Cabin Fever: The sizzling secrets of a Virgin air hostess… (8 page)

I spoke to her reflection in the mirror. “Wow, you look fantastic.”

“You too, hon,” said Laura, already pouring generous measures of vodka. “It’s party time.”

“Diet Coke?” I said, opening the mini bar.

“Just a smidge.”

We knocked back our drinks and headed down to the lobby, where the rest of the crew had congregated. The other girls looked breathtakingly beautiful, like celebrities on the red carpet – head to toe perfection. They all dressed chicly, smelt of posh perfume and cosmetics and all appeared to be clutching a Chanel, Louis Vuitton or Prada handbag. I glanced down at the beaded Topshop clutch in my hand and turned to Laura. “Looks like I’m the only one who doesn’t possess a designer handbag here.”

Laura laughed. “They’re not real, like. They’re knock-offs. You can get some in Chinatown – I’ll take you there tomorrow if you like?”

I hooked my arm through hers. “Thanks babe,” I said. “That’d be brilliant, I can’t wait to hit the shops.”

Miss My-boyfriend-bought-me-a-necklace-from-Tiffany’s was there in the lobby, looking like Claudia Schiffer’s doppelganger, face framed with long silky blonde locks, stylishly teased into gentle waves and not one split end in sight. She was wearing a classic, mid-thigh-length fitted black dress cut low at the back and sky-high glitzy sandals. Her willowy but toned limbs reminded me of honey-coloured fibreglass, like a mannequin’s,
and her eyes glittered like two Swarovski crystals.
No wonder he buys her gear from Tiffany’s
, I thought.

The W Bar was also on Lexington Avenue, just a few blocks from our hotel – a short but thrilling walk. It was twilight and the skyscrapers were coming to life in dancing lights. I could hear horns tooting and the distant sound of sirens. A man in a suit whizzed past us on rollerblades, attaché case under his arm. I was awestruck by it all. I imagined that Laura and I were
Sex and the City
characters, strutting down the sidewalk in our heels, giggling. The show had only just hit our screens in the UK and I was hooked, hence my fascination with New York.

Everything inside the W Bar was white – white walls, white leather cubes for seats, swathes of white fabric hanging from the ceiling, white candles and tables. There were about fifteen of us altogether, taking over a corner of the room, making one hell of a noise.

“Right, you fuckers,” shouted Martin, “Who’s for cocktails? I say we start off with Manhattans.”

No one disagreed.

We were huddled around a low frosted glass table. A couple of girls were perched on stewards’ laps, sexual innuendos flying around the room. Everyone was chatting and laughing like they’d known each other for years. Martin and Tom, who I’d since learned was our first officer on the way out, returned from the bar with two trays full of Manhattans. “Time to get pished,” Martin announced, handing out drinks. “Get ’em down yer.”

I looked at Laura. “Do you know everybody here?” I asked.

“One or two,” said Laura, between gulps of Manhattan. “Never met any of the others though. You rarely fly with people you know unless you put in a request. So, more often than not, you meet a whole new set of people on every trip. It’s crazy, really;
most people see the same faces every day at the office.”

The more I spoke to Laura, the more I liked her. She was so stunning, yet she was not up herself in the slightest – and so funny and open. She told me she’d recently started dating a BA pilot called Dan, who was “proper tasty, like”, and that she was a senior crew member working in Upper Class, serving all the “posh buggers”.

I was beginning to lose the new girl feeling. Everyone was so friendly and lively, and even the Tiffany’s girl, Sophie, was nice to me.

Manhattans turned into Cosmopolitans, which became an assortment of cocktails and spirits. Martin managed to burn the hair off his forearm during a Flaming Sambuca accident. The drinking games started and our rabble became rowdier. Outrageous stories were being told about other crew members – tales of hot-tub orgies in the Caribbean, Mile High Club capers and riotous room parties all around the world.

It was around 1am when we spilled, very noisily, back into the lobby of our hotel. “Right, who’s up for a room party?” said Martin. For a man in his early fifties he had incredible stamina. I’d been up for twenty-four hours at this point and this was only a one night trip. The following evening we’d be heading home, and we were not allowed to drink eight hours prior to flying. As much as I wanted to join in the fun, I didn’t want to spend my first and only day in New York sleeping off a hangover. Plus I still had to buy a calling card and phone Jonathan. It would be six in the morning at home. Jonathan would be getting up soon for his Miami flight. A sexy wake-up call from the Big Apple was most definitely on the cards.

