by Mandy Smith
“Ah, fuck him,” Laura said. “Save it for the next fella.”
“I’m hungry,” Alison added, almost back to her normal self. “Fancy some food?”
We headed back along the boulevard, bursting into choruses of Kaiser Chiefs songs – mainly “Ruby” and “I Predict a Riot”, which, in hindsight, was probably a mistake, because we soon discovered Hollywood Boulevard by night isn’t the same glitzy, fun promenade it is by day. It’s sinister, occupied by street gangs, prostitutes, pimps and kerb-crawlers – and we were attracting attention from some of these unsavoury characters.
“Fuck,” said Cheryl, as Alison launched into another rendition of “Ruby”, “Don’t look now but I think we’re being followed.” Instinctively, we all whipped our heads around to see two menacing-looking guys in hoodies, jeans hanging low round their arses, advancing in that shifty, limp-style gangster gait.
“Sweet asses,” leered one of them.
We quickened our pace, and then ran … all the way to Popeyes, where, satisfied we’d lost the thugs, stopped off for some well-deserved nosh.
“Bloody hell,” said Alison, panting, “That was a close shave.”
We thought we were in the clear, but while Alison was ordering her Bonafide Chicken combo meal, the gangster boys appeared again – and made a beeline for us. Their faces were toffee-coloured, probably Hispanic, I thought. One of them had a goatee beard.
“Hey sweet ass,” cooed the beardless guy, edging close to Alison. “Fancy making some sweet ass music with me tonight? You are one fine lay-dee. Man, sexy as fuck…”
Alison ignored him, slipped a fifty-dollar note on the counter for her food and spun round to face me. “Fucking creep,” she said, rolling her eyes.
“That’ll be five dollars, ma’am,” said the man behind the counter.
“I just paid you,” snapped Alison. “I put a fifty dollar note … here,” she added, tapping an acrylic pink nail on the counter.
“I didn’t see any note, ma’am. That’ll be five dollars. No money, no food.”
“He took it,” said a woman in the queue behind us, pointing at the bearded guy, “I saw him – he put it in his pocket.”
Cheryl was already tucking into her food at a table by the window. Laura and I ordered ours and offered to pay for Alison’s.
“No,” insisted Alison. “I’m telling you. I paid.”
She turned to face the bearded guy. “Oi, did you take my money? Give it back. Now.”
“You heard the woman,” said the man behind the counter in a really weak voice. “Please give her back her money.”
A scary silence followed, the gangsters glowering at us. My food arrived, but I didn’t dare to pick it up.
“Okay,” hissed the thief, “Here’s what’s gonna happen.” Then he raised his right arm, making a gun gesture with his hand. “I’m gonna get my gun, I’m gonna get my car, and I’m gonna drive by this joint and shoot the fucking lot of ya.” And after delivering his death threat, the pair limped out of the restaurant.
Alison was handed her food, after I gave over more money, and everybody in the restaurant acted as though nothing had happened.
“Got any ketchup or Daddies sauce?” Alison piped up.
“I’m sorry ma’am … Daddies who?”
“Oh, never mind,” replied Alison and clip-clopped over to join Cheryl at the table. Laura and I exchanged puzzled looks. Two gangsters had just threatened a drive-by shooting at this restaurant and they were sitting in the window eating chicken. Were they nuts?
We grabbed our food and marched over to the table.
“Are you two for real, or what?” I said, tugging Alison’s arm. “Do you want to be shot? Did you not hear what that guy just said? Didn’t any of it register? Come on, we’re going. Take your food, we’ll eat it at the hotel.”
“But it’ll be cold then,” whined Alison.
“Now,” Laura insisted.
Fortunately, we managed to flag down a taxi on the boulevard and made it back to the hotel unscathed. We weren’t the first – or the last – crew members to run into danger in LA. Virgin later cancelled its contract with the hotel in Torrance after two terrifying incidents occurred there – one hostess was attacked and mugged in the lift, and, on the same trip, a steward checked into his room to find a dead prostitute under his bed.
