Cabin Fever: The sizzling secrets of a Virgin air hostess… (2 page)

“Jeez,” said Felicity, as we fell into our seats on the crew bus, “that was some flight.”

“Tell me about it,” I said. “Always a drama, eh.”

“Here,” said Felicity, delving into her flight bag and producing two vodka miniatures (courtesy of the lovely Sir Richard Branson), “Get this down your neck.”

“Don’t mind if I do,” I giggled, grabbing one of the bottles. “Bottoms up.”

There’s nothing like a good stiff drink after a hard day at the office.

CHAPTER 1

HELLO, DOLLY

When I cast my mind back to one summer night in 1999 – the night my then boyfriend, Neil, consumed with jealousy, booze and cocaine, beat me black and blue and left me lying in a bloody heap in a dingy stairwell – I think,
God, he did me a favour
.

Not that I enjoyed being battered: it was terrifying and humiliating. Nor do I condone domestic abuse, but it was the wake-up call I needed to turn my life around. Bizarrely, Neil knocking ten bells out of me was one of the main reasons I decided to fulfil my childhood dream of becoming an international “trolley dolly”.

Back then, I wasn’t the confident, take-no-prisoners Mandy I am today. I was naive, vulnerable and a hopeful romantic, with the heart on my sleeve throbbing for all to see. At the time I was working as a planning support officer in Virgin’s engineering department in Crawley, West Sussex. I’d moved to the Horsham district not long after my parents, James and Sue, had relocated there from Hartlepool – where I was born and bred – for work. I’d recently graduated from the Hartlepool College of Further Education with a diploma in computer science, but there was little work available in the north-east and I wasn’t sure what I wanted
to do career-wise. I had no ties, so, on a whim, I accepted a six-month contract at Virgin, which is where I met Neil.

Neil was a charmer at first – the flirtatious IT consultant who found every excuse under the sun to fiddle with my computer. Tall and wiry, with Aegean-blue eyes, he had a chivalrous Milk Tray–man nature that I instantly warmed to. After several failed relationships, I thought Neil, with his gallant gestures, flowers and compliments, was a great catch. How could I not be beguiled by this seemingly decent, loving man? We dated for about five months. He was a sexual firecracker, and I swear my orgasmic yelps could be heard all over Crawley. Then, within the last few weeks of our relationship, he turned into a psychopath. The change in his demeanour was as though an ugly monster had taken over his soul; it was frightening. He became aggressive, possessive, accusatory, snapping at the tiniest thing, convinced that every other man fancied me. And I began to think I had a genetic defect, as if a warped part of my DNA had programmed me to reject all the good guys and let only the bad ones in. I actually thought I was to blame.

Neil’s final outburst on that sweaty June night came after we left a Jamiroquai gig at the Brighton Centre … and moments after I ended our relationship. I’d been looking forward to the concert for months, being a huge Jay Kay fan, but Neil vanished to buy drugs at the start of the gig, leaving me alone in the jostling throng of perspiring revellers. He reappeared near the end – halfway through “Virtual Insanity” – eyes black and vacuous, chewing his bottom lip and snaking his gangly arms around my waist. I tried to shrug him off, but there was no room for manoeuvring in the crowd, which was sweeping us from left to right, forwards and backwards. He was clinging onto me like a stranded swimmer to a buoy.

“Where the hell have you been?” I demanded, but my words were drowned by the throbbing music.

I confronted him again as we left the Brighton Centre and made our way to the NCP car park to meet Neil’s mate, Darren, who was due to give us a lift home. Neil was clearly off his face, staggering and snarling at passers-by. He tried to force his hand into the back pocket of my jeans, and I flinched.

His voice was sour, cold. “What’s the matter with you?”

I stopped walking. Neil carried on, muttering, “For fuck’s sake,” under his breath.

“I’ll tell you exactly what the matter is, Neil.”

He spun round, face tight with chemical rage, gnarly veins pulsating at his temples. I thought his shaven head was about to explode all over the pavement.

“Why did you bugger off and leave me? Are you that desperate for Charlie that you can’t even stay and enjoy a concert with me?”

“I got lost going to the toilet. No big deal.”

“What, for two-and-a-half hours? Face it, Neil, you don’t want to spend any time with me lately unless it’s in the bedroom.” Neil’s excuse was pathetic, laughable. I knew his routine; it wasn’t the first time he’d done a disappearing act on me to feed his habit.