I made my excuses to the rest of the crew and slipped away to buy a calling card from reception.

“Room 2204 if you change your mind, Mandy,” called Martin, stumbling into the elevator.

The first thing I did when I got back to my room was to check under the bed and peek inside the wardrobes and bathroom – a routine we were advised to perform every single time we entered a hotel room, for safety purposes. Phew, it was all clear, no psychopaths lurking in the shadows. I kicked off my heels, sat on the edge of the bed, switched on the television and flicked through the channels, past CNN,
Frasier
,
Cheers
,
Die Hard 2
until I reached MTV, where Britney Spears was cavorting in a skimpy school uniform singing “Baby One More Time”, which seemed an appropriate song to get me in the mood for my rampant phone call.

Ripping the cellophane packet off my phone card with my teeth, I ventured into the bathroom. I’d remembered there was a phone on the wall next to the giant tub. A luxurious bubble bath would be the ideal location for the business I had in mind. I was tipsy, but not drunk enough to drown during the act.

Singing along to Britney I spun on the taps, poured a generous amount of bath foam under the running water and headed back to the bedroom to undress. On the TV screen Britney had been replaced by Eminem, who was grabbing his crotch while asking the real Slim Shady to stand up. I took off my jeans, off-the-shoulder black top and underwear and draped them over a chair. Then I read the instructions on the back of the calling card and sat at the dressing table to remove my make-up. The digital clock on the TV screen indicated it was now 2am – 7am in the UK.
He’ll definitely be up by now
, I thought.

Back in the bathroom I was greeted with a blanket of steam and a giant foam soufflé emerging from the tub. I giggled as the stiff peaks rose higher and higher. “Mmm, maybe too much bubble bath,” I said out loud.

I turned off the taps and eased myself into the bath, enjoying the silky sensation of the water against my skin, caressing my aching feet, legs and back. I lay there for a while, relishing the moment of pure relaxation, then I reached up for the phone, grabbed my card resting on the lip of the bath and tapped in the ten-digit code followed by Jonathan’s number.

He picked up on the third ring, his voice sounding a little deeper than usual. “Hello?”

I didn’t hold back; phone sex is all about language – using sexy words and being downright filthy. “Hello gorgeous,” I said in my best husky sex-goddess voice. “I’m naked, I want you …”

“Is that you, Mandy?” Fuck, fuck and triple fuck. Bloody fuck, shit and bugger, it was Jonathan’s dad, Stan.

I felt my face colouring, reaching a temperature greatly exceeding that of the bath water. I sat up sharply in the bath. What the fuck was I going to say? Blame jet lag for my mucky ramble? I couldn’t exactly hang up – he knew it was me. I cleared my throat. “Yes, yes it’s me,” I said meekly. “I’m so sorry … is Jonathan there?”

Stan laughed. “I’ll get him for you, love.”

At that point Jonathan picked up from the other extension in his bedroom. “Is it for me?”

“It’s Mandy for you,” Stan replied, then hung up.

Jonathan’s opening line wasn’t the most imaginative for an international sex call: “Got there okay, then?”

“Oh my God,” I said, “I just started having phone sex with your dad. You said they were away.”

Jonathan laughed. “You’ve probably made his day. Yeah, dad had to return early for work.”

Embarrassed though I was, I decided to let it go – my minutes were precious.

“What are you up to?”

I’m naked,” I said, “I’m all wet, bubbles everywhere. My pussy is aching for your throbbing Viking cock.”

“Touch yourself and tell me how it feels,” he ordered. Thank the Lord,
now
he was getting it.

Our smutty rapport went on for at least ten minutes, culminating in simultaneous orgasms on both sides of the pond. I writhed and convulsed as I touched myself beneath the foam, water heaving from the tub. And just after we’d expelled our final groans of ecstasy, my minutes ran out and the phone slipped from my hand and sprang against the wall with a crack. Definitely ten dollars well spent.

Later that morning I was woken by a phone call from Laura. “Ready to hit the mean streets of Manhattan?”

I lifted my head from the pillow. My hair was still damp from my raunchy bubble bath debut. “What time is it?” I asked.

“Nearly nine. Three S’s and see you in thirty?”

“They don’t call this the city that never sleeps for nothing, do they. I’d better get my arse in gear then.”

