Cabin Fever: The sizzling secrets of a Virgin air hostess… (17 page)

It also emerged that the Twin Towers hijacker pilots, Mohamed Atta and Marwan al-Shehhi, had attended the Huffman Aviation centre in 2000 to learn how to fly small aircraft. It was the same flying school that I’d stayed at with Jonathan just one month before the terror attacks.

About six weeks after 9/11, I took Mum and Dad to New York for some Christmas shopping, using my complimentary flights. We visited Ground Zero to pay our respects. The vastness of destruction was unbelievable – far worse than it had looked on television. The mountain of rubble that occupied the spot where the towers had stood had now been fenced off. There were photographs taped to the fences of missing people, along with notes saying, “Have you seen this person?” There were wreaths of flowers and American flags, photographs of dead fireman. And, disturbingly, there were people nearby who had set up stalls, flogging glossy Twin Tower souvenir brochures – among other tacky pieces of memorabilia. It felt more like a tourist attraction than a
site of mass murder. That was the one and only time I went to Ground Zero.

Air travel changed dramatically following 9/11 and our cabin crew training manual was practically rewritten. We had to undergo an updated rigorous course of SAS-style security training and Virgin’s entire fleet was modified in line with heightened security rules. The flight decks were fitted with bulletproof doors, walls and security cameras. Security keypads were also added to the flight deck, the rotating entry code being revealed only to a select few staff per flight. There were armed marshals on board and the days of kids being able to visit the flight deck were well and truly over. We were taught code words and phrases that would be used in cases of emergency – secret messages that could be relayed to crew via the PA system if, for example, there was a terrorist on board.

The extra training paid off. In March 2002 – just three months after Richard Colvin Reid attempted to blow up American Airlines Flight 63 from Paris to Miami with a shoe bomb – an incident happened at Heathrow on board a San Francisco–bound flight.

We were preparing for take-off. The cabin doors were closed and the safety demo was about to begin. But something was unnerving us. Two crew members and I had been watching two guys towards the rear of the cabin. One was sitting in the middle row of seats, the other in a window seat a few rows behind. A few things had triggered our curiosity, they looked rather shifty, very conspicuous – all jumpy and irritable and staring at other passengers. I alerted my flight service manager and checks were swiftly made with ground staff. Alarm bells started ringing when we discovered they’d booked their tickets on the same credit card but had chosen to sit separately. The jetway was reattached, police stormed the cabin and the two men were handcuffed and escorted
off the plane. When we informed the passengers that they too would have to leave the aircraft, some of them went berserk, demanding compensation and threatening to complain to Richard Branson.

The sniffer dogs entered the cabin and headed directly for the suspects’ seats. It later transpired the two men in question were on the FBI’s most wanted list and were suspected sleeper terrorists, who apparently travelled on every airline, to suss out airline security measures. The plane was grounded. No compensation was paid.

The effects of 9/11 almost crippled Virgin Atlantic. There were loads of redundancies and cutbacks. Quite a few of the girls, including Nicole, quit altogether, many forced to leave because their partners or husbands thought their lives were at risk – and marriages fell apart for some who defied their husband’s wishes. Times were bleak, but I knew one thing for certain: this dolly wasn’t ready to hang up her red skirt.

CHAPTER 11

DUSK ’TIL DAWN

Hong Kong trips in those days were like mini holidays: five days and nights of sightseeing, sunbathing, eating, drinking and, most importantly, shopping. The dichotomies of Hong Kong Island have always fascinated me: gleaming steel skyscrapers leaning against lush green mountains; humble vendors serving up bowls of bird’s nest soup from rickety stalls next to a McDonald’s or Starbucks; and the sweet, musky fragrance of incense mingling with the sickly stench of durian fruit. It truly is a spectacular city.

Shopping in Hong Kong is a must; I never returned from a trip empty-handed, as there were too many bargains to be had. As well as the obvious shiny mile-high shopping malls lined with Clarins and Tiffany’s, there are whole shopping malls with only electrical shops over the causeway bay in Kowloon. Then there’s Ladies Market along Nathan Road, also in Kowloon, which is a girly shopper’s paradise, rammed with stalls selling anything from trinkets and CDs to replica designer handbags, sunglasses and jewellery. We girls went there so often we became known to most of the vendors. One of them, Jimmy – whom we nicknamed “Jimmy the Handbag Man” – made so much money from Virgin
crew alone, he eventually quit his stall and set up a secret shop in his flat with daily pick-ups just for us.

