Cabin Fever: The sizzling secrets of a Virgin air hostess… (32 page)

I didn’t tell Ania about Robert – she had enough on her plate coming to terms with her own loss, but I’d decided not to be messed about by anyone anymore, so Robert was now history.

On New Year’s Eve, 2007 – just when I was losing all hope of ever finding Mr Right – Emma set me up on a blind date with a divorced millionaire security firm boss called Colin. “He’s a fair bit older than you, Mandy, but he’s a real gentleman, and he’s minted. He’s a lovely guy – got totally done over by his wife. She screwed him for £4 million.”

“I don’t know if I want to get involved with someone with baggage, Em. How old is he, anyway?”

“Early fifties, late forties possibly. At least meet him. I’ve got a ticket for you to a party at a mansion in Surrey this evening.
He’s going to be there.”

I thought about Emma’s invite for a moment. She was being rather vague, but I wasn’t working, and I’d made no plans for the evening’s celebrations. I had no boyfriend, and most of my friends were either working or had already booked tickets for New Year’s parties. Maybe a blind date was not such a bad idea after all.

“Okay,” I said, “but if he turns out to be a nutter, you’ll have to rescue me.”

“Brilliant. I think you’ll really like him, Mandy.”

At fifty-five, Colin was old enough to be my father, but he had charisma and was quite fit for an older guy: trim, with silver hair and pistachio-green eyes. We hit it off immediately. He was witty, chatty and didn’t strike me as being a jaded divorcee. There was no need for Emma to rescue me – I enjoyed his company, and the more I spoke to him, the more I liked him. We danced all night at the party and, at midnight, as “Auld Lang Syne” played, we kissed beneath the disco ball. It was nice to feel wanted again – to be held and kissed. I’d been so lonely after being messed around for so long by Robert.

My blind date with Colin merged into a four-month relationship. But as I got to know him better, I noticed how insecure he was. If he thought another man was eyeing me off, he’d protectively grab my bum as if to say, “Eyes off, she’s mine.” Once, when we were in the Punch & Judy pub in London’s Covent Garden, he asked me to kiss him simply because he thought a group of lads were leering at me. “Quick, kiss me, Mandy,” he begged. “Kiss me while those guys are looking. I want them to know that you’re mine – they probably think I’m your dad.”

It was as though Colin’s wife had kicked all the confidence out of him. I felt sorry for him, so I did my best to boost him up and make him feel special. “Why are you so down on yourself?” I said
after I’d put on a show for the lads he thought were ogling me. “You’re a great-looking man. You’re kind, generous … successful. You’ve got everything going for you.”

He took hold of my hand and dropped his chin to his chest. “I can’t believe that someone as young and beautiful as you would want to be with an old man like me,” he said.

I reached out and lightly lifted his chin. “Look at me,” I said. “You’re not old. I think you’re wonderful – there’re plenty of years left in you yet, boy.”

I honestly didn’t notice the age gap initially. I didn’t even consider what would happen if I settled down with Colin and decided I wanted to have children with him. This only became an issue after I’d had sex with him. It was the blandest, quietest, most mechanical sex I’d ever encountered. It happened one weekend when I stayed over at his mansion in Suffolk. There was no foreplay. Colin just slipped on a condom, rolled on top of me and started thrusting away. He didn’t even make a noise when he came. He just stopped, pulled out and rolled back over to his side of the bed. For a lass who’d graduated from the swing-from-the-chandelier school of sex, this was a shock to the system. I turned onto my side to face him. “Did you enjoy that?” I asked.

Colin smiled. “That was amazing, Mandy … fancy a cuppa?”

While Colin made the coffee I switched on the television – I needed some noise.

“I just had a thought,” Colin said when he returned to the bedroom. He handed me a mug and slipped back under the duvet.

“What?”

“I don’t need to wear a condom – I’ve had a vasectomy. My ex-wife made me have one after we had our second son.”

He’d already told me he had two sons, both in their late twenties, but he’d never mentioned his vasectomy up until now. I stared
at the television, suddenly engrossed in an episode of
Saturday Morning Kitchen
.

“I’ve never really liked using condoms, anyway.”

I couldn’t conjure up a response other than: “They’re making hollandaise sauce.”

“Is it a problem that I’ve had a vasectomy?” Colin added.

