Cabin Fever: The sizzling secrets of a Virgin air hostess… (28 page)

But Amir didn’t take me home … he took me to his swanky apartment at Canary Wharf. “I hope you don’t mind, Mandy, but I need to go back to my place en route – I’ve left my phone there and I might get an important work call,” he said, as we made our way down the A40. It was a fair excuse, I guess – although I was starting to feel a little uncomfortable.

Amir’s apartment was on the fortieth floor of a towering modern development overlooking Canary Wharf. “Do I need to take my shoes off?” I joked as Amir opened the door onto a long white hallway flanked by closed doors. Amir smiled and nodded at a Malaysian-style wicker chair positioned in the corner of the hall by the door. “Sit there for a minute, please,” he said.

I sat down, thinking that he was just nipping in to look for his phone. He disappeared into one of the rooms, closing the door behind him. Two minutes later he emerged and went into another room. When he came out of that room, he walked towards the closed door facing me at the opposite end of the hallway and slowly turned round. “I’d like you to go into the two rooms I’ve just been in and meet me back in this room afterwards,” he said pointing with his thumb over his shoulder.

As Amir disappeared into the third room, I went into the first – and did a double take. The room was aglow, with candles on every surface. On the bed were dozens of bags from shops such as Selfridges, Harrods, Radley, Molton Brown, Jo Malone and … Coast, the shop I’d mentioned to Amir during our telephone conversation. The second bedroom I entered contained even more bags and candles. I could only assume they were meant for me. I walked into the final room – the lounge, thankfully – to find Amir sitting on the sofa holding the handbag I’d described to him from Coast. Resting on the table in front of him was a glass of red wine.

“Come and sit down, Mandy,” said Amir, patting the sofa. “I have another gift for you.”

“What is all this about, Amir?” I said, perching on the edge of the sofa. “I don’t mean to sound ungrateful but … it’s too much. I hardly know you – and how did you know that was the handbag I wanted?”

“I described it to the woman in the shop,” he said, then, placing the handbag on the table, added: “Please Mandy, I want you to accept my gifts – I bought them for you – you’re my princess.”

“Princess?”

“You are beautiful. Your jawline is so prominent, and your cheekbones are so high and elegant.” Amir leaned towards me, hands reaching for my face. “And your eyes are like stars and your …”

“Sorry, Amir,” I interrupted, feeling slightly freaked out. “I can’t. I’d like to go home now, please.”

A solemn look flooded Amir’s face. He flicked his wrist and studied his Rolex. “Well, it’s too late for me to drive you home now,” he sighed. “You’ll have to stay here tonight. I’ll take you home in the morning.”

“No, I’m not staying, Amir – I’ll get a taxi,” I said, rising from the sofa. “Thanks for dinner.”

“But you haven’t even opened all the gifts I bought for you. I’ve cleared a shelf for all of your things in the bathroom,” he persisted.

“Bye, Amir,” I said, and made for the exit.

Amir bombarded me with calls for weeks after that first – and only – date. Thankfully, I had call screening so I never picked up. Eventually he stopped calling – until several months later when, stupidly, I forgot to check the number.

“Hi Mandy, it’s Amir. I’m just calling to wish you a happy anniversary.”

“Anniversary, which anniversary?” I said.

“Our anniversary, Mandy. Today is our one-year anniversary. We got together exactly a year ago today. I can’t stop thinking about you.”

I hung up.

Then along came the next banker, Andre – a pretty French-Italian, mid twenties, with sapphire eyes, succulent full lips and wavy chin-length brown hair. I nicknamed him my Little Monkey Bum because he had the cutest, hairiest bottom I’d ever seen.

I was dancing with a guy called Xander on the dance floor at a trendy club in Tower Hill when I met Andre. As our dance came to an end, I turned in Xander’s arms and continued swaying my hips against him – and that’s when I spotted Andre. He was dancing right in front of me, strobe lights intermittently illuminating his face, his sexy grin moving closer and closer with every flash. I threw an imaginary net over his head then lurched forwards into Andre’s arms, my lips connecting with his. It was one of those rare moments of instant, mutual sexual attraction.

With hardly any words being exchanged – except for brisk, breathless introductions as we danced closer together – we powered
out of the club and flagged down a black cab. “Westminster Bridge Road, Waterloo,” Andre blurted at the driver as we fell onto the back seat, hand in hand, our palms glued together with sweat. We kissed all the way to Waterloo, almost biting each other’s lips, Andre exploring my body like it was an erotic activity mat, squeezing my breasts through the fabric of my black basque, seeking rapid paths to my waist and inner thighs. Neither of us noticed that the taxi had come to a standstill. Only when the driver switched the interior light on and shouted, “’Ere, d’you two need a bed back there?” did we prise ourselves apart.

