Cabin Fever: The sizzling secrets of a Virgin air hostess… (16 page)

Walking back to the bar, I felt as though I was trapped in a dream world. The hotel had hosted one of those hideous child beauty pageants at the weekend and the contestants were out in force – in the corridors, the foyer, turning cartwheels on the garish swirly-patterned carpets and belting out Broadway hits. They looked like mini Dolly Partons minus the boobs – dolled-up to the nines in layers of make-up and fake tan, masses of big hairdos, dressed in revealing spandex costumes or frothy dresses akin to those worn by the dollies that sit on toilet rolls. They were like the product of a genetic experiment gone wrong. And as they twirled and strutted and posed and sang, a second plane hit the South Tower.

In the lobby restaurant more misery emanated from the television: people leaping from the towers, others running for their lives, coated in grey dust. It didn’t make for good viewing but none of us could tear ourselves away from the screen. We had around two hundred crew members in New York and no way of contacting them. What if any of them had decided to visit the Twin Towers that morning? It didn’t bear thinking about. All of us had stayed in New York at some point in our flying career, but I had done so many flights there every month, I now classed it as my second home – bumping into more friends walking down Fifth Avenue than I ever would at home. Most of us were too shocked to speak … apart from Steve, who started chanting lyrics from “Bob the Builder” when the South Tower collapsed. We all looked at him in disbelief. Obscenities such as “knob-head” and “wanker” were muttered. For once, a wave of realisation spread across Steve’s face – he knew he’d been bang out of order this time.

“Sorry guys,” he said, sheepishly.

Steve was one of the fat, bald pilots who fancied himself as a Casanova and had a bit of a God complex – one of the ones quick
to brag about the fact he has “at least 400 people’s lives in my hands”. He was always trying to get the young stewardesses into bed, labouring under the misapprehension that they’d be happy to oblige just because he could fly a plane.

The ghastly footage continued to roll: the smoking Pentagon, crumpling like a house of cards; the White House evacuated; reports of United Airlines Flight 93, headed for San Francisco, crashing into a field in Pennsylvania; the work of terrorist hijackers; that fuzzy shot of a plane striking the North Tower relayed over and over again to the soundtrack of yet more eyewitness accounts. We were hearing reports of airline crew fighting off the hijackers – and that one passenger had had their throat slashed. A nightmare was unfolding in front of us.

None of us moved from the restaurant until the early hours of the following morning. We were glued to the screen, cut off from the world with only each other for company. The mood was solemn. We felt for the crew who had lost their lives – how they’d gone to work that day and just never returned. This played on my mind as I drifted in and out of sleep later that morning, Gabrielle performing a raucous dawn symphony outside my window. I wondered whether I’d ever really contemplated the risks involved in this job. During training we’d been taught how to deal with potential hijack situations, but none of the scenarios put to us had involved planes crashing into major landmarks. “Hijackers normally have only one goal in mind: to seek asylum,” we were told. “Listen to them, don’t antagonise them and, in most cases, nobody gets hurt.”

The previous day’s events affected some crew members more badly than others, one being Nicole, a new recruit who was only nineteen, and who woke me from my restless sleep when she called my room at 8am, sobbing down the phone.

“I can’t cope,” she said, her voice trembling. “I’ve not slept all night … I want to go home.” She sounded so fragile.

“Come up to my room,” I offered. “I’ll stick the kettle on.”

Five minutes later Nicole arrived, looking as white as a sheet, with red-rimmed eyes.

“I’m so sorry,” she whimpered, dabbing at fresh tears with a soggy, disintegrating tissue, cardigan slipping from her delicate shoulders as she stretched the sleeves over her hands.

“Don’t be silly, hon,” I said. “Come, sit down and I’ll make you a cuppa.”

As I made the tea, Nicole’s emotions gushed out.

“It’s so awful, Mandy … what’s happened. And I can’t speak to my mum … or my boyfriend. I don’t have one of those phone cards – and the woman at reception said the lines are still down, anyway … and I can’t go out because of the hurricane … and …”

She shivered, caught her breath, “I just don’t know what to do …”

I left the tea to brew, sat next to her on the bed and gave her a cuddle.

“… and that tea’s shit, we can’t even have a proper cuppa,” I said, and Nicole laughed, just a little.