It was a huge problem. “Well, kind of … I’m not sure what you can bring to this relationship, Colin,” I said. “I’d like to have children one day and …”

“That’s okay,” Colin interrupted, “I can get the vasectomy reversed. I’ll speak to my doctor – it’s a straightforward procedure.”

I let him down gently, thanked him for his kind offer, but told him I wanted to be on my own for a while. After that, I’d look for opportunities to meet single men closer to my own age – if there were any decent ones left out there – with or without baggage.

“I understand,” he sighed. “But if you ever change your mind I’m always here for you, Mandy.”

I kissed his cheek. “I’m sure you’ll find someone soon.”

The question was: would I?

CHAPTER 20

GOODBYE, DOLLY

It was summer 2007 and I was single … again. Single yet hopeful. I was certain my Mr Right was out there somewhere, and I just hadn’t found him yet. I was in great shape – the slimmest I’d ever been – and going on scores of dates with some lovely men, but none of them seemed to fit the bill.

I wasn’t alone; Laura and Felicity were also single and searching for love.

There was a moment – a drunken moment – when Felicity and I actually wondered whether we might be gay. It was a Friday night and we were on our third bottle of wine, sitting on Felicity’s sofa, eating pizza and moaning about men. “Maybe we’re lesbians, Mands,” said Felicity, filling my glass. “Maybe that’s why we’re not attracting the right fellas – because we’re giving off the wrong vibes.”

“Oh, I’d never thought of that,” I said, “That would explain everything. Mind you, I’ve never really had any lesbian inclinations.”

“Me neither … but maybe that’s just because I’ve never experienced being with another woman.”

“Do you think we’re missing out on something?” I joked.

Felicity shot me a mock worried look. “Yes, I think this is the answer, Mands. I’m a lesbian … I must be.”

“Me too … I think.”

The doorbell rang. “Hold that thought, Mands,” Felicity said.

Felicity answered the door and came back into the lounge with Nick, one of our work friends. “Get your glad rags on, girls,” he said, waving two bottles of champagne in the air.

“Me and Mands think we might be lesbians, Nick,” said Felicity.

Nick cocked his head and fluttered his eyelids. “Well there’s only one way to find out, sweetie.”

Two hours later Felicity, Nick and I were in the Candy Box – the dullest gay bar in Kemptown, Brighton’s gay village – dolled up as though we were going to the Oscars and surrounded by lesbians. We tried to act normal as possible, by strutting in confidently – even though we looked completely out of place. The atmosphere was tense and miserable. Most of the other girls in the bar were wearing jeans, and some had shaven heads and facial piercings. “I thought you said tonight was ladies night, Nick” said Felicity, as we teetered towards the bar. “This lot don’t look as though they’ve gone to any effort.”

“I think ladies night just means lesbian-only night, right?” I said, looking at Nick for back up.

He didn’t speak, just shrugged in agreement – half pushing us through the doors by linking our arms.

We sat at the bar – me in my cobalt-blue silk dress, Felicity wearing a coral chiffon number – observing the girls. “I can’t really spot any good-looking ones, can you?” said Felicity sitting down on a bar stool, then, adjusting the top of her low-plunging
dress to reveal more cleavage, added: “Do I look alright – am I giving out the right vibes?”

“You look great, babes. Do I?”

Felicity nodded. “Superb.”

All was fine until I went to the toilet and left Nick and Felicity at the bar ordering drinks. I was reapplying my lippy when Fliss came bursting into the toilets. “Shit, Mands, we’ve got to get out of here,” she said, tugging at my arm. “But we’ve only just got here,” I slurred. “How will we know if we’re lesbians or not if we leave now?”

“I’ve changed my mind, I’m not a lesbian … and neither are you. Quick, let’s go.”

She grabbed my arm and hurried me out of the bar. As we staggered along the road, Felicity explained why we had made such a hasty exit. After I’d disappeared to the loo, she’d been hit on by a very butch older lady. “She was all over me, Mands,” she said, “She was touching my leg and was really aggressive. She wasn’t wearing any make-up, and she had a ring through her nose. Then she started a fight with Nick, saying he was standing too close to her.”

“Sounds like she’s not the one for you, hon,” I tittered. We linked arms as we teetered up the road into a more friendly little pub where Nick was meeting some friends, and a beautiful blonde drag queen was on stage, flanked by two seven-foot girlies in sequinned Union Jack dresses. “Thank God for that,” I said, brushing the rain off my jacket and reaching for a glass of champagne. “Back to a bit of normality.”

