Cabin Fever: The sizzling secrets of a Virgin air hostess… (31 page)

I was also beginning to think that Ania’s suggestion that I find myself a “rich man” may not be such a bad idea after all. Why be miserable with a poor man when I could be happy with a wealthy one? I deluded myself into thinking that maybe I could just marry someone for their money … even if I didn’t fancy them, I could maybe just sleep with them now and then and just enjoy the lifestyle. I was looking for husband material, after all.

I was sitting by the pool with the girls at the Marriott Harbour Hotel in Dubai when my first opportunity arose to test
The Rules
on a rich man. A random Bluetooth message appeared on my mobile: “Hello, Cloud Angel [my phone name], you seem really nice. Are you interested in dinner tonight?”

I looked across the pool through my Jackie O–style Dior sunglasses, scanning the restaurant and bar area – where a group of suited businessmen were lunching – but I couldn’t see anyone holding a mobile phone or waving. This was weird. I felt a bit intimidated; whoever had sent this message could see me but I couldn’t see them. I messaged him back. “Who are you?”

An immediate reply flashed up on the screen. “I like your style; lovely hat.”

“Tell me your name?” I typed.

“Mahir Asker. I have to go, I’ll be in touch.”

I turned to Stacey, the girl I’d worked with during the engine fire on the Miami-bound flight.

“Here, babe,” I said, handing her my phone. “Check this out. Some weirdo is sending me messages, but I can’t see him.”

Stacey flicked through the messages. “Hmm, weird. Are you going to take him up on his offer?”

“I don’t even know what he looks like. He could be a psychopath for all I know. It’s a bit stalker-ish, don’t you think?

“Just get yourself out there and enjoy a free meal,” piped up Christine, another dolly, spritzing her face with Evian mist. “Jesus, it’s too hot here. Anyone for a dip?”

Meanwhile, as my phone was getting passed around the girls, one of the poolside waiters came over and presented me with a bottle of Dom Perignon on ice.

“I didn’t order champagne,” I said, as he popped the cork.

He filled a champagne flute. “Courtesy of the gentleman at the bar, madam,” he said, turning his head towards the table where the businessmen were sitting about 300 yards away.

I followed his gaze to the table. One of the suited men – who from this distance appeared to be in his early thirties with black hair and designer stubble – dipped his head and waved in my direction. I waved back. “Alright?” I said, even though he couldn’t hear me. The girls also started waving, shouting, “Hello, Mahir.”

I turned to the waiter. “Here, would you mind fetching some extra glasses for the girls, please?”

“Certainly, madam.”

Stacey burst out laughing. “Mandy, what are you like? He obviously wants you to share that champagne with him. You should go over there and join him – he looks like a nice bloke.”

I took a generous gulp. “Are you kidding me? No way, that’s
not in
The Rules
. Rule number two says you shouldn’t talk to a man first. And besides, he can come and speak to me if he’s so keen. He’s got legs.”

“And he’s using them now,” said Stacey, nodding in the direction of the restaurant.

I turned round to see Mahir walking towards me, smiling broadly, dressed in a crisp white shirt, cerise silk tie and charcoal suit trousers, designer shades to match his black designer stubble. He was quite tasty, really.

“I’m delighted to make your acquaintance, Cloud Angel,” said Mahir, walking right up to my sun bed.

I lifted the brim of my oversized hat. “It’s Mandy, actually,” I said. “What are you up to? Randomly sending me messages – it’s a bit strange, don’t you think? And how did you know you were messaging me?”

He took off his shades. For somebody so dark-skinned, I was expecting him to have brown eyes, but they were blue-grey in colour, almond-shaped and trimmed with long, black lashes. “Because you were the only one I could see using a mobile phone.” He bowed his head again, adding, “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mandy.”

Just then, the waiter appeared on his shoulder – with a tray full of champagne glasses.

I giggled. “I was going to have a little drink with the girls … you can join us if you want.”

Before Mahir could reply, Stacey butted in. “I think I’ll join Christine for that swim.”

Exchanging conspiratorial winks, all six girls got off their sun beds, picked their bikinis out of their bums and headed for the pool, leaving me alone with Mahir … and the bottle of champagne.