We didn’t return to the boulevard on that trip. Instead, we sunbathed by the pool and went on a girly shopping excursion. There was a mall directly opposite our hotel which housed all my favourite shops: Urban Outfitters, Sephora, Jimmy Choo, Bath & Body Works. I went a bit mad on our final day in LA – I think I was still in shock after bumping into those gangsters. I returned from the mall loaded down with bags. I bought stemless wine glasses from Crate & Barrel (a necessary purchase), make-up, a load of products from Bath & Body Works and a pair of wedges from Guess that I’d had my eye on for some time. I wasn’t the only one – all the other girls had blown a fortune, too.
It had been a whirlwind two nights in LA and we left feeling exhausted, especially Alison, who spent her second night shagging a KLM steward, Anthony, whom she’d met in the hotel bar (it hadn’t taken her long to get over Greg). “I got to use the vibrating cock ring after all,” she said as we fell into our seats on the crew bus.
“Anthony any good?” asked Laura.
Alison cocked her head to one side, and in a serious tone said, “He’s very good at anal.”
It seemed we couldn’t escape from celebrities that trip. Courtney Love was on our flight back to London. She had previously been banned from flying Virgin following an air-rage incident that ended with her allegedly flailing around the cabin and branding a stewardess a “fucking bitch”. Richard Branson later waived the ban after she apologised to him at a charity concert in London.
Some of the girls felt a bit nervous having Courtney on board, as they were worried she might kick off again. So I volunteered to serve her. For all the bad press surrounding Courtney, I actually liked her. She really opened up to me and we had some interesting conversations. The first time I’d met her, she’d spoken about her late husband, Kurt Cobain – about the legal battles she’d endured over his fortune on behalf of their daughter. I’d perched on the ottoman at the foot of her seat, listening intently. “People have accused me of being a gold-digger,” she’d said, “But I honestly didn’t know how rich we were until after he was gone.”
On this flight, we chatted again. I sat next to her and listened as she spoke about her relationship with comedian Steve Coogan, who had recently moved to the United States. “I hate the man,” she said. “I never want to see him again – I don’t even want to live on the same planet as him – he’s my nemesis.”
I nodded. “I can understand why, especially after everything he put you through.”
Courtney then delved into her handbag and pulled out a map of the Cotswolds and surrounding areas. “I’m getting out of the States,” she explained, unfolding the map across our laps. “I’m not living in the States anymore if Hillary Clinton doesn’t get in [as president]. I’m thinking of moving to the UK. What’s this area like?”
She pointed at the Cotswolds.
I hesitated. Somehow I couldn’t imagine someone as wild as Courtney fitting in amid tranquil rolling hills, or boozing in quaint country pubs. “It’s lovely, Courtney, but I’m not sure it’ll be your cup of tea. You might find it rather … quiet and boring. Why don’t you move to Hove? It’s near Brighton. It’s an open-minded city, very bohemian – right up your street.”
She nodded her head slowly. “That sounds neat.”
Later in the flight I returned to Courtney’s seat – only to find her passed out, make-up smudged, the contents of her bag spilled across the seat and little blue Tylenol PMs scattered on the floor by her feet. I put everything back into her bag and tucked her duvet over her. “I take it you don’t want that lamb shank dinner, then,” I said under my breath.
The next time I saw her she thanked me for
recommending Hove, adding that she was seriously considering moving there. She passed out on that flight too, so we never did finish putting the world to rights. I never saw her again, but wherever she’s living now, I hope she’s happy.
CHAPTER 17
BANKERS, TOGGLES AND TOFFS
“Oh, that bloody Robbie Williams – he’s eaten all my favourite chocolates,” I cursed, rifling through what was left in the bowl of Lily O’Brien’s. “He’s had all the raspberry infusions … and key lime pies … what a rascal.”
Felicity grinned, picked a chocolate out of the bowl and popped it into her mouth. “He fancies you,” she said, reaching into the bowl again.
I slapped her hand. “Hey, not the hazelnut torte – that’s the only decent one he’s left. Who fancies me?”
“Robbie. I can tell.”
“Don’t be daft – he’s a nice guy. I like chatting to him.”
“Imagine if you were to date him. You’d be in all those celeb mags. I can just see the headline: ‘I’m Loving Mandy Instead,’” added Felicity, laughing at her own joke.
