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

by Mandy Smith

  I seemed to be heading from one disaster to the next. When I arrived at the hotel the receptionist had no note of my booking or payment – that bloody tourist information officer had mugged me again – so I had to pay for another room. It was a shitty little room with no lock on the door, bare-bulb lighting and an easily accessible balcony. I barricaded the door with a chair and my rucksack, and blocked the balcony doors with an ironing board – I wasn’t taking any chances now. I couldn’t sleep: I’d heard too many stories of tourists being raped by intruders in Bolivian hotels. I sat on the bed and turned on my mobile phone. There was a text from Dad: “Hello pet, how’re you getting on? Keep safe. Love you, Dad.”

  Dad always seemed to know when something was wrong. I replied to Dad’s message, saying that I was safe, well and having a wonderful time. Of course, this was a lie, but I couldn’t exactly send him a message saying, “I’ve been mugged once, ripped off twice and Bolivia is the arsehole of the world.”

  I stayed awake until the early hours, then I checked out of the hotel and took a taxi (this time with a bone fide transport police–registered firm) to the airport. I flew back to Miami, then Upper Class back to the UK.

  Even though I’d experienced a few hiccups, I did feel spiritually fulfilled after my adventure. I was calmer and more confident; I’d lost loads of weight and all that trekking had left me in the best shape I’d been in for years. My legs were toned, my tummy flat and I couldn’t wait to show off my Inca-honed curves to Hugo.

  I called him two days after I returned home. It was Friday afternoon, and I had no plans for the evening – I wasn’t due back at work until the following week. Hugo was surprised to hear from me.

  “I thought you were still in Peru,” he said.

  “I came back early – thought I’d give the salt flats a miss, long story. What are you doing tonight? Fancy meeting up?”

  “Yes. I’d like to see you, actually,” Hugo replied. “I can come to your place about 7pm, if that suits?”

  “Sure, I thought we could go out for dinner. I’m in need of a good feed.”

  “Great, I’ll see you then.”

  Three hours I spent getting dolled up for Hugo: I waxed, exfoliated, moisturised, put on a mud mask, painted my nails, styled my hair into a Bridget Bardot–inspired do and paid meticulous attention to my make-up. I put on a sexy black bodice (I was still into my bodices), a pair of black skinny jeans and three-inch heels, and when the doorbell rang at 7pm, I was still adding final touches to my make-up and deciding which jewellery to wear.

  “You look beautiful,” Hugo said, when I opened the door. “Simply ravishing.”

  I pecked him on the cheek. “Thanks, babe.”

  I directed Hugo into the lounge. “I’ll be two minutes,” I said. “I just have to run upstairs for my bag. I thought we could maybe go for Thai? Or Indian, or …”

  Hugo stopped me there. “I need to talk to you about something,” he said, staring down at his polo boots.

  “I’ll literally just be two minutes.”

  “It’s important, Mandy,” he added.

  “Okay, I’m listening.”

  We didn’t even sit down. We stood in the lounge doorway, Hugo holding my shoulders with a contrite expression on his face, as he blurted out: “While you were away, I rekindled my romance with Angelique. We’re back together, so I’m terribly sorry, but I won’t be able to see you again.”

  “What do you mean?” I said, shaking his hands off my shoulders.

  “She came to me. She apologised and told me she wanted to get back together. I love her, Mandy.”

  “Well good for you,” I said. “I’ve just wasted three hours of my life getting ready for you – just to hear you say, ‘You’re beautiful … and dumped’? You could at least have broken it to me gently over dinner, or told me over the phone.”

  “I’m sorry Mandy – I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

  “Oh, just go,” I snapped.

  Hugo apologised again and disappeared, closing the front door behind him with a soft, apologetic click.

  I sat in the lounge for a few minutes, cursing Hugo and his daft polo boots and his posh-bugger ways and his tragic dumping speech. I was all dressed up with nowhere to go. I wandered upstairs, determined not to cry, walked into the bedroom and grabbed my mobile phone off the dressing table. There’s got to be someone who wants to go out tonight, I thought, knowing full well that all my girls were away on trips, as I’d just seen them the day before. I went to my address book – the first name was Andre’s. I called him, and five minutes later I was in a cab on my way to Waterloo. A girl doesn’t spend three hours getting done up for nothing.