Laura was the perfect tour guide – she left no stone unturned. After a much-needed feast of sesame bagels, cream cheese and tomato along with bottomless cups of coffee at the deli on Lexington, we headed up Forty-Second Street to Fifth Avenue and the Empire State Building. I was like a typical tourist, snapping away with my disposable camera (we didn’t have camera phones in those days). The view from the observation deck was mesmerising – miles upon miles of silver buildings stretching into the mouth of the Hudson River, surrounding the huge green idyll of Central Park, so vast yet so miniature from such a height. I could imagine scooping the whole of Manhattan up into my palms.

From the Empire State we headed to Times Square, where I
was introduced to the beauty mecca, Sephora, a huge store dedicated entirely to make-up and cosmetics.

“This is where we stock up,” said Laura, snatching a tester bottle of Dune perfume from the shelf and spraying her neck. “They must make a fortune out of us.”

I gazed longingly at the counters – Stila, Nars, Chanel, serums, fillers, lotions and potions. “Hold me back, Laura,” I sighed, “I think I’m going to need a basket … or a trolley.” Seventy dollars each later we teetered out of the shop, arm in arm and swinging our glossy black bags full of goodies, into the buzzing energy of Times Square. A time-lapse film was playing around me – people whizzing past in hurried steps, the towering video screens flashing. I felt so lucky to be here – and so fortunate to have a pal to share it all with. Suddenly overcome with emotion, I gave Laura’s arm a tight squeeze. “Thanks for showing me around – you’ve been amazing.”

“Ah, don’t be daft, babe,” she said. “I’m having a blast – and it’s not over yet. We’ve still got Chinatown to attack. You’re gonna love Canal Street.”

We packed so much into our day, including Canal Street, where I picked up a very authentic-looking pair of Dior sunglasses and a couple of pashmina scarves. On our way back I even got Laura to take a photo of me at the spot where Marilyn flashed her knickers on Lexington. We walked for miles and my feet were throbbing by the time we arrived back at the hotel, where, once again, we had a turnaround time of just thirty minutes to change into our uniforms and glam up before the crew bus rolled up.

Laura and I were inseparable. We sat together on the crew bus and talked non-stop en route to the airport, exchanging phone numbers and addresses. I was sad when we parted. “It’s been emotional. You’ve gotta come to one of our house parties in
Horley,” said Laura as we boarded the plane. “They’re legendary – I’ll introduce you to some of the other girls, too. You’ll love them – they’re all PLU (People Like Us).”

“Absolutely, I’d love to,” I said. Then she turned left and I turned right – back to Economy Class, and back to my po-faced pal Leanne.

The flight back to Heathrow was eventful. I figured at some stage of my career I would face some dramatic or traumatic circumstances, mentioned in training, but I wasn’t expecting to be hit with such challenging episodes on my second sector.

The first drama happened as I was serving dinner. I was facing towards the rear of the plane pushing the trolley, Leanne on the opposite end. As I crouched down to grab a set of meals from the cart I felt someone grabbing at my skirt, it was a man bellowing and clicking his fingers behind me. “Hey, you, stewardess.”

I looked over my shoulder to be confronted by the snarling features of a middle-aged man wearing a thatch of coarse grey hair. He was leaning over the side of his aisle seat, glaring at me.

“I need to speak to you,
now
,” he demanded.

I flashed him a broad smile, the words “arrogant bastard” springing to mind. “One moment, sir.”

I finished serving my passenger then headed back to his seat.

“How can I help you, sir?” I said, kneeling down to speak to him. Up close I noticed he had matching bristly grey nose hair, sprouting out of his nostrils like two paintbrushes. Next to him in the middle seat was a boy no older than nine or ten – presumably his son.

“What the hell do you call this?” asked the guy, pointing to the kid’s meal.

“That’s a chicken pizza, sir,” I replied.

“I know it’s a bloody pizza. It’s a bloody pathetic, sloppy
inedible pizza,” he shouted, banging his fist on the boy’s tray. “This is not what we ordered. My son can’t eat this.”

“Would you eat this?” he raged, grabbing the open carton containing the pizza and flinging it towards my face. The pizza leapt from its container, slapping cheese-side into my face before dropping to the floor with a splat. The other passengers were craning and twisting their heads round to see what all the shouting was about. His son shrank into his seat, eyes closed with embarrassment. I plucked a tissue from my tabard pocket, wiped the cheese and tomato from my face and leaned over the grey-haired man to speak to his son.