by Mandy Smith
“Me too.”
“Come,” she added. “We can take your stuff upstairs after you’ve met everyone.”
I followed Laura into the lounge where Joanne and Sally were sitting on the sofa by a fireplace decked with twinkling white fairy lights, their feet up on a pouf, with pedicure separators between their toes. Both girls were blonde – one had a bob and the other had long hair pulled into a low side ponytail that was draped over her shoulder in a glistening sheet.
“We’ve just been having a little pedi session, like,” gushed Laura.
I walked further into the room, hand outstretched. “Hiya, I’m Mandy, I’ve been so looking forward to …”
I was interrupted by something moving out the corner of my eye that almost made me jump out of my skin. I turned my head sharply and gasped at the view. For there on the floor, staring back at me from a huge cage, were two giant rat-like creatures with bushy tails and enormous ears.
“Bloody hell, Laura,” I said clutching my chest, “are they Gremlins?”
Everyone laughed.
“They’re chinchillas,” explained Laura, crouching by the cage and making funny faces at the animals. “Mandy, meet Sonny and Cher.”
“Hi Sonny, hi Cher,” I cooed.
“Want to hold one?” asked Laura, reaching for the cage door.
“Oh no, no, it’s okay … I mean, later, maybe? Sorry, they made me jump, that’s all.”
“No need to apologise. That’s the first time I’ve seen Sally smile today,” said Laura, crawling across the floor and tickling one of the feet on the pouf.
The girl with the bobbed hair retracted her foot sharply. “Stop it,” she giggled.
“Twice,” declared Laura triumphantly.
“You must be Joanne then,” I said, extending my hand towards the other girl.
“Just call me Jo. Lovely to meet you.”
“Yes,” added Sally, reaching forwards to shake my hand, “Laura’s told us so much about you. Come and sit down,” she added, patting the cushion to her right.
“Drinks, everyone?” said Laura, as I took my place on the sofa.
Sally knocked back her half glass of wine in two generous gulps then lifted her glass in the air. “Fill her up.”
“We’ve been having a bit of a conference, Mandy,” said Laura, taking Sally’s glass.
“Wine, beer, spirits – what d’ya fancy?”
“Here, I’ve got a couple of bottles of red in my bag,” I said, rising to my feet.
“Don’t be daft, sit down. Chat to the girls – I’ll get you a drink and take your bags upstairs for you.”
“Thanks, Laura – wine’s in my crew bag. What’s the conference about?”
“Fucking men,” said Sally, biting her bottom lip. “Bastards.”
I glanced at Jo, not really needing an explanation.
“Sally split up with her fella yesterday,” she said. “They were together almost a year.”
“Fucking bastard, wanker, cunt,” added Sally, shaking her head. I noticed her eyelids were swollen beneath layers of pearly pink shadow. “Sorry, Mandy, I don’t normally use that word – but for him I make an exception.”
“Cunt,” repeated Jo.
“Utter ‘see you next Tuesday’,” said Laura, appearing in the door frame carrying a tray loaded with drinks.
“What did he do?” I said.
Three glasses of wine later I’d heard the whole sorry tale. Sally had been seeing her ex, a BA steward called Alex, for “eleven months and twelve days”. They met on a flight from Heathrow to Chicago and spent the entire trip holed up in a room overlooking Lake Michigan at the Hilton Hotel, ordering room service and shagging. On the flight back they joined the Mile High Club in the crew rest area – he was the best lover Sally had ever had, sensitive, passionate and very complimentary. “He said I had legs like a dancer’s,” sighed Sally, “and breasts like perfectly moulded jellies.” It had been the perfect relationship and Sally had even suspected Alex was on the verge of proposing. Then she discovered, via a reliable source, that Alex had cheated on her with, not just one, but two other air hostesses, Lisa and Annette, in a threesome in Barbados. “He didn’t even deny it,” Sally said incredulously between slurps of wine. “He didn’t apologise. All he said was, ‘It’s been over between us for a while now. It’s time to move on.’ He’d obviously been thinking about ending it – and I’d been looking at bloody bridal magazines.”
“Well, it sounds to me like you’re well shot of him,” I said. “What a dick.”