  CHAPTER 19

  THE HIGH LIFE

  “You should get yourself a rich man, Mands,” said Ania. “Never mind all those toy boys and pilots, you need a proper man – someone who’s going to treat you like a princess.”

  We were in Vegas, drinking cocktails and basking in the early evening sun by our private infinity pool at the ridiculously posh Wynn resort – courtesy of one of Ania’s many high roller “man friends”.

  “That’s easy for you to say,” I said, “You’ve only ever dated wealthy men.”

  “Yeah, and I wouldn’t have it any other way,” she added, massaging suncream into her two perfect mounds of silicone. “I’m living the dream. You need to cast your net a little further, honey.”

  “But I’ve already been through the rich men,” I said. “I’ve dated a few bankers and toffs, and look where that got me.”

  Ania shook her head slowly. “They were just kids, Mandy. I’m talking super-wealthy men: millionaires, billionaires, Arabs, business tycoons – there’s loads of them out there all dying to snap up a beautiful woman like you.”

  Ania, a fellow Virgin dolly, was stunning: Swedish, tall, leggy and the spitting image of Bridget Bardot – albeit slightly enhanced. I’d met her on a few Vegas jaunts and we’d become firm friends. She spent most of her time in Vegas or Dubai, where she led a lavish life funded by filthy rich men. She’d been dating a Saudi prince for over a year now and was convinced he was on the brink of proposing.

  Ania reclined in her sun lounger and adjusted her Brazilian-style white bikini bottoms. “You’re picking the wrong men, Mands,” she said.

  Maybe Ania had a point. Two hours ago I’d arrived at her apartment in floods of tears after a disastrous date in Death Valley with a first officer called Mike. I’d met Mike on an Orlando trip, and we’d really hit it off. He had a great sense of humour: on our night out in Orlando, he pushed me all the way from the restaurant to the hotel lobby in a shopping trolley; during the flight home he taught me how to fly the plane – a Boeing 747-400 – while the captain was on a loo break. He had a quirky nature that appealed to me, and I thought he had potential. Tall and muscular with army-boy looks, he seemed just my type. We’d kissed, once, in Orlando: a hard, passionate kiss up against the wall in the hotel corridor. He’d then invited me back to his room, but I’d declined – I didn’t want to appear too eager.

  I’d rearranged my roster to come on this five-night trip to Vegas with Mike. It had caused a lot of hassle – Vegas trips were popular, and I practically had to beg one of the girls to swap flights with me. Now I wished I hadn’t bothered. Our date to Death Valley was as successful as its name.

  Mike had made our little road trip sound so romantic: “We’ll have a picnic in the grounds of Scotty’s Castle and hike to the Darwin Falls.” But two hours into our drive, his mobile phone rang, and he pulled over on the desolate Badwater Road. “I’ll be two minutes,” he said, and got out of the car to take the call. I wound the window down to eavesdrop. There was something unnerving about his demeanour: he was pacing back and forth, his free hand clamped to the back of his head, his voice becoming louder, agitated. I was catching fragments, the occasional “for fuck’s sake” and “get a grip”. But it was when I heard him bellow, “Of course I still love you,” that I knew he was a lying, cheating bastard.
r />   “Sorry about that,” Mike said when he got back into the car. “Sisters, eh.”

  “Take me back to Vegas,” I demanded.

  He slapped his hand on my thigh. “Don’t say that, we’re going to Scotty’s Castle – surely you don’t want to turn back yet?”

  I pushed his hand off my leg. “Don’t touch me,” I said, “Do you think I’m an imbecile? Sister? More like your girlfriend.”

  “I don’t have a girlfriend.”

  I let out a sarcastic laugh. “I heard you. ‘Of course I still love you,’” I said in a melodramatic voice.

  Mike tugged at the steering wheel, lost for words.

  “Well?

  “Okay,” he relented. “Yes, I do have a girlfriend … but not for long. It’s run its course – she doesn’t understand me … my needs.”

  “Ah, that old chestnut,” I scoffed.

  “No, really, Mandy, I’m into stuff, you know – stuff she’s not willing to do. Whereas you’re different. You’re open, up for doing things other women are too scared to try.”

