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

by Mandy Smith

Those twenty-four hours in Sydney with Brad were fantastic, and I left feeling sexually rejuvenated and smitten … albeit somewhat sore. Despite living almost 11,000 miles apart, we managed to meet at least twice a month. I used my flight requests to coincide with his flying schedule and we took our love-fest to Singapore, Hong Kong, LA, New York, London and back Down Under, the sex becoming wilder and more adventurous at each location.

  For our one-year anniversary Brad whisked me away to a five-star resort in the Blue Mountains, just outside Sydney. It was a stunning hotel carved into the side of the mountain itself and overlooking a deep canyon skirted by blue eucalyptus forests.

  We made love in the minty air in our private terrace hot tub. In fact, that’s where most of our shagging took place on this vacation – on the terrace. It was completely secluded so no other guests could see us … although I’m sure they must have heard us, as we made quite a racket.

  After a year together, I thought I knew Brad pretty well. But during this trip to the Blue Mountains I discovered he’d been harbouring a little secret. One evening when Brad was showering I spotted his passport on the bedside table. Out of curiosity I picked it up and flicked to the ID page, expecting no more than to giggle at some ghastly photo booth picture. But my eyes were drawn to the bold black print that told me Brad was born in 1980, which made him twenty-six. I was stunned – he’d told me he was almost thirty-two – the same age as me. I threw his passport onto the bed. Why had he lied to me?

  I confronted him when he emerged from the shower. “Why did you lie about your age, Brad?”

  “What are you on about, Mandy?” he said, rubbing his head with a fluffy white towel.

  “I’ve seen your passport – you’re only twenty six. You said you were thirty-one … thirty-two, almost.”

  He looked at me with sheepish eyes. “But I’m nearly twenty-seven.”

  “That’s not the point. I don’t understand why you felt the need to lie to me.”

  He walked towards me, his beautiful naked body glistening with shower dew. “Because I was afraid you wouldn’t want me if you knew my real age – and you wouldn’t let me near you, at first.”

  Brad reached for my hands. “It’s no biggie, really – what are a few years between lovers, anyway?”

  And the next thing I knew I too was naked, lying on the bed with my legs over my head while Brad worked his banana magic.

  It was a relationship based entirely on sex. After that trip to the Blue Mountains I began to question whether I actually had a future with Brad. The age gap might not seem a big deal, but I was hoping to settle down with someone closer to my own age. Brad and I hadn’t even discussed the possibility of a future together – all we ever talked about was sex. The following week, on a flight back from San Francisco, I shared my concerns with a colleague, Janice, in our usual confession booth: the galley.

  “The thing is, the sex is out of this world,” I sighed. “I don’t know whether I can live without it. If I split up with Brad, I may never have sex like this again.”

  “That’s nonsense,” said Janice. “You don’t marry your best sex … you marry your best friend.”

  Despite Janice’s advice, I decided to stick with my best sex for the time being and see how things panned out. But bizarrely, the tipping point for me came when Brad finally brought up the subject of living together. It happened one morning while he was in London on a ten-day stopover. I’d spent a couple of nights with him at the Royal Garden Hotel, Kensington, ahead of flying out to New York. On the morning I was due to leave, as I dashed around our hotel room reclaiming various items of clothing, he sat bolt upright in the bed and said, “Hey Mandy, I’ve been thinking – why don’t we move in together?”

  His words didn’t register at first; I was running late and still had a pair of jeans to locate.

  “What do you reckon?”

  “Ah, there they are,” I said, spotting my jeans on the floor at the side of the bed.

  “Did you hear what I just said, Mandy?”

  “Sorry, babe – I’m in a rush. What did you say?”

  “I’d like us to move in together. I could ask for a transfer to be based at Heathrow and we could live here … in London. Imagine waking up together every day? Wouldn’t that be awesome?”

  I zipped my case and sat on the edge of the bed. “It sounds wonderful,” I said. “Can we talk about it when I get back, though? I need to get going or I’ll be late.”

  “Sure babe,” he said, “Give me a kiss, then.”

  I kissed him, I left, and I never saw him again.

