Cabin Fever: The sizzling secrets of a Virgin air hostess… (21 page)

As I handed the mic over to the next singer, a Qantas stewardess who’d requested “I Will Survive”, one of our girls, Hayley, darted from the bar to greet me, flapping her hands in front of her chest. “Mandy, don’t look now but I’ve just met the sexiest guy,” she squealed. “He’s a Qantas pilot, Paul. He’s with his friend – also a pilot and equally as hot – who’s dying to meet you.”

“That’s just what I need … another pilot,” I said, looking directly at the guy with the Bart Simpson flat-top, whom I could only presume was the “hot” guy Hayley was referring to.

“But he’s gorgeous, Mandy. C’mon, I’ll introduce you.”

Before I could argue, Hayley had linked her arm through mine and was hustling me across the gluey floor to where the two men were standing.

“This is Mandy,” said Hayley, her eyes lingering on the taller, surfer dude–looking guy.

“Hi, I’m Brad,” said the man with the flat-top, extending his hand.

I shook it. “You were amazing up there, Mandy?” he added. He had that Aussie upward inflection going on, where every sentence sounds like a question.

“That’s me,” I said. “Karaoke queen. People pay good money to stop me … er I mean hear me sing back home.”

“Paul,” said the surfer dude, offering his hand. “Top effort, Mandy.”

Our conversation was then momentarily aborted by the demonic noise the Qantas girl was making. It sounded like she
was being tortured, half-shouting, half-wailing her way through the song. Tall, with muscular Tina Turner-esque legs and pixie-cropped black hair, she cut an imposing figure as she hollered her way through the song, pacing back and forth and stabbing a dagger-like finger in the direction of an embarrassed guy perched on a bar stool. It got worse. As she reached her finale she started screaming, “I will fucking survive,” over and over again, tears cascading down her cheeks. Then she threw the microphone on the floor and crumpled to her knees, sobbing. Friends swarmed, helping the devastated Qantas girl to her feet and leading her out of the bar as she yelled, “You bastard, you bastard.”

I looked at Brad. “Well I think she outshone my performance,” I said.

He smiled. “That’s Miranda.”

“And that’s her ex, Kenny,” he nodded in the direction of the guy sitting on the bar stool. “Usual story: he cheated on her. She’s taken it badly.”

“No shit. That was some show.”

On the surface Brad seemed like a nice guy. He was happy to buy all the drinks, which is unusual behaviour for a pilot. Our pilots hardly ever bought the crew drinks. They also had a nasty habit of ordering four-hundred-pound bottles of wine at dinner, which they’d keep up their end of the table, guzzle, and then expect us all to chip in when the bill arrived. So Brad scored highly in the generosity department. He also told me that he was thirty-one and loved all sports, especially surfing. He said he lived in an “ace” apartment on the North Shore in Sydney.

“It’s totally awesome,” he said. “You should come and stay sometime.”

He was strikingly handsome: forget-me-not blue eyes – blue with a dash of chrome yellow around his pupils – and tanned skin.
I could tell he was the type who enjoyed showing off his physique. He was wearing a tight white T-shirt that accentuated every ripped muscle in his upper body – a body that looked as though it was made solely for sex.

Brad was highly flirtatious, and so persistent. Within ten minutes he was asking for my phone number. “I’ve only just met you,” I said, “I’m not just handing over my phone number.”

Several lemon hais later, I found myself boarding the shuttle bus back to his hotel for a room party. I didn’t really want to go. I was feeling quite hammered and was dubious about getting involved with another pilot so soon after Jonathan. But Hayley was desperate to get her claws into Paul and had practically begged me to tag along for moral support. “We can just stay for a little while,” she said.

A “little while” turned into at least four more hours’ drinking with Qantas crew at Brad and Paul’s suite at the Radisson Hotel. It wasn’t the usual riotous room party – just a handful of people lounging around chatting. Paul – in a blatant attempt to woo Hayley – sat on the bed playing his guitar, singing along to songs such as “Stairway to Heaven”, a few Oasis numbers and an excruciatingly cringeworthy version of Eric Clapton’s “Wonderful Tonight”. During one awkward moment, after his rendition of Damien Rice’s “The Blower’s Daughter”, Paul bowed his head and in a pained, breaking voice sang the final line before letting out a huge sigh that indicated his performance had left him emotionally drained. I had to stop myself from laughing out loud. It was so obvious he was putting on an act to impress Hayley, which had worked. Paul’s serenading appeared to send her into a dreamy trance, her eyes transfixed on his long, strumming fingers.