  “What do you mean, ‘stuff’?”

  Mike’s “stuff” tumbled out of his mouth. He was into S&M and “Nazi torture games” and loved being bound, blindfolded, spanked and whipped with an assortment of instruments: paddles, riding crops, cat-o’-nine-tails whips and belts. I gazed ahead of me, eyes lost in the rainbow-coloured rock formations, thinking, Shall I just get out of the car now?

  “The thrill of being flogged – or even just spanked – is out of this world. I can’t even begin to explain how exhilarating it is,” he continued.

  “Well, I think you’ve done a pretty good job of explaining it,” I mocked.

  Mike reached out and touched my face. I recoiled.

  “You’d make a great dominatrix, Mandy,” he said. “I’d love to see you in a female Nazi guard’s outfit … would you be up for it?”

  I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Was I offended? A little, perhaps, but part of me just felt sorry for Mike, as he was obviously barking up the wrong tree.

  I decided to adopt a diplomatic approach to the situation. “Look, Mike,” I said firmly. “If that kind of thing floats your boat, then good for you – I’m not going to judge you. But it’s really not for me. So if you don’t mind, I’d like you to turn the car around and take me back to Vegas, please.”

  Sheepishly, Mike started the engine and U-turned back to Vegas.

  I didn’t cry in front of Mike – I waited until I got to Ania’s villa, when I let it all out. They weren’t tears of sorrow as such. They were angry, frustrated, why-do-I-attract-all-the-nutters tears. Ania had thrown her arms around me, rubbed my back and cooed, “It’s okay darling, I’m here. I’ll call the butler; it sounds like you’re in need of a daiquiri.”

  I was now on my fourth daiquiri – and beginning to find the whole Mike scenario quite amusing. I vacuumed the pink liquid up through the straw and rolled over onto my front on the lounger, which was more like a bed. “Nazi sex games,” I exclaimed. “Why on earth would he think I’d be into that shit? Do I look like a Nazi guard?”

  Ania laughed. “Maybe you could get yourself a little stick-on Hitler moustache?”

  I burst out laughing, daiquiri spraying out of my nose.

  “Another daiquiri?” slurred Ania. “Or shall we move onto something a little more exotic?”

  “Whatever you fancy – I’ll drink anything, me.”

  Ania swung her Bond girl legs off the lounger and looped her bikini top over her head. “I’ll call the butler,” she said, and disappeared into the villa.

  She returned with the suntanned butler, who was balancing a tray topped with two Pina Coladas above his head. He placed the drinks on the table. “Is there anything else I can get for you ladies?” he said, with a cheesy Vegas grin.

  “Maybe another two of these in half an hour?” replied Ania, reaching for her glass.

  “Certainly, ma’am. Enjoy the sunshine, ladies,” he drawled, then turned on his heels and tapped back through the villa.

  I raised my glass. “Here’s to no more psycho men,” I said loudly.

  “And here’s to millionaires and billionaires,” declared Ania, grabbing her Gucci crocodile-leather tote bag from a chair by the table. “I’ve got a present for you,” she added, pulling a book out of her bag and handing it to me.

  “The Rules: How to Capture the Heart of Mr Right?” I mused, squinting one eye to read the book’s title out loud. “What’s this?”

  “It’s a guide to dating,” explained Ania, dropping her tiny, toned bum onto the lounger. “You can have it. I’ve read it cover to cover a million times. It’s full of great advice – it worked for me.”

  I scanned the contents page. “Rule Thirty: Next! And Other Rules for Dealing with Rejection. I think I’ll read that one first,” I said.

  “Read it and learn,” Ania said, unleashing her 30DDs from her white bikini top. “It’s worked for me.”

  We sat there sinking cocktails until the sun went down, getting deliriously drunk. I felt better already.

  I read The Rules in one sitting – I couldn’t put it down. Ania was right; it was full of insightful tips – although some of them seemed to date back to the fifties’ dutiful housewife era.

  I was also beginning to think that Ania’s suggestion that I find myself a “rich man” may not be such a bad idea after all. Why be miserable with a poor man when I could be happy with a wealthy one? I deluded myself into thinking that maybe I could just marry someone for their money … even if I didn’t fancy them, I could maybe just sleep with them now and then and just enjoy the lifestyle. I was looking for husband material, after all.