Mahir was polite, well-mannered and easy to talk to. We chatted for the next hour, while the girls played noisily in the pool. He spoke with a sexy Omar Sharif accent and told me he worked in the “oil business”, was thirty-four, and still had a nanny. “A nanny,” I said, giggling. “Does she burp you?”

“More or less,” he said. “It’s our culture – she’ll be with me until I’m married … and then she no longer has to look after me.”

I told Mahir about my job and my family. “We don’t have nannies where I was brought up, in Hartlepool,” I joked. “You’ve just got to get out there and stand on your own two feet, fend for yourselves. Although I do have a lovely family who I’m very close to.”

He looked at me through his long lashes. “Yes I think I might have liked that … to know my family a little better.”

I decided that Mahir wasn’t a psycho or a stalker after all, so I agreed to go for dinner with him that evening. “My driver will pick you up at seven,” he said.

As a precautionary measure, I called Ania to check out Mahir’s credentials.

“I know that name, Mandy,” she said, “I think his dad is a billionaire oil tycoon. Oh my God, you have to stick with him – we’ll be able to double date.”

“It’s just a dinner date,” I said, “I don’t even know where he’s taking me … what shall I wear?”

“Something sophisticated, Mandy. You’ll be going somewhere uber-posh.”

Wearing a knee-length black dress and three-inch-heel silver sandals, I went down to the lobby at seven to meet Mahir’s white-gloved chauffeur, who led me outside to a sparkling magnolia Bentley. “Your journey this evening will be approximately ten minutes,” said the driver, as he opened the back door of the Bentley.
“Do relax and enjoy a glass of champagne,” he added, motioning towards the champagne-filled lead crystal glass nestling in a chrome holder. “Thank you,” I said, thinking,
I could get used to this
.

The drive seemed to take less than ten minutes. I’d only drunk half a glass of champagne when we pulled up at the marina. I was half-tempted to ask the chauffeur to run me round the block a few times so I could sink a couple more glasses – it was by far the most delicious champagne I’d ever tasted, and I loved the little angel wings on the bottle.

I climbed out of the car, clutching my half-glass of champagne (I don’t like waste), onto a red carpet that stretched out to the back deck of a luxury yacht decorated with white fairy lights. Mahir was waiting on the deck, holding two more glasses of champagne and flanked by two men dressed in dinner suits. Mahir had gone for more of a casual look: khaki shorts, short-sleeved open neck black shirt and flip-flops. I teetered along the red carpet, necking the half-glass of bubbly in two gulps.

“I thought we were going to a restaurant,” I said, stepping onto the yacht. “If I’d known, I would have worn more sensible heels.”

Mahir handed me a glass. I offered my empty one. “Shall we do swapsies?”

He passed the empty glass to one of the other men and reached for my hand.

“Mandy,” he said, lifting my hand to his lips and lightly kissing my knuckles, “welcome aboard. You look magnificent.”

Mahir treated me like a princess. He was the perfect gentleman – unassuming, kind and not too forward. We sailed around the Persian Gulf, watching the sun set behind the dramatic skyline of space-age skyscrapers, while feasting on an array of delicious dishes served at our candle-lit table on the deck by Mahir’s servants. It seemed like a never-ending meal, with at least eight
courses, including salmon tartare, steak, lobster and caviar – all accompanied by champagne and palate-cleansing sorbets.

I was surprised by how much Mahir and I had in common. We had similar tastes in music; he too was a big fan of the French house-music producer David Guetta, and he knew almost all of the DJs I liked. When I told him the line-up from our weekend trip to the dance event Sensation White in Amsterdam the previous month, he almost burst at the seams, he was so envious. Mahir had it all – looks, loads of money and personality – but I didn’t feel any sexual attraction towards him. He ended our date by kissing my hand again. “I’m enchanted,” he said. “Let’s do this again next time you’re in Dubai.”

Our paths never crossed again. I didn’t think it would be fair to string Mahir along, even though I’d thoroughly enjoyed a little slice of the Dubai high life. So my hunt for a more suitable rich man continued.

My travels led me to David, a millionaire I met on a New York flight who made his living selling designer handbags and shoes. We went on a date in London, where he wined and dined me at Claridge’s. I told him about all the knock-off handbags I’d bought in New York and Hong Kong, and he laughed and said, “I can get you genuine designer bags –and shoes – for free.” He was in his mid forties and had gone completely bald, but there was a gentlemanly handsomeness about him that appealed to me. Following
The Rules
, I didn’t sleep with him, but I did give him a peck on the cheek at the end of the night and agreed to see him again.

