Cabin Fever: The sizzling secrets of a Virgin air hostess… (26 page)

How could we refuse? “I’ll come,” I said.

“I’m in,” Laura added.

“Oh fuck it, the Kaiser Chiefs aren’t exactly falling over themselves to speak to me … I may as well join you,” said Cheryl.

So the four of us headed to Sunset Boulevard to deliver Alison to her man. And from there the night descended into chaos.

“Sorry ladies, I can’t let you in,” drawled the imposing doorman when we arrived at the Viper Room. He looked us up and down, plunging his hands deep into the pockets of his knee-length leather coat and puffing out his expansive chest. He looked like a huge leather sofa – even his face was leathery. “Certainly not dressed like that.”

What did he mean? We looked great: Cheryl and I in our sexy corset tops, smart jeans and kitten heels, Alison in her little black dress and high-heeled strappy sandals and Laura sporting a short denim skirt and strapless black top – all clutching our little designer evening bags and smelling like a duty-free shop, given the amount of perfume that had been sprayed.

“Well, excuse me,” I said, glaring at the inflatable leather man. “That’s a bit rude. We’ve made a big effort tonight, and we’ve just got off an eleven-hour flight.”

“I’m sorry ma’am, but it’s a private party … a grunge party. Man, the girls in there … they don’t dress like this,” he said. “Hell, no. I’m sorry, ladies, rules are rules.”

“Oi, just you wait a minute, mister,” snapped Alison, shifting her weight from one spiky heel to the other, hand on hip, breasts pushed forward. She meant business. “We’ve just left the Kaiser Chiefs’ after party early, to come here. My boyfriend, Greg, is playing here tonight and I’m supposed to be meeting him. I’m already an hour late, I’ve flown eleven hours to visit him and I just need to get in there.”

The doorman recoiled into his leather shroud and sheepishly unclipped the red velvet rope. “In you go then, ladies,” he said. “Have a nice evening.” His sarcastic tone was only just audible above the noise of the open door.

It was dark and moody inside the club, rather like the Batcave. The floor was sticky and wet in patches from a combination of old and fresh spillages of drinks. The air was humid and saturated with the smell of sweat and stale beer. The walls were filled with graffiti and stickers and it was a fight to even get to the bar through the throng of scruffily dressed clubbers. I could now understand why our leathery friend outside had been hesitant to let us in; not one person in there was dolled-up like us four. Most of the guys were wearing ripped jeans with checked shirts tied messily around hips, the T-shirt of the guy behind the bar read “drink Rye and worship Satan” and the rock chick girls were darting us looks that said, “I’m gonna smack your face in.”

“I’m going to find Greg,” shouted Alison above the music.

“How the hell are you going to find him in here?” I said, “It’s bloody mobbed.”

“I will,” she insisted. “I have to – I want to get laid tonight.” Alison disappeared into the messy crowd, using her slim hips to nudge her way past clubbers.

“Oh my fuckin’ God. It’s dire in here,” shouted Laura. Nirvana’s “Smells like Teen Spirit” was now thumping from the speakers and the grunge mob were pogo jumping in all directions.

“Where are all the ‘fit’ blokes Alison promised us?” Cheryl said. “We should have stayed at the backstage party.”

We weaved our way towards the bar, sweaty revellers colliding into us. But before we reached the bar, Alison reappeared, tears streaming down her face. “Mandy,” she yelled, holding her Fendi in the air as she dodged past more erratic dancers. I lurched forwards and threw my arms around her. “Get me out of here,” she sobbed into my shoulder. I took her hand and led her back through the crowd, Cheryl and Laura hand in hand behind us.
The leather man unclipped his velvet rope, unable to disguise a self-satisfied grin. “Have a swell evening, ladies.”

As we teetered along Sunset Boulevard, arms linked, Alison relayed her story. “He’s a bastard,” she sniffed. “A bastard – just like all the others.”

“What happened, babe?” I said.

“I found Greg …” Alison paused to catch her breath. “I found him … with his tongue down some filthy-looking blonde bird’s throat, hands all over her – up her skirt and everything. It was like a live porn show.”

“What a prick,” Laura said. “I hope you gave him what for.”

A light smile played on Alison’s glossy lips. “Too right. I grabbed a drink off some random person, slapped Greg hard on the shoulder, and when he turned around I threw the drink in his face … ice cubes and all.”

“Good for you,” I said. “Sounds like you’re too good for him. You can get any man you want – you’re stunning.”

Alison shrugged. “And to think I bought him a present. I was going to surprise him with it tonight … it’s a vibrating cock ring.”

“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.