Poor Sally. She seemed like such a genuine, gentle person. And she was so pretty: diamond-shaped face and soft violet eyes, little ski-jump nose spattered with honey freckles. I imagined how I would feel if Jonathan cheated on me and shuddered. I’d be devastated – and the humiliation, being the last person to find out … at work. It didn’t bear thinking about.
My thoughts were interrupted by the doorbell ringing repeatedly, prompting some peculiar high-pitched barking noises – girly barks, almost – from Sonny and Cher.
“That’ll be the girls,” said Laura, leaping from her armchair.
There was another flurry of excitement as Felicity and Suzy teetered into the room, carrying plastic bags full of chinking bottles.
“Sally.”
“Flis.”
“Jo.”
“Suze.”
“Sally.”
“Jo.”
“And you must be Mandy,” said one of the new arrivals – a tall blonde resembling Christie Brinkley in her “Uptown Girl” days – as she leaned forward to peck my cheek. “I’m Felicity, Flis.”
“Suzy,” said her friend, kissing my other cheek. Busty with masses of long blonde hair, she looked a little like Abi Titmuss … only far prettier.
I liked all four girls instantly – Laura was right, they totally were PLU. It was like gaining a new family – a chosen family. The drink flowed and the conversation returned to Sally’s broken relationship. “I hope he’s caught a nasty disease,” she slurred.
“He deserves to have his bloody dick cut off – do a Bobbit on him, hon,” Felicity suggested. “Arsehole.”
“Arsehole,” echoed Suzy. “I think you’ve been far too lenient on him, Sal. If Jimmy did the same to me I’d kill him.”
Jimmy, I discovered, was Suzy’s boyfriend – another Virgin steward. “This is him,” she said, fishing her purse out of her bag and flipping it open to reveal a cheesy photo booth picture of her with her man, a man I recognised from my previous Delhi trip – the same man I’d mentally nicknamed Jimmy Forsyth, because he had a huge jutting-out chin like Bruce Forsyth’s. I hadn’t warmed to Jimmy. I thought he was a bit of a knob, and he hadn’t mentioned anything to me about having a long-term girlfriend.
“Oh my God,” I said, peering at the photo, “I flew with him the other week.”
Suzy looked up at me all dreamy-eyed. She was sitting on the floor in front of me, legs curled beneath her, nestling in an overly shaggy shocking pink rug. “He’s lovely, isn’t he?” she cooed, dropping her purse back into her handbag.
“Yeah, he’s great,” I lied.
I was having such a nice time getting to know the girls that I didn’t really notice the room filling up. People had been arriving in dribs and drabs. But somewhere between my third and fourth glass of wine I became aware of the fact that our little posse had morphed into a crowd of at least thirty, spilling into the hallway. Hed Kandi tunes were pumping from the stereo and I could barely hear what Suzy was saying to me. Sally and Jo were getting their feet rubbed by a first officer called Simon, and Felicity was wedged into an armchair with a black-haired guy, snogging for Britain. Another couple were practically having sex up against the wall by the chinchillas’ cage when, out of nowhere, two girls wearing nothing but G-strings and heels came bouncing into the room, arms linked, boobs jiggling. They bounced around for a few seconds, laughing hysterically, then turned and ran out again. I’d seen shows of this nature several times down-rout
e – normally occurring during games of truth or dare. Nearly all of the dares involved getting naked and running around hotel corridors. A cabin crew party isn’t a party without at least one fleeting nude episode.
“’Nother drink?” shouted Sally, slapping her hand on my thigh as she attempted to peel herself off the sofa, her upper body swaying. I took hold of her hand. “Fancy some fresh air?”
Sally looked at me, her eyes struggling to focus. “What’s your name?” she said.
I helped her up and guided her through the crowd of revellers into the hallway, where more people were gathered. Sally could barely walk. “Shoes. I need my shoes,” she insisted, then pointed at a door beneath the stairs. “There.” At least she knew where her shoes were.
“I’ll get them for you, babe,” I said. “What do they look like?”