It was 1am and Felicity and I were enjoying a quiet moment in the Upper Class galley while the passengers snoozed and the rest of the crew were on a break. One of the passengers on board this LA-to-London flight was British pop star Robbie Williams. I’d met him on previous flights, and he’d always pop into the galley for a chat and a giggle. I was pleasantly surprised when I first met him; I thought he was going to be one of those demanding diva types, but I found him to be very down to earth and friendly. Occasionally he’d play up to his image – usually when some of the other girls were fawning over him – but I’ve never been awestruck by famous people and I think Robbie respected that.
Robbie had spent the majority of this flight in the galley talking to me, leaning on the galley surface and scoffing all the chocolates. “Chocolate’s one of my worst vices,” he’d said, every time his square, nail-bitten fingers spidered into the bowl.
“You’ll have to get yourself down the gym tomorrow,” I’d replied. “You’ve demolished about five thousand calories there.”
“You look as though you work out a lot, Mandy – you’re very well-toned.”
“Yeah, I do actually,” I said, rolling my eyes and giving him a playful punch. “I bet you say that to all the girls.”
Joking aside, we spoke about mundane things – everyday chit chat, really. He talked at length about his dogs settling in after moving to LA. He said he’d named one of his pooches Kenny after the late Carry On film actor Kenneth Williams – because his bark sounded just like the comic’s raucous laugh. We also discussed spots as he’d walked in on me squeezing mine in the mirror. I was busy dabbing my spots with my tea-tree oil pen when he piped up: “Can I borrow that?”
“No you can’t, you cheeky bugger – buy your own,” I said.
“I’m always getting spots, Mandy. I draw eyeliner over them to make them look like moles for when I’m on stage.”
As I tended to my spot, we leaned on the galley surface and Robbie noticed a note pinned on the oven door that the first officer had left for me. It read: “If Robbie wakes up, can you please get his autograph for my niece, Gemma?”
“Hey, Mandy,” he said, pointing at the note, laughing. “What the hell’s all this about, ‘If Robbie wakes up?’ I haven’t even been to sleep yet. What the hell have you put in my food?”
“Oh yeah … that’s from the first officer,” I said.
He grabbed the piece of paper, picked up my fluffy pink pen and scribbled a message to Gemma. “There, you can tell your first officer I did wake up,” he said. “Despite your cooking.”
Robbie eventually returned to his flat bed for a kip at around 2am. “Wake me up an hour before we land will you, Mandy?” he said with a wink. “I need at least three espressos before I face the paps.”
He returned ten minutes later, peeping his head around the galley curtain, in his Virgin sleep suit, looking rather forlorn.
“I hope you haven’t come back for more chocolates,” I said. “They’re all gone – you’ve eaten them all.”
Robbie pointed to his waist. “It’s me toggle, Mandy … I’ve lost it – I think it’s stuck round the back – look,” he said, tugging the waistband of his trousers up over his chest, “they won’t stay up.”
“My skirt is just as bad,” I said. “Look at this.” I pulled my red hipster skirt up to my chest too, so that my skirt now resembled a sixties mini dress, and we both pranced about the galley being silly and ever so slightly hypoxic.
“Here, let me,” I said, reaching for Robbie’s pyjama bottoms.
I bunched up the fabric and slipped my little finger into the sleeve of his waistband and, with my nail, teased out the plastic stopper at the end of the drawstring and pulled out Robbie’s toggle. “There you go,” I said. “Problem solved.”
Robbie glanced down at his toggle. “How did you manage that?” he said. “I’ve been sitting here for ages trying to get that out.”
“You just need a little patience, Robbie.” I blurted out, not realising my faux pas.
As he retied his pyjamas he randomly asked, “Do you have a boyfriend, Mandy?”
I shook my head. “What are you like? Yes, I have – we’ve been together for quite a few years.”
“That’s a pity,” he joked. “Thanks for fixing me toggle, though. I’m off to bed now.”
“’Night, Robbie,” I said, “Sleep well.”
