Cabin Fever: The sizzling secrets of a Virgin air hostess…

by Mandy Smith

  “Yes, Tiffany’s. He got it in New York.”

  “It’s beautiful,” I agreed, moving in to admire the shimmering heart. As all the girls started relaying trinkets of Gucci this and Prada that from admirers, they turned to me as I was the next in the show ’n’ tell circle. “You know, my boyfriend gave me a wonderful pearl necklace recently – and I still can’t get it out of my hair.”

  My joke was greeted with deathly silence, the two girls exchanging I-can’t-believe-she-just-said-that glances. The awkward tumbleweed moment was broken by a piggy snort of laughter from Leanne, who was now tucking into her second passenger meal of bangers and mash. That was the first, and only, time I ever heard her laugh. The two girls breezed out of the galley arm in arm, the tall one glaring at me beneath half-closed smoky eyelids, hand protectively pressed over her gleaming piece of Tiffany’s bling as though she was expecting me to rip it from her neck. And I was left alone with bangers-and-mash face, wondering: will I ever fit in here?

  My spirits lifted after touchdown. Even though I had the misfortune of sitting next to Leanne on the crew bus, nothing could tarnish my excitement at seeing New York for the first time. The Manhattan skyline took my breath away. It truly was spectacular: colossal monuments thumping into the sky, flirting with the apricot autumn light. The Empire State Building, Twin Towers, Grand Central Station, Macy’s, yellow cabs … it all actually existed. I was transfixed, emotionally overwhelmed. “Look,” I said, nudging Leanne, nose pressed to the window, “Isn’t it amazing?”

  Leanne curled her upper lip on one side, shrugged a shoulder, “S’alright. Get bored of it after a while.”

  I should’ve known she’d say something like that.

  “Any plans for tonight?” I asked her, as we pulled up outside the Lexington Hotel.

  “Nah, Delsey Dining,” she replied.

  I didn’t have a clue what she was on about, but I ended the conversation there.

  I couldn’t believe I was staying at the Lexington Hotel – in the very same street where the iconic scene from The Seven Year Itch was filmed – the one where Marilyn Monroe’s standing over the air vent and you see her knickers as her dress blows up. I felt as though I’d walked straight onto a movie set, my depression from the flight now completely lifted, as I allowed Leanne to walk in ahead of me. I stood in the street taking it all in.

  Things were about to improve. As I waited in the lobby for my room key along with the rest of the crew, I met my first proper work friend, Laura, who was standing next to me in the queue. The first thing that struck me about Laura was that her voice didn’t match her features. Petite and slim – no larger than a UK size six – with alabaster skin, huge moss-green eyes and shiny brunette hair, she reminded me of one of the Corrs sisters. I was expecting her to speak with a cute little Irish accent, so I got rather a shock when I heard the familiar brash Geordieness I had grown up with.

  “Eee, all this hanging around gets right on me tits,” she said, looking up at me.

  At last, I thought, a normal, down-to-earth person.

  “Actually, this is my first trip,” I said, almost apologetically.

  “Ah yeah, I remember from the briefing. I’m Laura,” she said, shaking my hand.

  “Mandy … am I relieved to meet you.”

  She laughed. “Man, if your first flight was anything like mine, you’ll be wanting out of this game already.”

  “It wasn’t great, but I love it here.”

  We reached the front of the queue and Laura requested adjoining rooms. “Stick with me babe,” she said, winking as she slipped my room card into my hand, “Eee, we’ll have a right giggle.”

  The atmosphere in the lobby was chaotic, everyone chatting and laughing loudly, exchanging room numbers, a few squeals here and there, cases sprawled across the marble floor, snippets of excitable conversation about where to go and what to do that night. I noticed a couple staring at us as they came in through the revolving doors. The woman couldn’t take her eyes off us, swinging her head around to gawp further as they walked past. Everything was whirring around me, a muddle of red figures, voices over voices over voices. My head was spinning. Was I having an out-of-body experience? Or was it just jet lag catching up with me?

  “C’mon,” said Laura, pulling what appeared to be a genuine Chanel handbag out of her suitcase and over her shoulder. “Let’s go crack open the vodka.”

  “Girl after my own heart,” I replied.

  As we attempted to leave, we were cornered by Martin at the lifts.

  “Girls,” he said, “We’ve been making some plans for tonight. W Bar seems to be the choice of venue – great place. Coming?”

  He didn’t have to persuade me.

  “Yeah, I’m up for that.”

  “Absolutely,” agreed Laura.

  Martin rubbed his hands together. “Brilliant. Let’s Foxtrot Oscar for three S’s and see you down here in thirty.”

  “Okay,” I enthused, although I had no idea what I’d agreed to.

  I asked Laura to translate once we were in the elevator.

  “Foxtrot Oscar means Fuck Off,” she explained. “Three S’s are: shit, shower and shave and thirty is half an hour. So, fuck off for a shit, shower and shave and meet in the lobby in half an hour.”

  “Oh I see.” I said. “And do you know what Delsey Dining is? Is it a restaurant?”

  Laura laughed. “No, it’s literally eating out of your suitcase. We do it sometimes down-route when we want to save money – bring our own food, pocket the allowance and sit in our rooms eating packets of noodles and shit like that.”

  Gradually, I was learning the crew lingo, and the things they don’t teach you in training. I had even discovered that as a thank-you for a hard day’s work, Richard Branson let his crew each take two alcoholic miniatures from the drinks cart. I’d only found this out once I saw the rest of the crew start tucking into theirs on the crew bus, and I was the only one who had nothing to drink. I was given donations from other crew members and made a mental note not to forget this little bit of knowledge in future.

  “I’ll come through in twenty,” said Laura, as we walked from the lift to our neighbouring rooms.

  “Perfect,” I replied, although secretly I thought I might struggle to get ready in twenty minutes – it would take that long to wash my hair. And I promised I’d call Jonathan, for which I’d need to buy an international calling card. Damn, why didn’t I do that when I was in the lobby?

  Jonathan and I were like ships – or, more aptly, planes – passing in the night. We hadn’t seen each other in two weeks – since my Wings Ceremony – and he’d been all over the world in that time. Not that the distance was affecting our relationship; we were still madly loved-up and spoke on the phone nearly every day. And we’d discovered phone sex, which was what I was supposed to be doing now. Jonathan was currently in the UK before jetting off to Miami tomorrow morning. I’ll call him later, I decided, throwing my luggage onto the super-king-size bed in my room. I’d have to put off the hair washing for now, too.

  True to her word, Laura was banging on the door that linked our rooms exactly twenty minutes later. I’d had the quickest shower in history – over the gigantic bath – and was still doing my make-up when she knocked.

  “It’s open,” I called, applying a slick of lip gloss.

  Laura came sauntering into the room, vodka bottle in hand, wearing a sexy satin top in the same vivid green hue as her eyes, and black jeans with heels. Her glossy hair tumbled in mahogany waves over her shoulders and her skin looked so fresh – you would never have guessed she’d just stepped off an eight-hour flight.

  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.”