Cabin Fever: The sizzling secrets of a Virgin air hostess… (19 page)

Brett and Jeff took us for a spin round the block, giving a comedy-style guided tour, while Laura and I played with the siren and rolled around on the back seat, giggling. “To your left you’ll see Harry’s Deli,” Jeff said, “He’s been on Forty-Second Street since 1954 – serves the finest waffles in town.”

“And ahead on the right, you can see the Chrysler Building,” added Brett, “and a lamp post.”

It was a great laugh – we didn’t want to get out of the car when the cops pulled up outside our hotel. “Can’t we stay for a little while longer?” asked Laura.

“Sorry, girls,” said Jeff, “We’d love for you to stay but we’ve got some serious crimes to fight today.”

Laura set the siren off one last time and we clambered out of the car. “Thanks for the ride,” I said.

“Phwoar, I wouldn’t mind playing with their truncheons,” Laura said, as we stood on the sidewalk, waving goodbye to the handsome cops.

“What about Randy?”

Laura looped her arm through mine, a secret smile tickling her lips. “I’ll tell you all about that over breakfast.”

Although I was having a ball down-route, my home life wasn’t so peachy. My relationship with Jonathan had deteriorated rapidly in recent weeks. Our sex life had dwindled and no more was said about our engagement – Jonathan still hadn’t bought a ring. “I’m saving up for one,” he’d say whenever I brought up the subject. There really wasn’t much point in us being engaged if I couldn’t even discuss it with my mam.

His mother, Margaret, was still being a pain, letting herself into our house when we weren’t there and constantly telling me I wasn’t good enough for her precious son. I remember one conversation we had after I’d booked a romantic getaway to Paris for Jonathan’s birthday. We were eating Sunday lunch at the time at his parents’ house. “I’m taking Jonathan to Paris for his birthday,” I’d enthused. “I’ve booked a lovely hotel on the Champs Elysees and dinner at the Eiffel Tower.”

Margaret shot me a derisive glare over her bifocal lenses. She waited until Jonathan was out of earshot then blurted out: “Who is paying for this Paris trip? Jonathan has better things to spend his money on than you.”

In the end – after trying to make the relationship work for a considerable length of time – I knew it had run its course. I’d
thought about ending it for a while, but there always seemed to be some obstacle or other in the way: Jonathan’s birthday, or Christmas or Valentine’s, or he was sitting his pilot licence exams or applying for jobs, and I didn’t want him to mess all that up. Becoming a pilot was his dream. So I waited until he’d passed his exams – and landed a job as a first officer at Flybe – before I finally broke up with him.

I’d just returned from a five-night Hong Kong trip to a cold and empty house. I could tell Jonathan hadn’t been living there in my absence. All the food in the fridge was exactly where I’d left it and had gone off. The contents of the fruit bowl were shrivelled and mouldy, and the furniture and surfaces speckled with dust. I called Jonathan. “Where have you been for the last five days?” I said.

“At home, why?”

“You couldn’t have been. Everything is exactly how I left it – plus, all the food is rotten, there’s dust everywhere.”

Jonathan paused, let out a deep sigh. “I just stayed at my mum’s for a few days, that’s all. I’m on my way home as we speak.”

I told Jonathan we needed to “talk” and hung up.

I was waiting for him in the lounge when he came home, tissues at the ready. I heard the key tinkle in the lock, the door clicking shut, followed by Jonathan’s cheery voice singing, “Mandy, I’m home.”

“In the lounge,” I called, trying to disguise the nervousness in my voice.

He walked into the room, dressed in his Flybe uniform, arms outstretched. “Give me a hug then,” he said.

I looked down, wringing my hands in my lap. “Sit down, Jonathan,” I said slowly. “There’s something I need to tell you.”

His face dropped. He sat down next to me on the sofa and
reached for my hands. “What is it, Mandy?” he asked. “Please don’t tell me anything bad.”

I looked at him. His face was a mixture of fear and hope. “I’m sorry, Jonathan, I don’t think this is working. I – I …” It was hard to find the words. “I think we should split up.”

Jonathan let go of my hands, covered his face and wept, his voice breaking as he said, “No, please no.”

I hugged him. There were no words left to say. I held him in my arms, his strong shoulders collapsing inwards as he sobbed. After a while he looked up at me, his eyes bloodshot and pained, bottom lip quivering. “Please, Mandy, can we at least give it one last try? We’ve been through so much together. Please don’t throw it all away.”