Meanwhile, Brad’s mission to get my phone number continued. “If you won’t give me your phone number, then I’ll make do with
an email address?” he persisted. “We can message each other?”

Eventually I caved in. “Okay, you can have my number,” I sighed. “But I don’t have a pen.”

“I’ll get a pen, I’ll get a pen,” he said, springing to his feet. I’ll admit, when he ran into the next room I couldn’t help but check out his bum. It was so high and firm I imagined it to resemble sculpted marble in the flesh. He returned a few minutes later, pen in hand and an eager smile on his face. “I’ve got a pen, Mandy.”

I snatched the pen out of his hand. “Oh dear, I don’t have any paper.”

Brad slapped his forehead. “Bloody hell. I forgot about the paper … I’ll find some.”

“Don’t worry,” I said, pen poised, I’ll write it on your T-shirt.”

Brad recoiled. “No way, man, this is my favourite T-shirt.”

“Forget it then,” I laughed, throwing the pen on the floor. “You can’t like me that much after all.”

This is the last flashback I have of that party: throwing the pen on the floor and watching Brad’s muscular face drop. I must’ve passed out soon afterwards. I woke up mid morning curled up on a sofa … with Brad spooned behind me.
The cheeky so-and-so
, I thought. I left him there sleeping and caught a taxi back to our hotel, my head spinning, stomach churning.

It was my last day in Narita … and I spent it with my head down the illuminated toilet bowl, lemon hais, noodles and bean sprouts exploding from my gut, water spraying my face every time I flushed the loo. It was one of those state of the art Japanese sensor toilets that squirted water up your bum when you flush. I couldn’t keep anything down – not even water. I had to cancel my planned trip to Shinshoji Temple; I was in no fit state to go anywhere. Thank God I’d packed so much in the previous day. In the morning Hayley and I had hit the charming wooden shops of
Narita town, where I’d treated myself to a kimono, several Japan Airlines fridge magnets and a few Hello Kitty knick-knacks. The afternoon had been spent trying on puffy dresses at a wedding fair at our hotel. No one had even questioned the fact neither Hayley nor I were wearing engagement rings. She was to be a “winter” bride and I was due to marry my heart surgeon fiancé at a lavish summer ceremony in the Cotswolds.

Later the next day, when all I could bring up was stodgy, acrid bile, I heard a knock at the door. It was Brad.

“What are you doing here?” I said, ushering him into my room before anyone spotted him. “How did you get my room number?”

I had no make-up on and bean sprouts in my hair … I looked terrible.

“Hayley gave it to me,” said Brad. “She’s still with Paul … I thought I’d give them some space. They’ve been at it all morning – you should’ve heard them. It sounded like someone was being murdered in Paul’s room.”

Brad strode over to the window. He seemed far too energetic and fresh for someone who’d been on the lash all night. “Lovely view,” he said, then, flashing me a cocksure smile over his shoulder, “Not as lovely as you though.”

I shook my head. “You don’t give up, do you.”

He stayed for a while and we got along fine, discussing trips and surfing and exchanging snippets of crew gossip. When he left he asked, very politely, “Can I kiss you, Mandy?”

“You don’t want to kiss me,” I said. “I’ve been throwing up all day.”

“I don’t mind,” he said. “Please let me kiss you.”

I couldn’t kiss him. I hadn’t even brushed my teeth. However, I did scribble my email address on a napkin. “You can email me if you want,” I said, passing him the napkin.

“Unreal,” he said, and pecked me on the cheek.

I had an inkling I wouldn’t hear from Brad ever again. I assumed a man as good looking as him would have women throwing themselves at his feet and, after my refusal to put out, would simply move on to the next, more willing, candidate. But the day after I returned to the UK, I was surprised to find my inbox flooded with messages from Brad. “Hey Mandy,” he wrote in one email. “I can’t stop thinking about you. I really feel as though we connected and I would love to see you again.”

In another message he urged me to think about visiting him in Sydney. “I’ll cook for you,” he wrote. “I’m an awesome chef.”

Inwardly, I was thrilled Brad was still pursuing me. His messages were funny and sweet, and I realised I’d maybe been a bit harsh towards him in Japan. So I wrote back, and over the next few weeks, our messages went from being mildly flirtatious to highly erotic. We began instant messaging on MSN, describing what we’d like to do to each other. He told me about a spot on the beach where we could have sex. We discussed orgasms and sexual positions. “I can’t wait to make you come,” he said. “I have to see you again.” And on that note, I requested a trip to Sydney.

