Cabin Fever: The sizzling secrets of a Virgin air hostess… (7 page)

“What about this fucking bill?”

“What about the fucking bill? For heaven’s sake, Bec, I’m just in the door.”

“You owe me money … for the bill … for your pervy fucking phone calls.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Jeremy snatched the piece of paper from Becky’s trembling hand and studied it for a brief moment before slamming it down on the chintzy phone table. “How do you know they’re gay bondage chat numbers, anyway?”

Becky’s face broke into a catty mock smile. “Because I
called
them … every single one of them.”

“Well then, sweetie,” said Jeremy. “I do hope you’re going to pay for those calls.” Then he headed upstairs to his room, laughing.

Becky shot me a glare. “And you can wipe that smile off your face, too. Have you paid your share?”

I motioned towards the table with a saccharine smile. “Cheque’s on there. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a plane to catch.” And with a new air of confidence I hooked my holdall in the crook of my arm, extended the handle of my case and breezed along the hallway, calling, “See ya.”

I recognised only one person on the crew bus to Heathrow – Sian, one of the girls from my Ab Initio course. And although we hadn’t got to know each other terribly well during training, we greeted each other like long-lost friends. We giggled and squealed and speed-talked at the tops of our voices all the way from the Flight Centre to Heathrow, full of beans, discussing our uniforms and destinations – Sian, I discovered, was off to LA – and anticipating our impending adventures down-route. No one else on the bus was as lively as us; most of the crew were sleeping. Why weren’t they excited? Forty-eight hours later, after two gruelling transatlantic flights, I would discover why.

Our pre-flight briefing was held in a tiny room inside the Queen’s Building at Heathrow, a dismal fifties-era construction
eventually demolished in 2009. There were about twenty crew crammed into that room, all destined for Newark. Everyone appeared so chilled and confident. Realising I was the only newcomer (Sian was in a separate briefing elsewhere in the building), my excitement was suddenly eclipsed by a dragging sensation of fear deep in my chest. I found a vacant seat and tried to blend in amid the sea of red figures.

Our in-flight development supervisor, Martin, led the briefing. I warmed to him instantly. No taller than five foot six, with spindly arms and legs, he spoke in a boisterous Glaswegian accent that belied his tiny frame. His instructions were clear and to the point.

“I’m not going to beat around the bush,” he said. “This is Mandy, she is new. You all remember what it’s like to be new, so look after her. Here’s how it works. We work hard on the flight out – look after the fuckers – feed them, water them … whatever they want, we make ’em feel special, especially in Upper. Then we get them off the plane, have a fucking good party in New York, and do it all over again on the way back – all of you as fresh faced and beautiful as you are now, please. Anyone
not
understand?”

Next came the serious part – the moment I was dreading. Before boarding every flight each crew member must correctly answer a safety question each. Get it wrong and you’re asked a further two questions. And if you fail on your third attempt, you’re grounded, having to sit your SEP exams all over again before they let you fly. Fortunately, I didn’t cock it up and, ten minutes later, I was strutting down the jetway and stepping into the aluminium tube that was to become my new home away from home.

My heart dropped when I met the colleague I’d been teamed up with. Her name was Leanne and she wasn’t exactly
the smiley, how-can-I-help-you air hostess type I’d anticipated. She was utterly miserable and angry. It was like working alongside someone who’d just bought a one-way coach ticket to Beachy Head. Not one positive word escaped her ghastly mouth, and she didn’t paint an attractive picture of life in the sky. According to Leanne, the hours were shit, the passengers shit and everything was, well, “shit”.

Leanne was tall and stocky – much heavier than your average hostie – with chunky wrists and ankles. She had one of those “Essex girl” facelifts, where the hair is tied into a ponytail so high and taut it actually stretches your face upwards. The first words she spoke to me will stay in my mind forever. I was all bright and breezy when I introduced myself to Leanne in galley two of Economy Class prior to take-off. “Hi, I’m Mandy. Lovely to meet you,” I said.

Leanne frowned.
Wow
, I thought,
that’s got to hurt with that ponytail facelift
.

“If you’re going to fart, don’t do it in here,” she said.

I laughed. “I don’t feel the need just now.”