Less than ten minutes later I was inside Andre’s twentieth-floor apartment, saddled on his lap with my bare tits in his face, as the London Eye watched through the window and Snow Patrol’s “Chasing Cars” boomed from the surround-sound speakers.

“
Magnifique
,
magnifique
,” declared Andre, planting soft, wet kisses on my breasts, one hand pressed into my back, the other unfastening my jeans. I buried my face into his mop of floppy brown waves and inhaled his perfume – he smelt sweet and biscuity. I held onto the back of the sofa, circled my hips and moaned quietly into his hair. He tugged lightly at the waistband of my jeans. “Take these off,” he said, lifting his head. I rose to my knees, ready to start a slow striptease – under my jeans I was wearing a tiny red G-string. Biting my lip and flashing Andre my best smouldering eyes look, I teased my jeans down just a little way – then jerked them back up again when I suddenly remembered there was one obstacle in the way here, a particularly large, hairy, rambling obstacle that could kill this moment: I hadn’t waxed my bikini line in weeks. My appointment was in San Francisco the next week and I’d been letting it grow, so it was now beginning to resemble one of those novelty stick-on bushy beards. I couldn’t let Andre rake through that lot. “Ah, do not tease me, Mandy,” said Andre, reaching for my hips.

“Sorry,” I squeaked, “I need to pee … where’s the bathroom?”

Andre smiled. “I’ll show you.”

“It’s okay, I’m a big girl, I’ll find it – just point me in the right direction.”

“Opposite the kitchen,” he said, squeezing my hips. “Be quick.”

I went into the bathroom, locked the door and took off my jeans and G-string. Glancing around the vast room I couldn’t see any products – there wasn’t even anything inside the walk-in shower. Everything was white and chrome and gleaming. He must have a cleaner, I decided, opening the wall-mounted mirrored cabinet. I scanned its contents – aftershave, toothpaste, deodorant, dental floss, Nurofen … condoms – until my eyes fell upon what I’d been searching for: shaving gel and a razor. Placing one foot on the toilet seat, I rinsed Andre’s triple-blade razor and shaved off the excess hair, leaving a slim landing strip. Problem solved.

Admittedly, shaving myself with a razor belonging to a man I barely knew was not exactly ladylike or hygienic … but, boy, it was worth it. Andre and I went on to have the most rampant, acrobatic sex that night, travelling from room to room, adopting an assortment of positions. We even did it
Fatal Attraction
–style on the edge of the kitchen sink. Andre was very fond of my newly shaved pubic hair. “It’s so smooth and soft,” he’d remarked when he went down on me.

“I like to keep things in order down there,” I’d giggled, wondering how he would react if I’d suddenly blurted: “Yeah, I shaved it off with your razor.”

Andre was the perfect fuck buddy and after that night we continued to meet for sporadic sex. He had tremendous stamina and, performance-wise, I’d say he was almost on a par with Brad. Andre was also kind-hearted and chivalrous – the kind of guy
who held doors for me – now all I needed was to find someone just like him, only about ten years older.

My relationship with Andre was primarily sexual, and we agreed from the outset that we should both feel free to sleep with other people if we so desired. So I made the most of this opportunity by embracing another category of rich men: toffs – former public schoolboys from rich families, who owned private jets and yachts and spent most of the year abroad, drinking wine and turning leathery in the sun.

I was working behind the bar in Upper Class on an Antigua-to-London flight when I met Tarquin, a rower with hulking arms who counted Kate Middleton, now the Duchess of Cambridge, among his rowing friends. We got chatting and he told me he lived in Clapham and ran his own company, which produced portable oxygen concentrators. He spoke like he had a bag of marbles in his mouth and seemed rather smarmy, but he also had the phwoar factor: tall, with tousled blond hair, sultry looks and a sexy, athletic build. “Are you single?” he asked, between long sips of gin.

“Yeah, free and single,” I said. Andre didn’t count. “You?”

Tarquin nodded, drained his glass. “Yes, I’m single.” Then, after a brief pause, he said, “Would you like go out for a drink – or supper – with me one evening?”

I smiled. “I suppose I could fit that in some time,” I said. “Another Tanqueray?”

The following Sunday, Tarquin took me out for drinks and “supper”. I translated this to mean, “Let’s go out and get pissed and maybe soak up the alcohol at the end of the night with a light bite,” so I ate a full roast dinner and apple crumble with custard before I went out. Then I discovered “supper” was a five-course, sit-down meal at an uber-posh French restaurant in Mayfair.