I opened the door on a surprising scene: a Henry vacuum cleaner, a pile of shoes and a girl giving a guy a blow job. He was completely starkers and she knelt tightly to the right of him, head bopping up and down and making little humming noises. He was stroking her hair as if to say, “good girl, stay there, keep going”. What was I supposed to do? Ask them to stop for a moment while I rummaged around for Sally’s shoes? I shut the door. I didn’t even think they’d seen me.
Sally slumped her head on my shoulder. “I feel sick,” she groaned, followed by a hiccup.
I hooked my arm under her armpit. “Where’s the bathroom?”
“Upstairs.”
“Excuse me, coming through,” I yelled, jostling Sally past the bodies in the hall. It took a huge amount of effort to get Sally up the stairs – she practically fell up them, falling asleep halfway, her limbs limp and heavy. We only just made it into the bathroom in time – and had to kick another frisky couple out in the process. Sally let out a faint moan and slumped to the floor next to the toilet bowl, her arms floppy and rubbery. I crouched by her side, pulled her hair back from her face and gently rubbed her back. “You’ll feel better after you’ve been sick, babe,” I said, my voice all mumsy. Sally grasped the toilet seat, retched, spewed – pure white wine pumping from her stomach, slapping the toilet water, spraying the sugar-pink porcelain rim. When she’d finished she started sobbing, fat, inky mascara tears streaming down her face, snot dribbling over her lips. “He thinks I’m ugly. Do you think I’m ugly?” she asked, wiping her nose on the sleeve of her dress.
I flushed the chain and wrapped my arms around her. I could smell vomit on her breath. “You’re not ugly, babes. You’re beautiful.”
“I want to go to bed,” she sniffed, her hair glued to her face with fresh vomit.
“Me too,” I said. “I’ve got a Vegas tomorrow.”
I would’ve loved to have carried on partying, but I knew if I went back downstairs it would be too tempting to stay. So I washed Sally’s face, found the room with my luggage in it, and slipped into bed beside Sally, as the party throbbed beneath us … right round to the following morning.
I woke early – just before seven – showered, changed into my uniform, did my hair and make-up and headed downstairs, into the post-party carnage. It didn’t look as though anyone had made it home, the hall and lounge strewn with sleeping bodies. There were empty bottles lying everywhere and party food mashed into the carpets. I found a space in the hall to leave my case and crew bag and made my way through the human obstacle course, stepping over the crashed-out revellers, following the scent of burning toast.
I walked into the kitchen to find Laura, in her dressing gown and slippers, with a towel turban wrapped around her head, eating toast and reading a magazine.
“Morning,” she breezed, leaping from her seat. “Did you sleep okay? Would you like a cuppa, some toast?”
“I’ll do it,” I offered. I was ravenous.
“No you won’t. Sit,” ordered Laura.
Over breakfast Laura filled me in on the events of the previous night.
“It was pretty tame, actually – neighbours banging on the door at 3am, threatening to call the police, few broken ornaments, live sex shows in the lounge. Flis left about 1am with that fella she was playing tonsil tennis with all night … and, erm …” Laura’s voice trailed off, her eyes drifting skywards, acrylic nails drumming the table. “Dan came over. We had sex then he dashed off – said he had a flight today. He was acting a bit strange, to be honest. Bloody men.”
“How?”
“I don’t know, he didn’t seem that, well … into it, if you know what I mean.”
“Maybe he was just tired,” I said.
Our conversation was interrupted by my Virgin mobile ringing in my handbag. I delved into my bag and grabbed the phone.
“Hi, is Mandy there, please?”
“Yes, speaking,” I sang.
“Hi Mandy, it’s Jim from Crewing … where are you?”
“Oh hi, Jim,” I said brightly. “I’m just having breakfast.”
“Breakfast? Mandy, you were supposed to check in five minutes ago.”
I glanced up at the clock on the wall. It was only 8.35am. What was he talking about? “Check in isn’t until ten,” I said. “I’ve got plenty of time.”
“We’re on the winter schedule now, Mandy – it switched last week.”
Oh bugger. I took a slurp of tea. “Sorry – I swapped onto this flight. I’ll be right there.”
“Fuck,” I cursed, throwing the phone back into my bag. “I need to go.”
“I’ll see you out,” said Laura, springing from her chair.