  I appreciated Brad’s gesture, I really did, but I couldn’t see how it would work. The thought of introducing him to my family just didn’t feel right and made it clear to me that it would feel as though we were forcing the relationship into something it was never meant to be.

  As I stood waiting on the platform that morning at High Street Kensington, Brad’s words replaying over and over in my mind, a tall, rugged South African guy approached me, asking for directions. He was at least six foot five, and a pair of ice-hockey boots dangled from his rucksack.

  “You look like the right person to ask,” he said. “I need to get to Heathrow Airport. Could you point me in the right direction, please?”

  I smiled. “Sure, you’re in the right place – I’m on my way there, too.”

  “Thanks, I still can’t figure out this tube network.”

  I ended up chatting to this guy with the ice hockey boots – who introduced himself as “Wills” – all the way to Heathrow. He was charming and witty and we seemed to have loads in common – scuba diving and the same taste in music, films and books. He said he’d recently moved to the UK but was flying home to Durban in South Africa for a family wedding. As the conversation flowed, Brad’s moving-in idea slipped further to the back of my mind. When Wills and I parted at Heathrow, he scrawled his phone number on a piece of paper. “Let’s hook up for coffee sometime,” he said, handing me the crumpled note.

  “That’d be nice,” I said. I felt an instant attraction towards Wills – both physically and mentally.

  “Cool. Have a safe journey,” he said, “I’ll see you soon.”

  I watched him disappear into the crowd of passengers thronging the check-in desks, ice-hockey boots swinging from his rucksack. I was already smitten.

  I couldn’t stop thinking about Wills while I was in New York, which spoke volumes about my relationship with Brad. The fact that I had been so distracted by a complete stranger had really hit me hard on landing back into the UK, and when speaking to Brad on the MSN later that day, I gave him the “It’s not you – it’s me” speech to end our relationship. I thought it best to remember it for what it was: pure, unadulterated, fantastic sex.

  CHAPTER 15

  SIN CITY

  I could hear the tipsy couple’s conversation from the back of the Upper Class cabin, where I stood greeting the remainder of our passengers boarding the Las Vegas flight with enthusiastic recitals of “Good morning.”

  She was young – early twenties – scrawny, perma-tanned and clogging the gangway with her shocking pink case-on-wheels and white plastic garment carrier.

  “Oh look, Daz, we even get our own pyjamas,” she said, parking her bony white-jeaned bum on the armrest and rifling through her complimentary amenity kit. “And an eye mask … and spa products …”

  “Never mind the pyjamas,” said “Daz”, “where’s the fucking free booze? I’m gasping.”

  “’Ere, lads,” came another man’s voice from the seat behind Daz’s, “Who’s got the duty-free? Old Daz here is in need of some Dutch courage.”

  “He’ll need it, marrying her,” said a further pal.

  “Oh fuck off, Gaz,” snapped Daz.

  “Yeah fuck off, Gaz,” echoed the scraggy girl, dropping into her seat, leaving her luggage in the aisle.

  Already I could tell it was going to be an arduous flight. In addition to having the rowdy wedding party on board, I was also work
ing with Sharon – the raging alcoholic. Tall and rake-thin, with androgynous features, she had a stern glint in her eye that screamed: “Don’t mess with me.”

  “You can do my PA announcements, as you’re up for promotion.” she said, heaving the cabin door shut and flinging her PA book in my general direction.

  Sharon didn’t share the same happy-go-lucky attitude of most cabin crew. All she was interested in was boozing. On trips she’d spend the entire time locked in her room, wouldn’t come out and wouldn’t let anyone in – just drinking herself into oblivion beneath the duvet.

  Even then, as she brushed past me on her way to the galley, I could smell the gin fumes on her breath.

  I followed Sharon into the galley. Before starting the safety demo, I needed to sort out Skinny Minnie’s luggage, which meant consulting the passenger list; in Upper Class we always addressed passengers by their surnames. I scanned down the list to row four. There they were: Cindy Morris and Darren Smythe.

  I walked over to their seats to find Cindy lying on top of Darren, reclining on his chest as he fondled her breasts with his sovereign- and initial-ringed fingers. He had one of those tufty boy-band hairdos – waxed into peaks like little meringues.