It killed me to see him so upset, but I’d made up my mind. After contemplating this for more than two Valentine’s Days, I couldn’t stay with him out of pity; that wouldn’t be fair on either of us. “I’m sorry, Jonathan,” I said, tears now streaming down my cheeks. “I can’t.”

Ending our relationship was the hardest thing I had ever done. We’d been together for years and, as Jonathan had pointed out, we had been through a lot together. I moved out of our house and stayed with my Mum and Dad for a while to sort myself out. Jonathan was in bits. He called me every day for weeks, crying and begging for me to take him back. He told me the break up was affecting his work. “I sat in the first officer’s seat and just cried for an entire flight, Mandy,” he said. “The captain wasn’t very happy – he said I could get a disciplinary or the sack if I do it again.”

But there was nothing I could do to help him. “I’m so sorry, please just try to move on,” I said. “I’m sure it will get easier.”

Although I had to show a strong front to Jonathan, being the one who had made this decision, inside I was hurting. But I also
felt like a huge weight had been lifted from my shoulders, and I was enjoying being single again. After our break-up I went on a trip to Vegas with the girls and some other crew to celebrate my thirtieth birthday. I partied hard. We hired a canary-yellow 22-seater Hummer limo and cruised along the strip, drinking the bars dry. We hired speedboats on the Hoover Dam and hit every nightclub in town. It was great to let my hair down and flirt a little – and not have to worry about pleasing someone else. I felt independent, happy and strong again. I also booked a few weeks off work and travelled to Thailand on my own, where I’d arranged to meet some of my RAF friends in Pattaya, who took me to watch a local kick-boxing tournament. I swam through death-defying cave tunnels and trekked through a rainforest on Ko Phi Phi Leh to the beach where the movie
The Beach
was filmed. I also gained my advanced diving certificate on Ko Tao.

When I returned from Thailand I felt like a new woman. I bought a new convertible VW Beetle and my own house in West Sussex, and returned to work feeling invigorated, confident … and ready for a fresh start.

CHAPTER 13

SMOKE AND MIRRORS

It’s a good job we’re expected to look cheerful in this line of work. I was staring ahead while doing the in-flight safety demonstration, and one of my colleagues, Stacey – whom I’d only just met – was flashing her boobs at the back of the cabin. The passengers couldn’t see her, as they were all facing me, but I was getting a right eyeful. I could barely keep a straight face. She’d unbuttoned her jacket and blouse, pulled down her bra and was now holding a boob in each hand, bouncing them in time with the beat of the voice over the PA system, her neat, threaded eyebrows darting up and down in mock surprise at the words “oxygen masks will drop from above.” Ever the professional, I continued the demonstration, suppressing my laughter as I placed my life jacket over my head and tied the straps around my waist. But when I glanced towards the back of the aircraft again, Stacey was now flashing her bare arse. She was bent over, skirt hitched at her waist, support tights and knickers at her knees, wiggling her suntanned bum. I couldn’t help but laugh now.

It was nothing I hadn’t seen before. Crew were always putting on strip shows to distract their colleagues during demos. Next
time you see an air hostess or steward laughing uncontrollably as they go through the demo, look behind you, and you just might catch a glimpse.

As Stacey’s bum disappeared behind the galley curtain, I began my slow walk down the aisle, glancing from side to side, checking all seatbelts were fastened, trays stowed and seats upright. There were too many seniors on the flight and I had volunteered to help out in Economy, so took a little longer to secure my zone in the unfamiliar cabin. As always, I had to ask a few passengers to turn their iPods off or fold their trays away. I reached the end of the cabin and entered the galley, where Stacey was re-buttoning her jacket and giggling to herself.

“Hey, what was all that about, Dita Von Teese?” I said, giving her a playful jab in the ribs.

Come to think of it, Stacey did resemble Dita Von Teese, with her glossy black hair, hourglass figure and pouty red-painted lips.

“Thought you’d like that. I was going to go for full frontal but I’m due a wax,” she said.

Today’s destination was Miami – another party city. All we ever did in Miami was sunbathe and hang out at cheesy nightclubs on South Beach.

“We should go to Mangos tonight,” Stacey said during take-off. “I always pull there.”