He rammed his fist into a nearby ornamental lamp post, shouting, “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

“It’s over, Neil,” I said. “I don’t think we should see each other anymore. I can’t handle your temper.” Then I continued walking, my shadow bouncing before me on the pavement, tailed by Neil hollering obscenities. He followed me along Kings Road by the seafront, onto West Street and all the way down Russell Road and into the multi-storey car park where we’d arranged to meet Darren by his car on the third floor.

“What do you mean, ‘It’s over’?” said Neil, kicking the door
open behind me. I ignored him and powered up the stairs, Neil’s deranged yells echoing throughout the desolate building, scary and hollow. “Come back here, you bitch. I mean it, Mandy …”

I continued climbing, taking two steps at a time, intermittently grasping the grimy handrail, heart banging. Neil was now bounding up the stairs, his heavy thuds chasing the staccato snaps and scrapes of my heels on the concrete until he was inches behind me. He grabbed the back of my leg. I clung to the handrail but my hand was so clammy I lost my grip.

It happened in a split second. Clamping my calf with both hands, Neil yanked my leg upwards then downwards with such force that I slammed face-down onto the steps. He dragged me all the way down the staircase, my face and body grazing against the concrete with every agonising bump. I screamed as loud as I could, but he wouldn’t stop. At the bottom of the stairs, before I even had a chance to defend myself, he was on top of me, one hand clenched around my throat, the other balled into a fist, raining blows on my upper body. I was fighting for breath. My lungs felt as though they were being punctured, my head grinding into the grimy floor like a giant pestle against stone. Nothing felt or looked real. Beyond Neil’s thrashing form, the door to the stairwell blurred in and out of focus, and a little voice in my head was chanting silent prayers: “Somebody, please save me.”

I don’t know what made Neil finally decide to end his attack. Maybe it was a sudden realisation that he actually might kill me if he continued. He released his grip. I gasped for air, tears streaming down my face. Neil knelt beside me, breathing hard through clenched teeth, wiping trickles of saliva from the corners of his mouth. Then he disappeared up the stairs and I was all alone, foetal on the floor in my jeans and Jamiroquai T-shirt, body rheumatic with pain, windpipe crushed.

A young couple found me and very kindly drove me to the nearest police station, where a sympathetic woman police constable with an agony aunt smile sat me down with a polystyrene cup of sweet tea and told me how she too had just come out of a violent relationship. “None of this is your fault. You do realise that, don’t you?” she said.

I nodded, long locks of tangled brunette hair tumbling around my face, heavy with the scent of the car park stairwell: a dirty, antiseptic mix of stale urine, rubbish bins and Dettol.

After I’d given my statement – and agreed to press charges against Neil – the police officer asked me if there was anyone I could call to pick me up. “A relative, perhaps?”

It was gone two in the morning. I had no money. I’d paid for the concert tickets, and Neil had promised to settle up with me later in the evening. I should’ve known I’d never see the cash. I lived with my parents, so I had no flatmate to call upon. “I guess I’ll have to call me dad,” I said.

We drove home in silence. Dad was heartbroken. Even though I was twenty-five, I was still his little princess. We pulled up in the driveway. The house was in darkness. The engine hushed.

“Mam must be asleep,” I said.

Dad cupped his hands over his face and dropped them to his lap with a groan. “I’ll kill him, I’ll kill him, Mandy … I keep telling you: you’re too soft. Tell me where he lives.”

Once again I was crying. I couldn’t think of anything else to say other than: “I’m sorry, Dad.”

He turned to look at me, his huge brown eyes filled with pain. “Come here, pet,” he said, pulling me towards him. I sobbed into his chest as he wrapped his comforting arms tightly around me, kissing the top of my refuse-stinking head.

“Don’t cry, pet. I just can’t bear the thought of anyone hurting
you, that’s all. We love you so much. There are good men out there, Mandy, men who will treat you well, how you deserve to be treated.”

It broke my heart. “I love you, Dad,” I choked.

He squeezed me tighter. “Me too, pet, me too.”

I went to work as normal the next day. Despite the heat, I wore a polo-neck jumper to hide Neil’s red handprint on my throat and plastered on the slap to conceal my black eye, busted lip, scrapes and grazes. Fortunately, there was no sign of Neil at the office.
Not so bloody tough now
, I thought.