  “Good afternoon, Miss Morris, Mr Smythe,” I said. “I’m Mandy and I’m your attendant for today’s flight. What type of flight would you like today?”

  Daz winked. “Alright Mandy, any chance of a drink?”

  “The full drinks service will begin once we’re airborne, but would you like a champagne or soft drink?” I explained. “Now, Miss Morris, would you like me to place your luggage in the overhead locker for you?”

  She glowered, orange face framed by masses of frizzy, badly highlighted blonde hair. “Ain’t you supposed to call us by our first names in first class?”

  “If you wish, madam,” I said.

  “Yeah, well, it’s Cindy … Cindi with an ‘i’. And he’s Darren … with a ‘z’ – Daz.”

  “Okay then, Cindi,” I said, lifting the shocking pink case. I picked up the garment carrier. “Shall I hang this in the wardrobe for you?”

  Cindi-with-an-i suddenly sprang to life. “That’s my wedding dress – don’t crease it. We’re getting married … at the Little White Chapel – the one where Britney Spears got married.”

  “And Joan Collins,” added Daz.

  “Sounds like a dream wedding to me,” I said.

  Daz, Gaz and their party of pals with similarly abbreviated names laughed and jeered all the way through the safety demo, singing “Get Me to the Church on Time” interspersed with chants of “’Ere we go, ’ere we go, ’ere we go,” while Cindi, outnumbered by lads, pored over photographs of celebrities sporting cellulite in Heat magazine.

  Cindi and her gang wasted no time getting stuck into the booze at the bar, as soon as the seatbelt signs had gone out. “Remember, one drink in the air is equal to two on the ground,” I warned, delivering a third round of champagne to the wedding party.

  “Nice one, we’ll get drunk quicker,” said Gaz, who I’d since learned was Daz’s best man.

  About two hours into the flight, Cindi and Daz changed into their sleep suits, even though it was still daytime, and paraded back to Economy Class to visit their “poor friends”, returning with tales of misery, muttering: “You get what you pay for.” Cindi was slurring and Daz sounded as though he’d had one too many, too. I made a mental note not to serve them any more drinks.

  “We’ll need to keep an eye on that wedding party,” I told Sharon as we prepared dinner in the galley. “They’re getting pretty rowdy back there.”

  “Bloody chavs. I’ll go and check on them.” Sharon pulled the curtain aside and immediately burst out laughing. “For fuck’s sake … that girl’s trousers have just fallen down … oh, and so has she – quick, look.”

  I put down the packet of prosciutto I was trying to open and turned to check out the scene: Cindi flat on her back, pyjama bottoms ruched around her ankles, legs spread with only a skimpy white G-string to hide her modesty.

  “Oh Jesus,” I muttered.

  “You can see all her breakfast,” added Sharon. “Look, her flaps are hanging out.”

  Gaz and his pals were in fits of laughter. Daz, also laughing, got out of his seat and helped Cindi back on her feet, slapping her bum before he pulled up her trousers.

  “I can’t work it out,” I said.

  “Work what out?” said Sharon.

  “They’ve only had a few glasses of champagne.”

  “Yeah, right, and the rest: they’ve also been drinking their own duty-free – I saw one of them opening a bottle earlier, and I told them to put it away.”

  “Mmm, what a bloody pain,” I said. “Let’s get them fed – maybe that’ll help.”

  Cindi didn’t like prosciutto, even though she ordered it from the menu. “I can’t eat raw bacon,” she complained, eyes rolling. She picked at the fillet of poached salmon and refused to touch her pecan tart and custard, whining, “I’ll never get into my dress.” Daz insisted on calling me “Treacle” and demanded more champagne. Somewhere between dessert and the cheeseboard, all hell broke loose. I was serving passengers towards the front of the cabin when I heard the commotion.

  “Oi, Cindi,” hollered a lad called Ad – short for Adrian, apparently. “Why don’t you get your minge out again. We could do with a laugh.”

  “Yeah, go on Cinds,” piped Gaz, “Show us your minge.”

  “Nothing you ain’t seen before, eh, Gaz,” said Ad.

  Daz dropped the piece of Stilton he was about to devour and turned to face his best man. The cabin fell silent. Daz stared Gaz in the eye, nostrils flaring, lips pursed in fury.