“If you are going to let off, do it out there,” she added, jabbing the curtain with her thumb.

“Excuse me?”

“Oh, did they not explain the wind problems during training? Well, get used to it. Flying as many hours as we do makes your stomach swell up like a balloon. You’ll be a walking cesspit, farting like a trooper. Never in the galley, though. Let it out down the aisles, over the passengers. It’s called crop dusting. Your uniform will stink of farts – we call it Eau de Boeing.”

“Nice,” I said with a faint smile.

Leanne’s jaded ramblings continued all through take-off and the meal service – it was relentless; she was like a psychic vampire,
sucking every positive thought from my head. I felt slightly disillusioned, like all my initial enthusiasm and excitement had been zapped out of me by Leanne’s stun-gun mouth. I had been so keen at the start of the flight, running around, sweating like mad, offering to help and attempting to put into practice everything I’d learned during training. But Leanne made no effort to welcome me, which made me question what I’d signed up for. And she broke all the rules. Once our dinner service cart was empty, she sat in the galley and wolfed down a portion of chicken korma meant for the passengers, which is strictly off-limits as the other crew were still in the aisles. Our crew meals were provided separately in the crew cart, so we usually only ate the passenger meals if there were any left over.

“You’d think doing this job as long as I have, I’d be a stick insect by now,” she moaned, shovelling forkfuls of calorie-laden curry into her gob.

It was impossible to connect with Leanne. She obviously detested her job and simply didn’t want to be there. My attempts to bond with other crew members didn’t exactly go according to plan, either. Overhearing a conversation between two pretty, breathy-voiced Premium Economy dollies in the galley, I couldn’t help but join in. One of them, a lofty blonde with supermodel looks, was gracefully displaying a dainty open-heart silver necklace.

“Oh. My. God,” said her shorter, curvier friend. “That’s stunning. Is it from …”

“Yes, Tiffany’s. He got it in New York.”

“It’s beautiful,” I agreed, moving in to admire the shimmering heart. As all the girls started relaying trinkets of Gucci this and Prada that from admirers, they turned to me as I was the next in the show ’n’ tell circle. “You know, my boyfriend gave me a
wonderful
pearl necklace recently – and I still can’t get it out of my hair.”

My joke was greeted with deathly silence, the two girls exchanging I-can’t-believe-she-just-said-that glances. The awkward tumbleweed moment was broken by a piggy snort of laughter from Leanne, who was now tucking into her second passenger meal of bangers and mash. That was the first, and only, time I ever heard her laugh. The two girls breezed out of the galley arm in arm, the tall one glaring at me beneath half-closed smoky eyelids, hand protectively pressed over her gleaming piece of Tiffany’s bling as though she was expecting me to rip it from her neck. And I was left alone with bangers-and-mash face, wondering: will I ever fit in here?

My spirits lifted after touchdown. Even though I had the misfortune of sitting next to Leanne on the crew bus, nothing could tarnish my excitement at seeing New York for the first time. The Manhattan skyline took my breath away. It truly was spectacular: colossal monuments thumping into the sky, flirting with the apricot autumn light. The Empire State Building, Twin Towers, Grand Central Station, Macy’s, yellow cabs … it all actually existed. I was transfixed, emotionally overwhelmed. “Look,” I said, nudging Leanne, nose pressed to the window, “Isn’t it amazing?”

Leanne curled her upper lip on one side, shrugged a shoulder, “S’alright. Get bored of it after a while.”

I should’ve known she’d say something like that.

“Any plans for tonight?” I asked her, as we pulled up outside the Lexington Hotel.

“Nah, Delsey Dining,” she replied.

I didn’t have a clue what she was on about, but I ended the conversation there.

I couldn’t believe I was staying at the Lexington Hotel – in the very same street where the iconic scene from
The Seven Year Itch
was filmed – the one where Marilyn Monroe’s standing over the air vent and you see her knickers as her dress blows up. I felt as though I’d walked straight onto a movie set, my depression from the flight now completely lifted, as I allowed Leanne to walk in ahead of me. I stood in the street taking it all in.