“Anyway,” I added, “I’ve got a phone card with loads of minutes still left on it. As soon as the lines are back up, you can use it – to call whoever you want.”

She rested her head on my shoulder. “Thanks Mandy, that means the world to me.”

And then, through more sniffles, she announced: “I can’t do this job anymore.”

“Yes, you can,” I insisted. “You’re just in shock. We’ll get through this, you’ll see.”

Another long day lay ahead of us at the Marriott Orlando
Airport Hotel. At lunchtime we were called to a meeting in the conference room. The outlook was grim. “American airspace remains closed to all flights,” said one of the flight service managers. “And even if it reopens, the hurricane could also ground us. You’re all on standby every morning until 10am, when you’ll receive a wake-up call to your rooms. You’ll either be stood down or invited to a meeting for an update.”

The good news, however, was that the national phone lines were now up and running and contact had been made with our colleagues in New York. They were all safe and well. Although we were told some of them had witnessed some horrific sights after going to the scene of the atrocity to offer first-aid support.

We were stuck in Orlando for nine days in total, trapped in the hotel with those freaky kids, who seemed to pop up everywhere we went – the bar, pool, lobby, in the toilets “fixing” their hair and make-up – there was no escape from them. We couldn’t leave the hotel (because of the hurricane), although a few of our posse attempted to venture out to Denny’s for breakfast one morning, only to return five minutes later complaining of being hit by “flying shrubs”. We had no clean clothes because we’d anticipated staying for only one night, so the hotel staff let us use their laundry room, where us girls killed time painting our nails while watching our smalls spin round and round. The only other place to go was the restaurant, where the news had now turned to the clean-up operation in Manhattan: the brave firefighters, scenes of rubble and deformed steel girders and repeated messages of “God bless America” flashing up on the screen. And despite the pre-9/11 “batten down the hatches” warnings, the tornado had completely vanished from the news schedule.

Each day turned into a morbid drinking session after the ten o’clock stand-down call. There was nothing else to do. People
began to niggle at one another – a combination of cabin fever and spending too much time together in such a fraught environment. The lack of communication with the outside world didn’t help either; back then there was no Facebook or Twitter and we rarely used our mobile phones abroad because it was too expensive or could get no signal. Only when the international phone lines resumed did the mood lighten. Nicole was delighted, but even after speaking to her parents she was still intent on giving up her job.

I also called home. Mum picked up on the second ring. I could tell she’d been crying.

“Mam?”

“Oh my God, baby. Have you seen what’s happened? You need to get home.”

“It’s okay, Mum,” I said, “I’m safe. I’m not in New York, I’m in Orlando – I swapped flights with someone – I left a message on the answerphone.”

I could hear Dad in the background, bombarding Mum with questions.

“She’s okay, James,” she told him. “She’s still in Florida but she’s safe – sounds like she’s just round the corner.”

“Florida? What’s she still doing in Florida?” I heard Dad ask. “When is she coming home? Ask her when she’s coming back.”

“I don’t know James, but she’s okay.”

This happens every time I call home – I get cut out of the conversation and end up just listening to Mum and Dad.

“Mum,” I said, “Are you still there?”

“I’m just letting your dad know you’re okay. He wants to know when you’re coming home.”

“Not sure, Mum,” I said. “There’s talk of all flights being grounded from here anyway because of the hurricane, and now this has happened I’m …”

“Hurricane?” She shrieked, “What hurricane?”

Dad grabbed the phone.

“Mandy,” he said, “For the love of God. Pack that bloody job up. Can’t you see what it’s doing to your mother? She’s worried sick about you.”

“Dad, it’s okay,” I assured him. “I just wanted to let you know that I’m safe.”

“Safe? Have you seen what’s just happened in New York, Mandy? How do you think we felt? We thought you were there – we watched those planes crashing into the towers and there was no mention of which airlines were involved and we hadn’t heard your voice message at that point and …” Dad paused.

“Dad, are you there?”

He continued: “I was watching the footage over and over on my laptop Mand … just zooming in to see if I could make out the name of the airline. Then Mum heard your message – we were going out of our minds with worry, pet. We thought you were …”

“I’m sorry, Dad, I tried to call you. I’m so sorry …” I said. “I’m in Florida and I’m fine. I just wanted to make sure you got my message, you don’t need to worry anymore.”

