Part 1: Economy

"Can I help you with anything, Sir?"

Bob looked up with surprise from the shirt he was inspecting, probably the drabbest and most sack-shaped in the store. Wearing his close-work glasses, he was easy to sneak up to because everything beyond arm-length was a dim blur.

Like a ship from a fog bank, the shop assistant drifted into his field of vision and coalesced as a solid shape. Bob sighed inwardly. Pretty! Story of my life. It seemed a cruel irony that pretty girls so often approached him – to ask him the time, or for directions, or any number of other things that to a normal person might be conversation starters – and Bob froze like a hunted animal. Guys he could handle. Older women he could handle ... usually ... unless he found them attractive ... which was actually pretty often. But young women ... pretty women ... young, pretty women like this one for instance? Forget it. His jaw would drop open, he would feel a tightness clamping down over his chest and he would forget to breathe. All he could think about was how beautiful they were; how they could snap their fingers and have any guy at their command; how they must loathe talking to a dork like him, their skin crawling with the need to be away from him and return to the beautiful people with whom they belong.

With these thoughts flashing through his mind, Bob opened his mouth to say "No, thanks" when he stopped, his jaw hanging open as was usual in these situations; but although he was thinking about all of his caligynephobic reactions to pretty girls, he wasn't feeling any of them. Caligynephobic? How is that even a real thing? Fear of beautiful women ... madness!

He had been pretty mellow and zoned out since he got off the plane at Coffs Harbour airport. In what was probably going to remain the single most extraordinary experience of his life (it's all downhill from here, Bob; and you're only 19!), Bob had lost his virginity and joined the Mile-High Club in a twenty minute whirlwind of panic and passion with Vicky, a slim and beautiful flight attendant on the shuttle from Sydney.

Rather than dismissing the pretty shop assistant, Bob quickly grabbed at what was probably a temporary surge of confidence and asked for help.

"Actually I think you probably can help," he said, smiling as he absently brushed at a lock of black hair that always seemed to fall behind his glasses but never between the barber's scissors. "I've just flown in and my suitcase must have gone to Melbourne. I need some clothes for tonight; I'm going out."

It was only a white lie. His suitcase was safely beside the bed at his grandmother's house, filled with baggy shorts and t-shirts that were completely appropriate for bumming round the house and beach, which was all that he had planned to do until Vicky tipped his life upside down. Not that things would be any better with access to his wardrobe at home; there was a very good reason why Bob didn't own clothes suitable for going out at night: he'd never done it before.

"Oh, that sucks," she sympathised.

Bob had a brief surge of panic when he thought she was sympathizing with the long-suffering citizens of Coffs Harbour having to share their evening with a nerd like Bob. He quickly recovered when he realized she had bought his lost-luggage story.

"Where are you going?" she asked, smiling as she warily eyed the plain jeans and t-shirt that Bob was still wearing from when he arrived. "What sort of clothes will you need?"

As he had left the plane, the other flight attendant named Celeste - who had orchestrated Bob and Vicky's adventure in the airplane bathroom – had hinted to Bob where she and Vicky could be found that night. Bob had played it back in his head a hundred times trying to understand why two beautiful girls would want to see him again. He would normally cross the street to avoid them, but this post-coital mellow vibe was driving all sorts of odd behaviour and now he was just going with the flow. He didn't honestly expect anything on the scale of this afternoon's adventure, but maybe he would cough up the courage to ask for Vicky's phone number. Heck, maybe he would cough up the courage to actually use it when they both got back to Sydney.

"Um, I'm not sure what I should wear," he began. "I heard about this place called The Beachcomber. Do you know it?"

"Of course," she said with a musical laugh. "Coffs isn't that big. The BC is pretty cool; good crowd, surf theme, lots of craft beers on tap and live music if you go back on Saturday night. It's fun; you'll have a great time." She stepped close enough for Bob to smell her perfume and he felt an imaginary electric charge as she touched his fingers, taking back the ugly shirt he was holding.

"Well you won't be needing this," she said frowning at it distastefully. "Unless you're planning to kick on after the BC to a mediaeval theme restaurant," she briskly tucked the hideous shirt back into the rack and un-self-consciously took his hand, leading him to another part of the store where the clothes had colours and patterns and shape. "It's a pretty casual pub," she explained as they walked. "I go in after work just wearing this." She pinched the figure hugging cotton spandex mini-dress away from her slim waist; Bob heard it whisper across the fabric of her bra, drawing his eyes fleetingly to that place where he took mental snapshot of her firm, round breasts; the outline of her nipples just barely visible under the stretchy fabric.