Despite eating so much food, I still managed to get drunk; we sank three bottles of wine over dinner, plus numerous cocktails afterwards in Mahiki.

The next morning I woke up at Tarquin’s seven-bedroom Victorian townhouse in Clapham. In bed, naked and enfolded in those sexy rower arms, my mind slowly began piecing the together the sequence of events from the previous night: dinner; Mahiki; me singing “Up the Junction” by Squeeze in the back of the taxi on our way to Clapham (it seemed hilarious at the time); kissing in the taxi; Tarquin carrying me up the stairs to his fourth-floor bedroom; clothes flying off, foreplay, sex – sex that lasted only a few minutes because Tarquin was too drunk to maintain his erection. It was all coming back to me now, as I felt Tarquin stir behind me. He tightened his arms and spooned his body against mine … there didn’t appear to be a problem today.

We had steamy shower sex that morning in Tarquin’s en-suite bathroom, which was in the middle of being decorated. It was a fast, frenzied shag and I came almost immediately, standing on one foot with my other leg hoisted over Tarquin’s arm, my back leaning against the newly tiled wall as Tarquin powered into me, water filling my mouth, mastic and emulsion fumes wafting up my nose. In his final thrusts towards climax, Tarquin was going at such force I thought I was going to crash through the wall. I felt the Mediterranean-style tiles move against my back, and a few fell into the bath, cracking on landing. Tarquin came with a succession of jolts and heavy grunts to the sound of smashing tiles. “That was magnificent, Mandy,” he said afterwards, cupping my face. “Truly sublime.”

“What about your lovely tiles? They’re all smashed,” I said, looking down at the ceramic debris at our feet.

Tarquin shrugged. “It’s because they haven’t been grouted yet.
It’s not a problem – I’ll buy some more next time I’m in Italy.”

I dated Tarquin for almost a year, and again, the relationship was chiefly based on sex. Andre also remained on the scene, although sometimes we’d go weeks without seeing each other. It was hard for me to adjust to this new, no-strings style of dating. Looking back, I think I was a little confused. I’d been so used to long-term relationships, but now, in my thirties, all men seemed interested in was casual sex and having multiple partners.

As the months slipped by, Tarquin grew cold and distant. He cancelled dates and his calls become less frequent. The tipping point came when he announced he was heading off on a rowing expedition across the Atlantic. “I’ll come and wave you off, or I could meet you in Antigua, where you finish?” I offered.

“That won’t be necessary,” Tarquin replied.

So I let him row out of my life … and shortly after that, I replaced him with another Upper Class toff.

CHAPTER 18

NEVER BEEN TO ME

A song played over in my mind as England disappeared beneath me. It was that seventies number “I’ve Never Been to Me”, and it’d been bugging me for days. The lyrics seemed to echo my life;
That rueful woman could be me
, I thought. I’d travelled the world and I’d definitely seen plenty of things that a woman wasn’t supposed to see. I was now thirty-four, and the novelty of no-strings-attached relationships was beginning to wear thin.

I was still meeting Andre occasionally, while also dating Hugo, whom I met on a flight to Barbados exactly one week after I finished with Tarquin. Hugo was stunning, a real pretty boy who looked as though he’d just walked off the set of
Beverly Hills 90210
: blond, with moonstone eyes and a suave white-teeth grin … and he was absolutely minted. The only problem was that he’d recently been dumped by his girlfriend, Angelique, and I sensed he was still hankering after her. Her name would continually creep into our conversations, and there was a disingenuous ring in Hugo’s voice when he insisted: “Even if she begged me, I wouldn’t take her back.”

I wanted more than this. I was ready to settle down – get married and have kids, even – and somehow, I couldn’t imagine Hugo
getting down on one knee and producing a sparkler. And I didn’t know what I’d say even if he did.

I peered out of the window and smiled, as the chaos of London dissolved below a veil of wispy clouds. Today I was a passenger – no more pushing trolleys for me for a while. I’d decided to take a few weeks off work to travel … alone, just me and my backpack, armed with my
Lonely Planet
guide and trekking gear. I was feeling spiritually inspired after reading
The Celestine Prophecy
by James Redfield – a novel charting one man’s travels to Peru in search of an ancient manuscript containing nine insights – so I’d booked a trip to South America, where I was about to walk the iconic Inca trail across the Andes to Machu Picchu. I could just picture myself, looking like Lara Croft in my little black shorts and vest top with my long brunette hair tied in a high ponytail, fearlessly scaling perilous paths. I was hoping to find myself, experience some kind of spiritual awakening, exorcise all the negative ghosts lurking within – and Peru had seemed to me like the perfect place for this to happen.