From the moment I left Heathrow I was beside myself with excitement; all I could think about was getting to my destination and having hot, passionate sex with Brad. I was to meet him at the Shangri-La Hotel, where he’d booked us a plush suite overlooking the Opera House.

During the two night stopover in Hong Kong en route to Sydney I pampered myself at the local spa: facial, full body massage, leg wax, bikini wax – if there’s one thing a pilot deserves it’s a clean, tidy landing strip – manicure and pedicure. Some of the girls were going for colonic irrigations and tried to persuade me to
join them. I declined – the idea of having a tube shoved up my bum and watching my poo being sucked out of me ahead of meeting my new boyfriend didn’t really appeal. What would I say to Brad? “Go easy on me love, I’m feeling a little delicate – just had a colonic.” I don’t think so.

The flight from Hong Kong to Sydney was torturous, my excitement building to an almost agonising level as ten hours passed slowly. Just before we began our descent into Sydney Airport I nipped into the loo to slip into the sexy new underwear I’d bought: black silk-and-lace sussies, matching knickers and sheer black, lace-top stockings. Well, I was hardly going to rock up for my steamy liaison wearing my support tights and Bridget Jones pants. I touched up my make-up, restyled my hair, sprayed perfume on my wrists, neck, inner thighs, navel and boobs – all the spots I anticipated Brad’s lips to explore – and floated out of the toilet.

We touched down in Sydney just after 7am local time and, surprisingly, I didn’t feel tired. During the taxi ride to the hotel, stuck in rush-hour traffic, Brad texted: “Hey sexy, can’t wait to see you. Head straight to the presidential suite when you arrive. Hurry up, I’m waiting …”

I wasn’t sure what impressed me most: the sight of Brad’s bare legs, or the view of Sydney Harbour through the floor-to-ceiling windows behind him. “Welcome to Sydney, babe,” he said, opening the door to the presidential suite. He was wearing one of his tight muscle T-shirts and surf shorts, skimming thighs that could have been crafted by Michelangelo. I’d never seen such a magnificent set of pins: smooth, defined, golden. The next moment we were in each other’s arms, slow dancing around the room, kissing. His mouth was minty and gentle, and he smelt so manly and fresh – a spicy, woody aroma. My hands ventured down his back,
pressed into the dip at the base of his spine and fanned his taut bum as his hands crept beneath my jacket, under my shirt, up over my breasts. I pulled him closer, stepping backwards until my back was against the door. Brad reached behind him, peeled my hands off his bum and tacked them to the door above my head, his lips travelling down the side of my neck. My heart walloped. I was so turned on – and slightly hypoxic after the flight – I thought I was going to faint. Every arousal point in my body hummed. I was light-headed and breathless, and only when I started seeing black dots dancing before my eyes and my knees began to give way did I have to ask Brad to stop.

“I think I may have to sit down for five minutes,” I said, letting out a deep breath ending in a weak laugh.

Gently, Brad lowered my hands, kissed my forehead. “It’s so great to see you, Mandy,” he said with a hedonistic smile. “I’ll warn you though, that was just a warm-up.”

I laughed. “Glad to hear it.”

“Come here, let’s get you a glass of champagne. I’ve got some gifts for you, too.”

Brad had transformed the presidential suite into a lovers paradise. There were bottles of vintage champagne on ice, a table topped with crystal bowls filled with chocolate-coated strawberries, and square plates loaded with seared beef carpaccio and figs. Beside a sumptuous white sofa bopped three heart-shaped red helium balloons.

“Wow, you’ve gone to so much effort,” I said, wandering over to one of the giant windows. The view was phenomenal: the harbour waters glistening like a trembling sheet of silver and ice-blue sequins in the morning sunlight; I could see the Harbour Bridge, the Opera House and little yellow water taxis whizzing across the harbour.

I heard a cork pop behind me. “You’re worth it,” said Brad. “Champagne?”

“Please.”

While Brad poured the champagne I slipped off my shoes, jacket and made myself comfortable on the sofa.

“God my feet are killing me,” I said.

“I’ll massage them later,” he said, passing me a flute of bubbly.

He knelt at my feet and we chinked glasses. “Cheers,” we harmonised.

The fizz warmed my stomach, an instant hit, dissipating through my body, melting every muscle.