  “What the fuck is Ad talking about, Gaz?”

  Gaz tried to laugh it off. “Don’t be daft, mate,” he said, “Ad’s pulling your leg … he didn’t …”

  “‘Nothing you ain’t seen before,’” he said. You’ve been with my bird, haven’t you. My best man – how could you?”

  “Look, calm down, mate,” said Gaz. “It was years ago. It didn’t mean anything.”

  But Daz was already clambering over his seat, raining blows on Gaz’s head while Cindi sobbed.

  Daz jumped on top of Gaz, dragged him to the floor, where the pair wrestled in a drunken tangle of limbs. Blood spilled from Gaz’s mouth, following a blow from Daz’s ringed fist. Cindi jumped on top of the fighting pair, trying to prise them apart as the other passengers watched in horror. I dashed back into the galley. “Quick, get the guys from the back galley to bring the restraint kit,” I said to Sharon, “We might need the handcuffs.”

  It took four of us to restrain them. Cindi left the fight of her own accord and returned to her seat – she wasn’t achieving anything, anyway. We asked the brawling men a series of routine safety and security questions, and, when they didn’t answer, we pounced on them, two of us applying short, sharp shocks to pressure points on their necks to control them, while two stewards cuffed their hands behind their backs. Then we sat them down away from each other, cuffing their tied hands to their seats amid a tirade of foul-mouthed insults. Cindi wept, hiccuped and gurgled. Then she projectile vomited, a fountain of acrid champagne mixed with slithers of partly digested poached salmon splattering the floor and the seat in front of her, soaking her pyjamas and marinating her frizzy hair. “I don’t feel well,” she moaned, retching again.

  “Serves you right, you slag,” said Daz.

  I gave Cindi a fresh sleep suit and helped her to the bathroom to clean herself up. Fortunately, exhaustion overwhelmed the inebriated mob, and one by one they fell asleep, the bride-no-longer-to-be clutching a sick bag, the cheated groom snoring and the reviled best man sporting a black eye and busted lip. The quickie Vegas wedding was over before it began.

  American authorities have a strict policy when it comes to drunken air-rage incidents. So, on landing, police boarded the plane and escorted Daz, Gaz and Cindi into the terminal, where they were grilled by immigration
officials and denied entry into the state of Nevada. They were sent back to the UK on the next available flight. We saw them sitting in the glass interrogation room as we walked through customs – Cindi-with-an-i still wearing her sleep suit, looking bedraggled but solemn, Daz and Gaz becoming animated as they argued with the security and immigration officials.

  There was no denying that the day’s flight had been a tough one, but a five-day trip lay ahead of us in Vegas, which meant only one thing: party time.

  We were treated like royalty in Vegas in those days. Nearly every manager of every bar and club on the Strip knew who we were. All we had to do was make a quick call from the hotel, saying, “The Virgin girls are in town,” and our names would immediately be added to the top of the most prestigious guest lists. A bevy of pretty air hostesses is always good for business.

  On the crew bus I was reunited with my friend Sandra. I hadn’t seen her during the flight because she’d been working in Economy.

  “Mandy, up here,” she shrilled, as I stepped onto the bus. “I’ve saved you a seat.” It was one of those party vehicles, decked out with fairy lights, leather seats and ice-filled mini bars loaded with drinks. The rest of the crew – including Roger the pilot, otherwise known as “Roger the Rogerer” because of his lecherous nature – were already cracking open bottles, chatting excitedly about their plans.

  “Squidge-up,” I said, sliding into the seat next to Sandra. “How was your flight?”

  “Fantastic, thanks. And you?”

  “Argh, don’t even go there. It was a bloody nightmare.”

  “Yeah, I heard about the tangerine bride – sounds hellish. Anyway, guess where you’re going tonight?”

  “Well, it isn’t a wedding, that’s for sure,” I said.

  “You’re going …” She said, pausing for effect, “to the VIP marquees in Pure. A supermodel’s stag do. He’s gorgeous – dated loads of celebs and models. He’s over here with Pete and a few of the lads.”

  Pete was Sandra’s fuck buddy: minted and, according to her, a tiger between the sheets with “a cock like a marrow”.