  I was sitting by the pool with the girls at the Marriott Harbour Hotel in Dubai when my first opportunity arose to test The Rules on a rich man. A random Bluetooth message appeared on my mobile: “Hello, Cloud Angel [my phone name], you seem really nice. Are you interested in dinner tonight?”

  I looked across the pool through my Jackie O–style Dior sunglasses, scanning the restaurant and bar area – where a group of suited businessmen were lunching – but I couldn’t see anyone holding a mobile phone or waving. This was weird. I felt a bit intimidated; whoever had sent this message could see me but I couldn’t see them. I messaged him back. “Who are you?”

  An immediate reply flashed up on the screen. “I like your style; lovely hat.”

  “Tell me your name?” I typed.

  “Mahir Asker. I have to go, I’ll be in touch.”

  I turned to Stacey, the girl I’d worked with during the engine fire on the Miami-bound flight.

  “Here, babe,” I said, handing her my phone. “Check this out. Some weirdo is sending me messages, but I can’t see him.”

  Stacey flicked through the messages. “Hmm, weird. Are you going to take him up on his offer?”

  “I don’t even know what he looks like. He could be a psychopath for all I know. It’s a bit stalker-ish, don’t you think?

  “Just get yourself out there and enjoy a free meal,” piped up Christine, another dolly, spritzing her face with Evian mist. “Jesus, it’s too hot here. Anyone for a dip?”

  Meanwhile, as my phone was getting passed around the girls, one of the poolside waiters came over and presented me with a bottle of Dom Perignon on ice.

  “I didn’t order champagne,” I said, as he popped the cork.

  He filled a champagne flute. “Courtesy of the gentleman at the bar, madam,” he said, turning his head towards the table where the businessmen were sitting about 300 yards away.

  I followed his gaze to the table. One of the suited men – who from this distance appeared to be in his early thirties with black hair and designer stubble – dipped his head and waved in my direction. I waved back. “Alright?” I said, even though he couldn’t hear me. The girls also started waving, shouting, “Hello, Mahir.”

  I turned to the waiter. “Here, would you mind fetching some extra glasses for the girls, please?”


  “Certainly, madam.”

  Stacey burst out laughing. “Mandy, what are you like? He obviously wants you to share that champagne with him. You should go over there and join him – he looks like a nice bloke.”

  I took a generous gulp. “Are you kidding me? No way, that’s not in The Rules. Rule number two says you shouldn’t talk to a man first. And besides, he can come and speak to me if he’s so keen. He’s got legs.”

  “And he’s using them now,” said Stacey, nodding in the direction of the restaurant.

  I turned round to see Mahir walking towards me, smiling broadly, dressed in a crisp white shirt, cerise silk tie and charcoal suit trousers, designer shades to match his black designer stubble. He was quite tasty, really.

  “I’m delighted to make your acquaintance, Cloud Angel,” said Mahir, walking right up to my sun bed.

  I lifted the brim of my oversized hat. “It’s Mandy, actually,” I said. “What are you up to? Randomly sending me messages – it’s a bit strange, don’t you think? And how did you know you were messaging me?”

  He took off his shades. For somebody so dark-skinned, I was expecting him to have brown eyes, but they were blue-grey in colour, almond-shaped and trimmed with long, black lashes. “Because you were the only one I could see using a mobile phone.” He bowed his head again, adding, “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mandy.”

  Just then, the waiter appeared on his shoulder – with a tray full of champagne glasses.

  I giggled. “I was going to have a little drink with the girls … you can join us if you want.”

  Before Mahir could reply, Stacey butted in. “I think I’ll join Christine for that swim.”

  Exchanging conspiratorial winks, all six girls got off their sun beds, picked their bikinis out of their bums and headed for the pool, leaving me alone with Mahir … and the bottle of champagne.

  Mahir was polite, well-mannered and easy to talk to. We chatted for the next hour, while the girls played noisily in the pool. He spoke with a sexy Omar Sharif accent and told me he worked in the “oil business”, was thirty-four, and still had a nanny. “A nanny,” I said, giggling. “Does she burp you?”