Fortunately, Laura lived close to the Flight Centre. If I hurried I’d make it. But after stumbling back through the human debris in the hall, another obstacle thwarted my exit: the front door was locked and Laura had no idea where the key was.
“Shit,” said Laura. “It was my key – it was in the lock last time I checked. Shit.”
“What about the back door?” I suggested.
“You can try, but it’s like Steptoe’s yard out there – there’s a heap of junk blocking the side gate.”
“Let’s give it a go,” I said, scooping my case up in my arms.
One of the girls who’d been sleeping on the hall floor stirred, sat up and peered down her top.
“I’ve got a squashed sausage roll in me cleavage,” she giggled.
Laura grabbed my crew bag from the floor. “Let’s get you out of this bloody madhouse.”
Laura hadn’t been exaggerating. Their back garden really was like Steptoe’s yard. Stacked against the wooden gate leading to the driveway – the only way out – was a complete bathroom suite, broken table and chairs piled in the bath, an industrial-size tumble dryer, a knackered lawnmower and piles of broken tiles, among other dilapidated odds and sods.
I stared at the wreck before me. “Right,” I said, “I’ll climb up and you pass me my bags.”
I wedged my feet into a pile of tiles then climbed onto the rim of the bath, holding on to the top of the gate with one hand. “Ready,” I called.
Laura lifted my case. “Be careful, Mandy,” she warned.
I grabbed the case, heaved it over the gate, followed by my hefty crew bag and handbag, trying desperately not to lose my balance. Then I climbed onto the tumble dryer, hoisted my skirt and vaulted over the gate, landing neatly in the driveway.
I could hear peals of laughter from the other side. “Are you okay, Mands?”
“I’m fine, Laura. Better dash – I’ll call you in the week, hon.”
Then I ran through the streets of Horley, my ground shoes skating over the frosty pavement. I arrived at the Flight Centre just as the bus engine chuckled to life. “Vegas, here I come,” I said under my breath as I clattered towards the bus door. I’d made it – and I hadn’t even snagged my tights.
CHAPTER 6
GALLEY FM
There’s nothing cabin crew love to do more than have a good old gossip. When the passengers are fed and settling down for a kip or watching the in-flight entertainment, we huddle in the galley, perched on our bar boxes, and giggle
over the outrageous stories doing the rounds. Cabin crew are renowned for their zany and promiscuous proclivities, both down-route and on board, and their japes kick the galley gossip mill into overdrive. There are no secrets at Virgin – every antic is noted and talked about. Some stories are true, others turn out to be hyped-up rumours. Some of us even started rumours about ourselves, to see if they ever got back to us – and they did. There’s a phrase we use for the discussions that go on behind those soundproof galley curtains: Galley FM – and trust me, you don’t want to make the bulletins.
Some crew members made quite a name for themselves as a result of their debauched shenanigans. One of them was Paula, a raging nymphomaniac with frazzled blonde hair who went through men like tights. She was a popular Galley FM topic because she was always getting drunk and making a show of herself down-route or on nights out. I flew with Paula a few times in my early days, although I felt I knew her better through Galley FM. Every time I saw Paula she looked different. She had a weird routine: get married, get fat, get divorced, get her stomach stapled and then get hitched again. She’d done this at least four times that I knew of.
Once, on a night out in Hong Kong, she got so drunk that she wet herself. She didn’t even try to conceal it. Standing legs astride, she simply let it all out and then laughed, pointed at the puddle on the floor and exclaimed: “I’ve just pissed me self.” When she’d finished, she whipped off her soggy knickers in the middle of the packed bar, spun them above her head by her finger and hurled them across the room, where they landed on a startled Chinese businessman’s head.
In another equally shocking incident, Paula found herself passed out in a bush in Brighton, knickers round her ankles and smeared in dog muck. A couple of stewards found her, fished her mobile from her bag and called her then husband, whose response was: “You can fucking well keep her – I’ve had enough.” So the guys had to carry her home with them, reeking of dog poo.
But Paula’s finest moment happened when she was caught performing a blow job on a popular boy-band singer at 35,000 feet. She’d forgotten to lock the toilet door and a passenger walked in on her mid job. She was handed her notice after that one.