My next date with David happened sooner than I’d expected. Less than forty-eight hours after we’d kissed goodnight, he appeared on my flight to San Francisco. I was preparing the meal service in the Upper Class galley when one of the call lights
flashed. I headed out to the seat in the twelfth row and there he was. “Surprise,” he sang, smiling and waving his hands by his face like Broadway star.

“What are you doing here?” I said.

“You mentioned you were flying to San Francisco today, so I thought I’d surprise you. I’m going to take you out for dinner tonight.”

“But I’ve already got plans – I’m going to the Cheesecake Factory with the crew.”

David looked up, his eyebrows lifting into the frown folds on his bald forehead. “But I’ll take you somewhere nice,” he said. “Come on Mandy, I’ve gone to all this effort. I’ve got no friends in San Francisco. I’ll be lonely … please?”

I took one look at his pleading face and relented. After all, he had splashed out two grand on a flight just to see me – it would be rude of me to decline his generous offer.

“Okay,” I said, bopping my head, “you can take me to that garlic restaurant – the Stinking Rose – I’ve always wanted to go there.”

“That’s the spirit,” he beamed. Where are you staying?”

“The Marriott Hotel, near Union Square … but don’t you go thinking you’re staying with me tonight.”

“The thought never even crossed my mind,” said David. “I’ll pick you up at eight.”

It was awkward. As soon as we sat down to eat at Little Italy’s Stinking Rose, I was wishing I’d gone to the Cheesecake Factory instead. There were lots of uncomfortable silences and the conversation was jagged and clumsy. We didn’t seem to have much to talk about other than the fact that he’d turned up unannounced on my flight. “I must admit, David,” I said, pushing the garlic ice cream around my bowl, “it was quite a weird thing to do. What if I’d changed flights with someone? You would have wasted two grand.”

“Two grand is nothing to me, Mandy,” he said. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you feel uncomfortable.”

On the drive back to my hotel David came out with a bizarre request. “Will you write to me, Mandy?” he asked, as we headed along Columbus Avenue. “Send me some emails?”

“Sure,” I said, “I’ve got your email address.”

“I mean real writing, Mandy. I want you to tell me about all your past experiences.”

“Okay,” I said, after a lengthy pause. “What do you mean by that?”

“Erotic stories. I can send you some that past girlfriends have written for me – it’ll give you a feel for the kind of thing I’m looking for.”

“I’ll think about it,” I said. I didn’t want to insult him.

When we pulled up outside the hotel, I kissed him goodnight. It was a very garlicky kiss, David forcing his tongue into my mouth. “Thanks for a lovely evening,” I said, getting out of the car. “See you soon.” Although I think I’d already decided I wouldn’t be seeing David again.

Out of curiosity, I read some of the erotic musings from David’s ex-girlfriends when he emailed them to me that very night – they were filthy.

After David, I had a brief fling with a billionaire called Robert, who owned a football team. Again, I met him in Upper Class, at the bar, and he showered me with expensive gifts and took me for fancy meals. But he was always cancelling dates due to his hectic work schedule. I was supposed to meet him in Orlando once for a romantic weekend at the Ritz-Carlton Hotel at Grande Lakes, but he texted me – just after I’d landed at Orlando International Airport – to say he couldn’t make it, because he was too busy at work. “The Ritz is booked,” he said in his message. “You should
still go there – enjoy the suite.” I didn’t bother; I stayed at the crew hotel instead. I was starting to think dating billionaires was a bad idea, as you never knew where they bloody were, and they were always so unpredictable.

While I was in Orlando, I called Ania. I was disappointed that Robert had stood me up and figured some advice from my dating guru would lift my spirits. She answered the phone with a soft, croaky, “Yes?”

“Oh, sorry babes, did I wake you up?” I said.

The line went silent.

“Ania, are you okay? Speak to me. It’s me, Mandy.”

“I’m fine,” she said, and then burst into tears.

“The prince dumped me,” she sobbed. “His family have set him up with an arranged bloody marriage. He said he’d never be able to marry me, anyway – because of his religion.”

“What a bastard. He should have let you know sooner, instead of stringing you along.”

Ania sniffed. “He was the richest one so far, Mandy.”