wore a pin-striped business suit that looked as if it cost more than I earned in a whole month ... was not, for once, going to get his own way.

Miss Susan Smith smiled to herself and, it was in the manner of someone thinking pleasant, highly agreeable thoughts, that my boss settled herself all nice and comfortable, for the flight to Wadi Ya Meen. And, I thought I knew exactly what she was so happily thinking about, too ... her 'proviso'.

Soon into the flight, two Arabian Airways air hostesses arrived at our row of seats - one pulling, and the other pushing their refreshments trolley. "Oh, goody!" exclaimed my boss, before either of the two air hostesses even spoke a word. "I'll have a glass of red wine, please!" She wasn't joking, either - despite the early hour.

I imagined that both of the young ladies - attractively attired, as they were, in their lilac-coloured, Arabian Airways uniforms - were probably very beautiful ... I say 'imagined', and 'probably', because it was difficult to be sure. Since, as was the custom of their country, they wore veils when in public. Only their eyes, hands, and feet - the air hostesses wore Arabian Airways issue, lilac-coloured mules - were visible.

Their veils were semi-transparent; of a thin, white, gauzy material, that made the details of their facial features rather vague, and difficult to discern. Though this, I thought, had the decidedly alluring effect, of making their eyes all the more expressive; their gaze, seeming to emanate an enchanting, almost hypnotic air of Eastern mystery. I felt a tingle of excitement ... I was actually going to Arabia! I would have some stories, I was sure, to tell my Sandra when I got back.

Although the two Arabian Airways air hostesses wore veils, still, I thought that I could discern enough of their enigmatic features to convince myself of the actual reality of their beauty.

And, judging by the looks of Miss Susan Smith's eyes, bulging out of her head - so could she!

At seeing the looks of blatant, undisguised lust that were plainly evident upon my boss's ogling face, I found myself thinking that a veil would not come amiss now - to cover up her own, shamelessly leering face. You couldn't take her anywhere, I thought to myself, facetiously.

Miss Smith seemed especially enthralled, by the air hostess who was serving my meal. And, no wonder; as the air hostess appeared to be a woman after Miss Susan Smith's own heart: Regarding me, with such a down-her-nose, derisive, withering look of disdain.

The air hostess's dark, almond-shaped eyes eloquently conveyed her great distaste of me; projecting her apparent bitter resentment. Resentment, that she should be reduced to such a deplorable, demeaning position as this - of actually having to serve, as Miss Susan Smith would have put it: 'the likes' of me.

The Arabian Airways air hostess's name, according to her name tag, was Claudia.

Made decidedly uncomfortable, by the unaccountable, highly unsettling power of Claudia's glowering, spiteful stare, I diffidently said to her, politely and respectfully, "Er ... thank you, Claudia ... That is very kind of you."

Although Claudia said nothing to me in reply, still, she had about her an air of undisguised, simmering animosity towards me that I could not fail to pick up on. I sensed - read, like in-coming radio signals - her eloquent dark eyes sending out her apparently hate-filled transmissions; her malevolent messages ... How dare I, speak to her without her permission? How dare I, look her in the eyes? How dare I, utter her name?

Of course, I had no idea, not a clue, about what was going on here; about the cause of Claudia's obviously hostile attitude towards me. I mean, it could hardly be personal - we'd only just met. Yet, I sensed that there was more, much more, behind the belligerent, baleful glare, that Claudia directed at me like a black beam of malice. Things, that were going on behind the scenes. Out of sight. Things, that were unknown - unknowable - to me.

Claudia's dark, almond-shaped eyes glittered maliciously, dangerously. I actually felt quite shaken: Shaken, at sensing Claudia's intense dislike, her bitter, red-hot resentment, towards me. Shaken, at feeling the full, venomous force of her open hostility, against me. I mean, what the hell had I done?

I couldn't see. Couldn't understand. Couldn't fathom out, for the life of me, what Claudia could possibly have against me. How could I? It was unaccountable. It was quite inexplicable ... At the time.

Claudia's steady, brazen stare unsettled me, discomposed me - disturbed me - to the extent that I had quite lost my appetite for breakfast. And I was distinctly relieved, when she prepared to move on down the aisle with her refreshments trolley.

Not missing a trick, Miss Susan Smith took the whole, incredibly delicious thing in. She was both delighted - all but whooping with joy - and intrigued, by the mysterious 'incident'. Her curiosity was wildly aroused. Well and truly piqued, by the highly singular scene involving myself - her downtrodden Yes Man; her yes-Ma'am-no-Ma'am-three-bags-full-Ma'am underling - and the feisty, hot-blooded Arabian Airways air hostess, Claudia.