Mangos, on Ocean Drive, was a regular haunt for cabin crew. It was right up our street: flamboyant, with tropical rainforest decor and staff clad in leopard-print cat suits who danced on the bar.

“Yeah, I’m up for that,” I said. “Do you know anyone else on this trip?”

“Only one of the girls in Upper Class who I’ve flown with a few times, but she’s a bit of a princess, to be honest … not a huge fan.”

I bonded instantly with Stacey. She was one of your all-round, fun-loving, up-for-anything hosties who didn’t take herself too seriously. I didn’t know any of the other crew on board so I was glad to have made another friend. We chatted excitedly about the trip ahead until we left our jump seats to prepare the first meal service. This is the moment passengers do look over their shoulders, and it usually fills them with a sense of relief to see that we’re up and about.

Back in the galley, Stacey and I got down to business, heating up the Economy meals – the usual beef bourguignon and chicken with rice – and caught up on a bit of Galley FM while we stacked our carts.

She told me about a recent trip to St Lucia where one of the dollies had invited a group of rugby lads back to her hotel room for a party in her hot tub. “The Jacuzzi couldn’t take the weight,” she said. “And the tub crashed through the balcony and landed on the balcony below. Can you believe she actually got a disciplinary for that, I mean wasn’t her fault, was it …?”

I told Stacey about the escapade Laura and I’d had with the NYPD cops and, of course, she’d already heard it on Galley FM … only her version involved us actually copping off with the coppers.

“I was told it ended in a foursome back at the station,” Stacey said. “I was proper jealous.”

I laughed. “No, it wasn’t that exciting, it was just a bit of a giggle and totally random.”

“So, are you seeing anyone at the moment?”

“No,” I sighed, “I mean I was … we were engaged, but we split up not so long ago. We were never really properly engaged though; I didn’t even have a ring and he wouldn’t let me tell anyone.”

“Shit, I’m sorry to hear that,” she said, bending down to load the cart.

“It’s okay. It was never going to work, his mum was a total nightmare. I’m moving on: young, free and single again.”

Stacey looked up and winked a heavily made-up eyelid. “Stick with me, Mandy. We’re going to have so much fun in Miami.”

Surprisingly, there were no demanding or unruly passengers on board, which made a n ice change. Normally we’d be bombarded with complaints about the food, or the in-flight entertainment, and at least one drunken air-rage incident was guaranteed. But today’s flight was going smoothly, apart from a little turbulence, which often occurred over this part of the Atlantic. Then, about four hours into the flight, something happened.

Stacey and I were back in the galley, making a start on the duty-free service and moaning about the crap commission we received, when our flight service manager, Sam, poked his head around the curtain.

“Sorry to interrupt you, girls … have you got a minute? There’s something I need to tell you.” He was calm and collected, as flight service managers always are – one of the old-school types, in his early fifties with a balding head.

“Sure,” I said.

“I need everyone to assemble in galley two for a briefing. I’ll brief the right-hand side of the plane first, then the left. See you in five.”

Stacey and I exchanged worried glances. We knew what “assemble in galley two” was code for: it meant there was an emergency of some description.

“Now I don’t want to worry any of you,” Sam said, once we were all assembled in galley two, “but we’ve had an engine fire in engine three.”

There was a brief silence, interrupted by a hostie, who asked, “Does that mean we can’t go to Miami?”

“Never mind Miami,” added a gangly steward. “What about the fire, is it spreading?”

Sam hushed everybody down and continued. “It’s okay, it’s electrical. The captain has turned off the electricity on that engine, which has got rid of the blaze. However, as per regulations he’s going to try and turn it back on again in the hope it doesn’t reignite. But under the circumstances he’s decided to redirect back to Gatwick – it’s too costly to get the engine fixed in Miami. We’re still in the green zone, so we’re safe to head back. We’ll have to dump fuel though.”

Sam paused.

“We still have three good engines, though?” I asked.

“Indeed. As I said, it’s nothing to worry about. The captain will be making an announcement shortly, and the passengers will be told about the fire. Some of them may freak out so we’ll need to reassure them everything is fine. In the meantime, we carry on as normal.”

We headed back to our respective doors, faces beaming. “Keep calm and carry on” was the message. Strolling down the aisle, I was stopped by a few passengers, wondering what had happened to the duty-free cart. “I ordered 200 Rothmans ages ago,” said one guy.