Dad sighed and cleared his throat. He could never stay upset with his little princess for long.

“Well you just look after yourself, Mandy. And no going outside in that hurricane. I’ve got enough grey hairs – I don’t need any more.” I could tell he was trying to make light of the situation so I didn’t feel as guilty for putting them through what must have been a horrible afternoon. So I played along.

“I will, I won’t,” I said. “Love you, Dad.”

“Love you too, pet. Just … be careful, that’s all.”

I hung up and dialled my home number. No one picked up. I left a message for Jonathan, saying that I was safe and well and
hoped to be home soon. He had been due to fly to Japan on September 11.

My next call was to Debbie’s hotel in New York. I was sure she’d mentioned that her boyfriend worked in the North Tower of the Trade Center.

Debbie answered the phone, her voice hoarse and small.

“Oh Mandy, it’s awful,” she said. “We didn’t even know what had happened. There was a blackout at the hotel so we had no access to the news. All we heard was that there had been some kind of accident at the Trade Center – so a few of us headed up there on spec.”

“Are you okay?” I asked, “Is Tom okay?”

“I’m fine, pretty shaken, but fine. Tom’s fine too – can you believe he’d booked the day off work? What if hadn’t? What if he’d been one of those …” Debbie started crying.

“I’m here for you, babe,” I said.

“I’ve never seen anything like it, Mandy. We went to the towers to help with first aid. There were people leaping from the buildings and dangling from windows, trucks rolling past loaded with dead bodies. Then the first tower collapsed and I couldn’t see a thing for the dust – people were running in all directions, screaming and crying. Those images will haunt me forever.”

We talked until my minutes ran out. I was paralysed with shock when I put the phone down. I couldn’t move; I just sat there staring at the phone, unable to comprehend anything Debbie had just told me.

The following day we got the all-clear to leave Orlando. Normally we’d be laughing and joking on the crew bus, recounting all the fun tales from our trip. This time we travelled in silence.

The night flight home was also a solemn affair. We were one of the first flights to leave and were only given basic supplies, just
bottles of water and enough food for one meal service. The passengers appeared petrified, nervously scanning the cabin for would-be terrorists. I noticed that nobody was reading a newspaper, which was understandable given the circumstances. I recognised a few of the kids who had travelled on our flight out – children with life-threatening illnesses who had been sent out by the Make-a-Wish Foundation, a charity that grants the wishes of dying children – their wish was to visit Disney World and it broke my heart to see their sad little faces, knowing they’d probably not made it there. We’d had so much fun with them on the way out, running draw-your-favourite-crew competitions, handing out Disney toys and performing Mickey Mouse impersonations over the PA system. We had no idea of the terror that loomed ahead of us then.

There wasn’t much to do during the flight home. Most people slept or watched the in-flight entertainment. I was working in Economy with Nicole. I’d got to know her well over the last week, so it was nice to spend some extra time with her. We made ourselves comfy in the galley – well, as comfy as we could be sitting on empty bar boxes – we closed the curtains, huddled together and nattered all the way across the Atlantic.

“Are you sure you want to give all this up yet?” I asked her.

She nodded, tucking a stray wisp of blonde hair behind her ear. “It’s just not for me. I thought it was, but …” Her voice trailed off. “Wow,” she added, pointing at the window in the emergency exit door. “Look at the sky.”

We shifted our boxes closer to the door to admire the view: miles and miles of ruby sky, tinged with streaks of deep turquoise and violet.

“It’s gorgeous, isn’t it?” I said. “We must be crossing the time zone – flying into dawn. We’ve got our own time machine.”

We sat for a while, transfixed by the ever-changing hues: ruby smudging into pink, orange, yellow. It truly was the most beautiful thing I’d seen all week.

I hugged Nicole goodbye at Gatwick. “Keep in touch,” I told her.

“I will,” she said. “And thanks for everything, Mandy.”

I never saw her again after that day.

Back home the headlines were still dominated by what was now being called 9/11. And when I saw the first mug shots of Osama bin Laden, I recognised him from some photographs we’d been shown during our Virgin security training at least a year prior to the terror attacks. “If you ever see this man boarding a flight, contact ground security immediately,” we’d been warned. How on earth had he slipped through the net for so long?