Cabin Fever: The sizzling secrets of a Virgin air hostess… (22 page)

“Ready for your first present?” said Brad.

“You didn’t have to buy me anything.”

“This is just a little something I put together for you – I’ve got more gifts for you in the bedroom.”

“Is that a promise?”

Brad reached beneath the sofa and produced a thin square parcel, beautifully wrapped in fuchsia satin paper tied with purple ribbon.

“A CD?” I guessed.

“Open it and see.”

“It’s so pretty,” I said, tearing off the paper. It was indeed a CD – a blank CD in a clear case.

Brad folded his arms on my knees, grinning expectantly. “Like it?”

“It’s fabulous – just what I’ve always wanted,” I said, staring at the blank CD.

“It’s some tunes I threw together – songs that make me think of you. Want to hear it?”

I laughed. “Sure.”

Brad strode over to the stereo and popped the CD into the
tray.
How sweet
, I thought. No man had ever made me a compilation CD before. I was then overcome by fits of giggles as the overindulgent strains of Luther Vandross boomed from the stereo. Even the helium balloons appeared to dip their foil atriums in embarrassment. Brad turned round gradually, hands outstretched, and, with closed eyes, crooned along to “All the Woman I Need”, which made me laugh harder. Then he danced out of the room, motioning with his head for me to follow.

Brad’s dance led me to the bedroom, and onto the four-poster bed where a cluster of glossy gift bags had been assembled among a scattering of red rose petals.

“What’s all this?” I said, climbing onto the mattress. There were bags from Agent Provocateur, Bulgari, Billabong, Godiva – it was like the product of a shopoholic’s final spending spree sprawled before me.

“I wanted to spoil you,” said Brad, kneeling on the bed opposite me. “Go on, open them.”

I picked up the black Agent Provocateur bag. “This looks sexy. I didn’t know they had an Agent Provocateur in Sydney.”

“I ordered it online.”

Inside the bag, wrapped in tissue, was a skimpy gossamer black negligee.

“Wow, this doesn’t leave much to the imagination,” I said, pinning the spaghetti straps to my shoulders.

“That’s the idea,” said Brad, reaching for my face. He leaned across and kissed me, gently pushing me backwards onto the bed until we were horizontal. Brad lay on top of me, his mouth delicately slugging mine, and soon we were moving in fervent rotations over the bed – him on top, me on top, him on top again, steam rolling gift bags, the Opera House coming in and out of focus with every turn. In the next room Brad’s CD played on –
Terence Trent D’Arby was singing “Sign Your Name” now. “I’ve got a present for you, too,” I said, lifting my head.

“You shouldn’t have,” Brad said.

I rolled off him, rising to my knees by his shoulder. “It’s just a little something I threw together,” I said with a terrible Aussie accent. I unbuttoned my shirt slowly and tossed it over my shoulder. Brad’s eyes enlarged. “Whoa, that’s some present.”

“Stay where you are,” I warned, reaching for the hem of my skirt. “There’s more.” I lifted my skirt to the tops of my stockings, paused for teasing effect before hoisting it all the way up to my waist, offering a full view of my new undies.

Brad let out a long whistle.

I laughed. “Get your kit off then.”

He was naked quicker than you could say didgeridoo.

It was the most powerfully orgasmic sex I’d ever experienced. After making me come with his tongue during foreplay, he flipped me over and slipped into me … and that was the moment I discovered Brad’s banana dick could reach places no other man’s dick had touched before. I came immediately – and just kept on coming, warm contractions spreading from my stomach to every part of my body. I felt as though I was levitating in a state of permanent arousal.

We didn’t leave the hotel all day. We drank champagne, devoured the strawberries and oysters and washed each other’s hair in the marble Jacuzzi bath, where, again, we had sex. Brad was fascinated with my body and eager to learn exactly what turned me on.