Jimmy operated an efficient service: he had taped a Virgin duty-free carrier bag – with his phone number written on it – to the interior wall of a payphone near the market, and whenever we were in town, we’d call him. Within minutes he’d turn up and take us back to his huge, grey fortress of a flat for a shopping spree. The building was very basic, with concrete walls and metal grids shielding doors, while the lift that took us up to Jimmy’s thirtieth-floor “shop” was so small that only two people could fit inside at a time. The flat itself was an Aladdin’s cave of goodies and consisted of four rooms – all lined with shelves neatly loaded with fake designer handbags, purses and jewellery. There was no bathroom or kitchen, just a single mattress hidden behind a desk. Jimmy was great; he didn’t mind us browsing and his prices were good: a copied Rolex for £30, Chanel handbag for £20 – depending on its grading. Sometimes we’d spend a whole afternoon in his flat, trying on jewellery and prancing around, swinging handbags. Visiting Jimmy’s shop was the highlight of some of the Christmas trips, so we were gutted when Jimmy and his carrier bag vanished one day. We tried calling the various numbers he’d previously displayed but none of them worked. We could only presume he’d been busted.

Unfortunately, I also associate Hong Kong with a not so pleasant, humiliating experience, involving a first officer whom, until this trip, I’d considered to be a good friend of mine. His name was Tom, a giant two-metre man in his late thirties, with Tom Selleck looks: jet-black hair threaded with tinsel strands, coarse moustache and eyebrows, and dimpled cheeks.

I’d been on a few trips with Tom and had always enjoyed his company. Unlike some other first officers and captains, he wasn’t
sleazy or arrogant. He was good fun, kind-natured and appeared to be happily married to his wife, Sophie, an attractive Virgin Atlantic flight service manager. In LA I’d once helped Tom shop for nappies for their newborn baby boy at an outlet store. He’d proudly shown me photographs of baby Jake: Jake sporting an all-in-one bear suit; Jake in the bath, his little pink head topped with foam; Jake sleeping in his pram; and Jake enjoying “snuggles” with Mummy, nanny Violet and a whole cast of other smiling relatives. “I tell you, Mandy,” Tom had said on that flight to LA, “Becoming a parent is the most wonderful experience. I only have to look at Jake and my eyes well up.”

“He’s adorable,” I’d said, thinking,
Tom’s definitely one of the good guys
. Although as it transpired, he wasn’t one of the good guys – not in the slightest. For on this Hong Kong trip, he turned into a lecherous, violent lunatic during a night out in the red-light district of Wan Chai.

It was the summer of 2003. By now I was a senior junior and climbing up the career ladder. I had been selected for promotion and was due to sit my senior exams, which, if I passed, would mean a fatter pay packet and the opportunity to work solely in Upper Class.

The hours prior to that particular night in Wan Chai had been filled with fun. We were on our penultimate day in Hong Kong and had decided to make the most of the scorching weather by taking a junk boat cruise around some of the outlying islands. The scenery was spectacular: chiselled granite shards covered in green moss formed a beautiful maze for us to sail through, and we passed majestic mountains swathed in forests rising from crystal aqua waters – it was like sailing through a fairy-tale landscape.

There were about fifteen of us on the cruise, including Tom and his mate Jacques, a French first officer who owned the boat –
he worked for Air New Zealand and lived on Hong Kong Island. We took bottles of vodka and plastic cups onto the boat and by mid morning we were all very merry. Laura was there, and she and I kept the rest of the crew entertained by singing Northern folk songs, assailing the serene vista with strangled-cat renditions of “Blaydon Races” and “Fog on the Tyne”.

At lunchtime, cross-eyed and staggering, we stopped off at Lamma Island for a bite to eat at the pigeon restaurant Han Lok Yuen, which probably wasn’t the best choice of eatery considering there were five vegetarians among us, who were horrified when our food – all chosen by Tom and Jacques – arrived. There were pigeons, roasted whole with their beaks agape, deep-fried wrinkly chicken feet and chicken testicles. One of the girls had to dash to the toilets to throw up.

Bizarre delicacies aside, we were having a wonderful time – albeit very drunken. Everyone was in high spirits, faces bright red from too much sun … and alcohol. As we clambered back onto the junk boat, vodka-pigeon (with a hint of chicken feet) soup swirling in my stomach, I realised how lucky I was to have a job that enabled me to explore so many exotic countries and experience new and diverse cultures; I couldn’t think of many professions that would enable you to eat chicken testicles at two in the afternoon on Lamma Island.