So, I’d established I wasn’t a lesbian. But this didn’t solve my dilemma. I was thirty-four, an age that had sounded ancient to me ten years ago. If anyone had asked me then, “Where do you see yourself in ten years?” my answer would have been, “Happily married with kids.” I had to get a move on.

I decided to cast my net wider and try online dating. Laura had recently signed up to
match.com
and had already lined up two dates. “It’s fucking brilliant, man,” she’d said. “There’s loads of fellas out there – get yourself signed up.”

Describing myself as “fun, tactile and sporty”, I uploaded my profile, adding my height, five foot ten (this was important because I didn’t do short men), and a nice photograph. There appeared to be some nice-looking men on the site – all looking for love and companionship, or so they claimed.

My first
match.com
date was with an ex-paratrooper called Luke – a six-foot-seven, hulking rugby player whose hobbies included salsa dancing and travelling. He ticked most of the boxes: tall, muscular and obviously well-travelled. The only problem was there didn’t seem to be much going on upstairs. As we chatted over drinks at the Shakespeare Tavern, near Victoria Station, I told him I was interested in popular science and admired the work of Brian Cox, and also Stephen Hawking, as I’d just started to read his book
A Brief History of Time
.

“Oh yeah,” Luke said, wiping away a frothy lager moustache with his tattooed hand. “That’s the bloke in the wheelchair, ain’t it.”

Instant turn-off.

After Luke came James, a plumber from East London. Stupidly, I gave him my home address. He picked me up from my house in his Porsche 911, and from the moment I climbed into the car I knew he wasn’t the man for me. “I call this car my Dyson,” he said, revving the engine.

“Oh yeah, why is that?” I asked.

He grinned. “Because I use it to pick up bits of fluff.”

“Oh really … is that what you think I am, a bit of fluff?” I said, rolling my eyes.

“Of course not – I was only joking.”

James looked the same in the flesh as he did in his online photograph: late twenties, with clipped brown hair and a cheeky grin. But I got a shock when we got out of the car. He was about a foot shorter than me. I was wearing my heels, which made me about six foot three. We looked like Little and Large walking into the pub. If he’d been any shorter, he’d have fit in my bloody handbag. Why hadn’t he mentioned his height in his profile?

James was a chancer. It was obvious he was only after one thing: sex. We’d only been in the pub ten minutes, and he was trying to slide his hand up my skirt. “What do you think you’re doing?” I said, grabbing his hand and pushing it away.

He looked taken aback. “You said you were tactile in your profile.”

“I am a very tactile person,” I said, “but that doesn’t mean you can shove your hand up my skirt on our first date.”

“Oops, sorry, I won’t do it again,” he said.

After that we got along fine. James was actually a good conversationalist and we had a laugh, but by no means was he husband material. I left it an hour after he’d dropped me home before I texted him. I thanked him for the date and explained that I didn’t think we were compatible. Then I called Laura to fill her in on the details.

“Well, how did it go?” she said in a hopeful voice.

“Put it this way, I won’t be seeing him again. He’s only about five foot six … and he shoved his hand up my skirt in the pub.”

Laura snorted. “Cheeky twat. Mind you, he doesn’t sound as bad as the one I’ve just binned. I went on a date with someone from ‘match’ last night … Jesus. He didn’t even bother telling me he only had one arm and one leg, and I’d been chatting to him on the phone for a week. He was sat down when I went into the pub
to meet him, so I got a bit of a shock when, half an hour into the conversation, I noticed they were missing.”

I shouldn’t have laughed, but I couldn’t help myself. “You’re joking? Why hadn’t he bloody told you?”

“God knows – he was sweet about it when I asked him, and he said he’d been in some kind of motorbike accident. But he’d never even mentioned it beforehand, and all his profile pics were from before the accident. My profile clearly states that I’m into rock climbing, white-water rafting and kayaking. What kind of match dot com is that?”

“Maybe we’ll both have more luck next time, babe,” I said.

“I bloody well hope so.”

James texted me every day for a week after our date, demanding to know why I didn’t want to see him again. “I thought we had chemistry,” he wrote. “Who do you think you are, bitch?” Some of his messages were like essays – psychotic essays.