Cabin Fever: The sizzling secrets of a Virgin air hostess… (27 page)

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.

As usual, when we arrived at the hotel at lunchtime, we dumped our bags and headed straight for the pool to cool off. It was a baking-hot day – at least forty degrees Celsius – with a high, blow-dryer hot wind. After a quick dip and an Arabic mezze lunch, I headed back to my room – it was too hot to sunbathe and I needed to catch up on some sleep. I returned to find the voicemail light flashing on the hotel phone. There were at least ten messages from reception. My heart galloped when I heard the first one. “Miss Smith, please call reception immediately – we have an urgent message for you,” said the woman.

Horrid thoughts hurried through my mind. What if something had happened to Mum or Dad, or my brother or my nanna or … anyone? I couldn’t bring myself to listen to any of the other messages. I dialled reception straight away. “You’re through to reception, how may I help?” came a man’s voice.

“Hi, it’s Mandy … Mandy Smith. You left me a message on my phone?” I said.

“Ah yes, we’ve been trying to reach you. We have a very important message from a Mr Amir. He sounds like a very influential man. You must make your way to the Club Olympus spa immediately. He has a gift waiting for you there.”

My heart slowed to a regular tempo, and images of a mangled car, flat-lining life-support machine and a grave-faced doctor declaring, “We did everything we could,” slipped from my mind, as thoughts of eyebrow threading crept in.

“But I’m going there tomorrow,” I said, “to get me eyebrows done. I’m going to sleep now.”

“Mr Amir was very insistent. He said you must go.”

So I went to the spa, wondering, what the hell is “Mr Amir” playing at? I was in there for five hours. “Mr Amir” – whom I’d only met once – had paid for me to have every treatment going.
I was pummelled, cupped, bandaged, covered in hot stones, stroked with banana leaves and scrubbed with lemon sugar over my entire body; one therapist massaged my head and shoulders as another kneaded my feet, while sounds of trickling waterfalls and Indian flute music floated around me. I emerged feeling like I was morphined up to the eyeballs and smelling like a fruit salad, with my face flushed Tandoori red.

I thought it was rather peculiar that Amir had gone to such lengths – I barely knew the guy. But it was a sweet gesture and to show my gratitude I bought him a bottle of duty-free Issey Miyake aftershave on the flight home.

I was uncertain whether I actually fancied Amir, after meeting him when I was tipsy, so I agreed to go on a dinner date with him: to take him for a test drive, so to speak. We spoke at length on the phone. I told him how I’d been on an almighty spending spree the previous day after returning from Delhi. “They had a sale on in Coast,” I gushed. “I bought myself loads of satin corset tops – they’re normally over a hundred pounds but they were knocked down to twenty-five. I do love a good bargain, me, like.” I then went on to describe in detail a midnight-blue handbag with a diamante clasp I’d wanted to buy but couldn’t afford.

“I’ll buy it for you,” he offered.

“Don’t be ridiculous – I’ll buy it next time, when it’s in the sale,” I said.

I’d arranged to meet him at a Thai restaurant on Brewer Street in Soho – a restaurant that appeared to be closed when I arrived. The door was locked and it was dark inside. I tried the door again, peering through the glass. I could see a figure sitting alone at a table in the far corner – a man – but it was too dark to make out whether it was Amir. Then two more figures appeared from the kitchen area at the back of the restaurant – one shuffled towards
the man, the other, a Thai woman in a silk dress, towards me. She unlocked the door, opened it and greeted me with the traditional way. “Sawasdee ka, good evening, Mandy,” she said, lowering her head to her pressed palms.

“Sawasdee ka,” I said, respectfully imitating her bow.

“Please, come in.”

I walked in and the waitress locked the door behind me. The man in the corner, now visible in the glow of candle-lit lanterns, rose to his feet. It was Amir.

“What’s all this?” I said with a nervous laugh, as I pecked Amir on the cheek.

“I wanted you to feel special, Mandy, so I hired the restaurant for the evening – I hope you don’t mind.”

I sat down. “Of course I don’t mind. It’s lovely – and I adore Thai food,” I said, although I thought Amir had gone a bit overboard for a first date.

It was the weirdest first date I’d ever been on. I ordered my food – scallops to start, lobster Pad Thai for my main course, accompanied by a glass of Pinot Noir.
May as well push the boat out and have a good feast now I’m here
, I thought. The waitress bowed again and turned to Amir. “I’ll have a sparkling water, please,” he said.

“Are you not eating?” I asked once the waitress had pattered back to the kitchen.

“No, I don’t really eat.”

“Oh,” I said shifting awkwardly in my seat. “Why don’t you have a little glass of wine instead – liquid lunch?”

“I don’t drink,” he said, resting his hand on mine. “But I want you to enjoy yourself.”

This was getting more bizarre by the second. There was I, sitting in a Thai restaurant, on a first date with a teetotaller who didn’t even eat. It didn’t add up.

“Go on, try a scallop,” I said, pushing my plate towards Amir.

He shook his head. “No, thank you.”

I knocked back my wine and followed it with two more glasses, while Amir sat there gazing into my eyes and sipping sparkling water. He seemed offended when I gave him the aftershave I bought for him. “You shouldn’t have bought me anything. You’re not to buy me things,” he said.

I should’ve headed for the nearest tube station after the meal. But it was late and dark, and when Amir insisted on driving me home, I thought it would save all the hassle of trying to navigate my way back to Victoria after three large glasses of Pinot.