That evening we decided to leave our love suite and explore Sydney. “We’ll go for dinner and then I’ll take you to Luna Park,” Brad enthused. “You’ll love it – we can catch the ferry there, it’s lit up. We can go on the rides … trust me, it’s unreal.”

He didn’t stop talking about Luna Park. “I can’t wait to see your face, Mandy?” he said as we dined alfresco on tapas at the Opera Bar, that rising inflection creeping into his voice again. “You enter the park through a huge, smiling clown’s mouth … it’s legendary. There’s a magic castle, Ferris wheel … you like rides, Mandy?”

“I like riding you,” I teased.

Brad reached below the table and touched my knee. “Not as much as I enjoy riding you.”

“Guess what,” I said in a loud whisper.

“What?”

“I’m not wearing any knickers.”

Brad grinned and took a quick peek under the table. I crossed and uncrossed my legs, smiling like a naughty schoolgirl. I was wearing the Billabong denim mini skirt Brad had given me earlier.

It was a beautiful Friday night in Sydney – hot, with a gentle, caressing breeze carrying wafts of fresh seaweed off the harbour. After dinner we strolled to Circular Quay to board the ferry to the famous Luna Park. Circular Quay was like an outdoor circus, packed with street performers juggling fire, riding unicycles, and buskers playing didgeridoos.

The ferry journey across the harbour was short – maybe less than ten minutes – but highly romantic. We stood outside on the deck, Brad cocooning me against the breeze with his action-man arms, kissing my neck, whispering sexy thoughts into my ear. But when the ferry chugged beneath the harbour bridge and docked at Luna Park Wharf, Brad suddenly fell silent. I looked up, expecting to see the dazzling illuminations of Luna Park Brad had raved about. But there were no bright lights … or Mr Moon Face. “Where’s the light show?” I asked, as we made our way up
the ramp towards the park entrance. The place was in darkness, apart from a gentle glow from a few lamp posts, which made the clown’s face look even scarier than I’d imagined. I’d never been a fan of clowns.

“Fuck,” said Brad at length, “Looks like it’s shut or something. This is normally all lit up, Mandy, honestly – and it’s supposed to be open until eleven tonight. I don’t understand. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” I said, then, spotting a group of people spilling out of the clown’s mouth, added: “Look, it is open – there are people coming out.”

There were only shops, restaurants and the games arcade open at Luna Park; for some reason, all the big rides were closed. I could sense Brad’s disappointment as we trundled arm in arm through the park, the rides looming over us in darkness, appearing to cackle: “Look what fun you could have had.” Inside the games arcade, Brad tried to win me a teddy from a claw crane machine but, despite numerous attempts, it just wasn’t happening. “Let’s go,” I said, circling my arms around his waist as he lowered the claw for what must’ve been the thirtieth time. This time the open claw fell on the head of a soft green turtle. “Yes,” said Brad, his smile a friendly ghost reflecting in the glass. The claw closed, skimmed the turtle’s head and lifted once more, leaving the toy on the fluffy pile with its mates. “Fuck,” cursed Brad, smacking his palm against the glass, “I can’t even win you a teddy bear.”

I didn’t even want a teddy bear – he’d spoiled me rotten already.

I steered him away from the machine. “Those games are a fix,” I said. “Besides, I’m having a great time.”

The park was deadly quiet by the time we started making our way to the exit. We stopped at the entrance to the Scenic Railway roller coaster for a kiss. “God, I wish we could do it right here, right now,” said Brad, sliding a hand down the back of my skirt.

I rested my head on Brad’s shoulder while his fingers mingled with the breeze under my skirt. “What’s stopping us?” I said.

“Where will we go?”

“In there,” I whispered, nodding sideways at the mock Indian temple facade.

Brad liberated his hand from my skirt. “After you,” he beamed.

We hurried into the temple and climbed over the gate into the station, where, against the temple wall, in semi-darkness, we put the Luna back into Luna Park.

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.