“We’re so lucky, aren’t we,” I said to Laura as we leaned over the side of the junk boat on our journey back to Hong Kong Island. “I mean, look at this place,” I added, motioning towards the sea, my plastic cup cutting a clumsy arc through the air, vodka leaping into the waters below. “It’s bloody stunning.”

The sun was setting over Hong Kong Island, cradled by the silhouetted mountains, the last of its rays scoring the violet clouds.

“It’s fucking beautiful, babe,” said Laura, hiccuping.

“Magical,” I said.

“We’re very lucky, Mands.”

“Very, very lucky,” I slurred.

“Sooo lucky.”

Once ashore, we continued our party at the Dusk ’til Dawn nightclub, where we literally did party from dusk ’til dawn. It was one of our regular haunts in Wan Chai: open until the early hours, the booze dirt cheap, and always heaving with expats, locals and crew. As our group fractured into smaller groups, Laura and I found ourselves stuck by the bar with Tom and Jacques, who was a complete sleazebag. Stocky, with a grubby tan and hirsute arms, he was full of cheesy chat-up lines, playing up his French accent in an attempt to sound all seductive and sexy but failing miserably.

“French lovers are ze best in ze world,” he said, touching my arm with his clammy hand. “Do you have a lover?
Voulez-vous coucher avec moi?
”

“No, thanks,” I said turning my back in disgust.

Tom burst out laughing and, randomly, groped my arse. “He’s just teasing you, Mandy.”

I was confused; the caring, mature family man I knew and liked had suddenly turned into a boorish lad. And since when did he think it was acceptable to grab my arse? He’d never done that before.

I turned to Laura. “Just tell ’em to ‘
va te faire foutre
’,” she advised.

“What the hell does that mean?” I said.

“It means ‘fuck off’ in French.”

So I looked Jacques in the eye and in a thick Hartlepudlian accent shouted, “
Va te faire foutre
.” I grabbed Laura’s arm and we moved onto the dance floor, where we boogied for hours to Beatles and Monkees hits played by a local live band, knocking back
bottles of Smirnoff Ice and Hooper’s Hooch, sweating pure alcohol. All was well until Tom and Jacques reappeared. I was singing and dancing to “Love Me Do” with some of the other crew when they came thrashing onto the dance floor, swaying and bumping into everyone, which wasn’t a huge problem – we were all pretty wobbly by this stage. But there was no excuse for what they did next. It happened just after Laura disappeared to the loo.

As “Love Me Do” blended into “Daydream Believer” and we all started swaying our arms over our heads, Jacques slithered his arms around me from behind, grabbed my hips and started grinding his groin against my bum. I wrenched his hands off me and tried to break free from the crowd, but Tom blocked my way, gripped my wrists and yanked my arms above my head, just as Jacques’ hands came creeping around me once more – this time at my chest. I twisted my body, bent my knees and tugged hard with my wrists, but the harder I fought, the tighter Tom gripped. A warped merry-go-round spun past me, a swirl of jeering faces and oscillating bodies, the chirpy strains of “Daydream Believer” becoming increasingly dissonant and mocking. I felt my feet leave the floor as Tom lifted me up by my wrists. Then Jacques pulled my top down to my waist, slithered between Tom and me, and started motor-boating my boobs, his greasy face slapping against my cleavage and rubbing against my white bra, as Tom looked down, laughing. He had an evil glint in his eye that I’d never encountered before, a look that compelled me to fight back with renewed vigour. I lashed out with my dangling feet, kicking Jacques’ knees until he buckled and fell back against Tom, and only then did he let go of my wrists. I pulled up my top, turned and forced my way out of the club, elbowing my way through the sea of revellers, tears streaming down my face. I should maybe
have gone to find Laura, but I felt so humiliated and violated – I just wanted to leave. Sure, hosties were always flashing their boobs in public, but the big difference here was that I hadn’t chosen for this to happen. And what Tom and Jacques had just put me through was a sexual assault.

Outside the club I jumped in the first taxi I saw. Dawn was breaking but the neon-lit streets were still buzzing with energy: partygoers spilling out of bars and clubs nestled beneath rundown office blocks, people thronging fast-food shops and local vendors setting up ramshackle market stalls with corrugated roofs. The incident in the club had sobered me up. I was numb with shock. Why had Tom’s behaviour changed so suddenly?