I didn’t really have a boyfriend at this point, but I wasn’t going to tell Robbie that. Unlike some of the other girls on board that night, I wasn’t obsessed with dating celebrities. I couldn’t think of anything worse than being stalked by the paparazzi or being known only for my relationship with a famous person. I knew a few hosties who had affairs with celebs – and footballers – and that’s all they ever amounted to: brief affairs. One of my colleagues, Christina, a striking six-foot blonde, dated comedian Russell Brand for a while. He pursued her on a New York flight by writing his mobile number on an Upper Class napkin and asking another hostie to pass it to the “Amazonian goddess down the back”. They went out for months and, although I don’t know the full ins and outs of what went on, Christina described their relationship as being “like a rollercoaster ride”.
Another stewardess, Dianne, told us how she’d once shagged a television presenter at a party. A week after the deed he appeared on one of her flights … with his girlfriend. Dianne made him squirm by constantly going over to his seat and asking, “Is there anything I can get for you, sir?” Later, when he confronted Dianne in the galley, she threatened to tell his girlfriend about their steamy liaison. She didn’t carry out her threat – but she did gob in his food.
I met several celebrities working in Upper Class: some nice, some not so nice.
Patrick Swayze was adorable – he once stayed behind on board after the plane had landed to sign autographs and chat to the whole crew – even the pilots loved him.
Of all the male celebrities I met, Robbie was definitely my favourite. We always had a laugh and I wasn’t fazed by his flirtatious nature; he was never lecherous or arrogant like some up-their-own-arse stars. I didn’t fancy Robbie – although the fib I told him about being in a relationship made me question what the hell was going on with my love life, which, at that point, was virtually non-existent. Since my highly embarrassing one-night stand in Vegas, I’d given up on men completely. I’d been on a few dates, but none that led to anything special. Many of the men I did go out with only seemed interested in bedding an air hostess. There were no romantic gestures or efforts to make me feel like a princess. Quite often I ended up paying for most of the drinks. This, however, was all about to change.
In summer 2006, not long after I fixed Robbie’s toggle, I started going out more in the UK, hitting bars in the city with my colleague Emma who, at five foot ten, with sweeping blonde hair and a wide smile, could easily have been mistaken for Cameron Diaz. We were always immaculately turned
out in our sexy little dresses and heels, so we attracted a lot of attention from super-rich men with money to burn on glamorous air hostesses. Lawyers, bankers, brokers, toffs … they were all falling over themselves to impress us, and my nights on the town led to a series of thrilling – and bizarre – relationships.
First came Amir, a filthy-rich Malaysian lawyer who, initially, didn’t seem like a weirdo at all. Emma introduced me to Amir one night in a swish bar at Canary Wharf where bottles of vodka cost £300 a pop. He was a friend of the hedge fund manager, Richard, who Emma was dating at the time. Amir was good looking, with a buff body, and seemed like a genuinely nice guy: he had a gentlemanly manner that I instantly warmed to. He was extremely interested in me and my job and was an avid traveller himself. We didn’t exchange numbers at the end of the night, but I figured I’d probably bump into him again on another night out.
The following evening, just as I was about to set off for a trip to Delhi, my mobile rang.
“Hi Mandy, how’re you?”
“Hi, who’s this?”
“It’s Amir.”
I was still confused. “Who?” I asked abruptly.
“Amir … we met last night. I’m Richard’s friend. Canary Wharf, remember.”
“Oh, right, yeah, I remember … how did you get my number?”
“Emma gave it to me.”
“Look, Amir,” I said, “I’m not being rude but I’ve got to go – I’ve got a ten o’clock flight to Delhi and …”
“Ah, Delhi,” Amir butted in, “I love Delhi. Where are you staying?”
“The Hyatt Hotel. I’m sorry, but I really have to go.”
“Not at all, Mandy. I just wanted to call to say how charmed I was to meet you last night … and I wondered whether you’d care to join me for dinner or a coffee sometime.”
“That’s very kind, but I’m away for five nights.”
“Okay, I’ll call when you get back,” said Amir. “Have a safe flight.”
I put down the phone, thinking, I’ll bloody kill Emma.
The Hyatt Hotel – with its lush spa and pool set in lush tropical gardens – was a great place to chill out on a five-night trip in Delhi. However, I hadn’t anticipated chilling out quite so much as I did on this trip.