That afternoon, as I stood at the photocopier, staring blankly at the jellyfish-shaped coffee stain on the wall, my mind flashed back to the previous night. What was I thinking? How on earth did I end up with somebody like Neil? And surely there had to be more to life than gawping at these dribbled tentacles. I was so lost in thought I wasn’t even aware I had company.

“Hey Mands, how’s it going?”

I spun round sharply, my nerves still shot. It was Jonathan, a design engineer who had just landed a job as a Virgin Atlantic steward – a career move he hoped would help him pursue his dream of becoming a pilot. He was tall, of Nordic descent with looks to match: blue eyes, soft and wavy blond hair, sparkling white teeth and the biggest feet I’d ever seen.

“Oh, Jonathan … you made me jump.”

“Sorry, Mands.” He paused for a moment to observe my wounds. “Ouch, what happened to your face?” Jonathan was probably the nicest person in the office: caring, generous and so sincere – the kind of fella you could take home to your parents.

I looked at the floor, embarrassed. I was a walking advert for a campaign against domestic violence. I could hear the voice-over in my head: “Don’t Suffer in Silence,” accompanied by images of
my mashed-up face. “It’s nothing,” I lied, turning my eyes back to the jellyfish.

Jonathan rested his hand on my shoulder. “C’mon, Mands, speak to me. I might be able to help.”

I glanced up at his face, noticing how incredibly handsome he was. I’d never really looked at Jonathan this way before.

“I mean it, Mands, I’m here for you.”

It was just what I needed to hear. The words avalanched from my mouth. And once I’d started, I couldn’t stop. I told Jonathan the whole sorry story from start to finish, barely stopping for air.

“I just feel so stupid,” I concluded. “And to make matters worse, I can’t stay in this job now with him here.”

Jonathan shook his head. “What a bastard.”

“I can’t believe I didn’t see it coming.”

“You know what?” said Jonathan. “Virgin is hiring stewardesses. You should apply. With your looks they’ll snap you up. It’ll get you out of this place and the perks are the same as here – plus free travel every week with your job, and lots of partying in five-star locations … you’ll have a blast.”

“I might have to have some facial reconstruction first,” I joked, retrieving my stack of papers from the tray. Secretly, however, I thought it was a great idea. I’d always wanted to be an air hostess, but Dad had done his utmost over the years to discourage me. “You don’t want to be a trolley dolly, Mandy,” he’d say. “Nothing but a glorified waitress in the sky, with men leering at you. You want to get yourself a proper job.” I knew Dad was only being protective of me, but I felt like there was a whole world out there to explore and I longed to be set free.

A rose flush washed over Jonathan’s dimpled cheeks. “Seriously, Mands, you’re stunning. I’ve got a spare application form. You should go for it.”

So I did – I actually went for it. Not that it took much more persuasion. I had one look at the application form Jonathan delivered to my desk and was immediately seduced by the bold text at the top of the page: “You’ll work hard but party even harder.” I can do that, I mused. After work, I headed straight home to fill out the form in the privacy of my bedroom, glass of wine in hand. By midnight it was in the post.

Life took a turn for the better over the next few weeks. Neil returned to work and was falling over himself to worm his way back into my life, apologising profusely for his behaviour, sending me notes and flowers and blaming his “little flare-up” on drugs. “I’ve never hit a woman before in my life, Mandy, honest,” he said. As far as I was concerned, he could grovel until the bloody cows came home. My mind was firmly made up: no more bad guys for Mandy Smith. In fact, I’d told myself I’d steer clear of all men for a while. But there was one guy who was proving hard to resist: Jonathan.

It happened quickly, during Jonathan’s final days at the office before he started his training course. Since I’d confided in him, he’d become my rock: I felt as though I could tell him anything. There wasn’t a single aspect of his personality I disliked. He was the epitome of a gentleman. Attentive, caring and courtly, he made me feel good about myself – and wanted. At first the flirting was quite subtle: lots of accidental-on-purpose hand touching, coincidental yet convenient meetings in the stationery cupboard, a few sexual innuendos here and there. We got on spectacularly, even finishing each other’s sentences. The build-up was electrifying. I’d gone right off my food, which allowed me to resurrect a slinky Miss Selfridge pencil skirt I’d bought months ago but never worn. I was wearing that skirt the night Jonathan first kissed me, in a cosy corner of a smoky bar down the Lanes in Brighton, as
Tracy Chapman’s “Baby Can I Hold You” played on the jukebox and life freeze-framed around us.