Things were about to improve. As I waited in the lobby for my room key along with the rest of the crew, I met my first proper work friend, Laura, who was standing next to me in the queue. The first thing that struck me about Laura was that her voice didn’t match her features. Petite and slim – no larger than a UK size six – with alabaster skin, huge moss-green eyes and shiny brunette hair, she reminded me of one of the Corrs sisters. I was expecting her to speak with a cute little Irish accent, so I got rather a shock when I heard the familiar brash Geordieness I had grown up with.

“Eee, all this hanging around gets right on me tits,” she said, looking up at me.

At last
, I thought,
a normal, down-to-earth person
.

“Actually, this is my first trip,” I said, almost apologetically.

“Ah yeah, I remember from the briefing. I’m Laura,” she said, shaking my hand.

“Mandy … am I relieved to meet you.”

She laughed. “Man, if your first flight was anything like mine, you’ll be wanting out of this game already.”

“It wasn’t great, but I love it here.”

We reached the front of the queue and Laura requested adjoining rooms. “Stick with me babe,” she said, winking as she slipped my room card into my hand, “Eee, we’ll have a right giggle.”

The atmosphere in the lobby was chaotic, everyone chatting and laughing loudly, exchanging room numbers, a few squeals here and there, cases sprawled across the marble floor, snippets of
excitable conversation about where to go and what to do that night. I noticed a couple staring at us as they came in through the revolving doors. The woman couldn’t take her eyes off us, swinging her head around to gawp further as they walked past. Everything was whirring around me, a muddle of red figures, voices over voices over voices. My head was spinning. Was I having an out-of-body experience? Or was it just jet lag catching up with me?

“C’mon,” said Laura, pulling what appeared to be a genuine Chanel handbag out of her suitcase and over her shoulder. “Let’s go crack open the vodka.”

“Girl after my own heart,” I replied.

As we attempted to leave, we were cornered by Martin at the lifts.

“Girls,” he said, “We’ve been making some plans for tonight. W Bar seems to be the choice of venue – great place. Coming?”

He didn’t have to persuade me.

“Yeah, I’m up for that.”

“Absolutely,” agreed Laura.

Martin rubbed his hands together. “Brilliant. Let’s Foxtrot Oscar for three S’s and see you down here in thirty.”

“Okay,” I enthused, although I had no idea what I’d agreed to.

I asked Laura to translate once we were in the elevator.

“Foxtrot Oscar means Fuck Off,” she explained. “Three S’s are: shit, shower and shave and thirty is half an hour. So, fuck off for a shit, shower and shave and meet in the lobby in half an hour.”

“Oh I see.” I said. “And do you know what Delsey Dining is? Is it a restaurant?”

Laura laughed. “No, it’s literally eating out of your suitcase. We do it sometimes down-route when we want to save money – bring our own food, pocket the allowance and sit in our rooms eating packets of noodles and shit like that.”

Gradually, I was learning the crew lingo, and the things they don’t teach you in training. I had even discovered that as a thank-you for a hard day’s work, Richard Branson let his crew each take two alcoholic miniatures from the drinks cart. I’d only found this out once I saw the rest of the crew start tucking into theirs on the crew bus, and I was the only one who had nothing to drink. I was given donations from other crew members and made a mental note not to forget this little bit of knowledge in future.

“I’ll come through in twenty,” said Laura, as we walked from the lift to our neighbouring rooms.

“Perfect,” I replied, although secretly I thought I might struggle to get ready in twenty minutes – it would take that long to wash my hair. And I promised I’d call Jonathan, for which I’d need to buy an international calling card. Damn, why didn’t I do that when I was in the lobby?

Jonathan and I were like ships – or, more aptly, planes – passing in the night. We hadn’t seen each other in two weeks – since my Wings Ceremony – and he’d been all over the world in that time. Not that the distance was affecting our relationship; we were still madly loved-up and spoke on the phone nearly every day. And we’d discovered phone sex, which was what I was supposed to be doing now. Jonathan was currently in the UK before jetting off to Miami tomorrow morning. I’ll call him later, I decided, throwing my luggage onto the super-king-size bed in my room. I’d have to put off the hair washing for now, too.

True to her word, Laura was banging on the door that linked our rooms exactly twenty minutes later. I’d had the quickest shower in history – over the gigantic bath – and was still doing my make-up when she knocked.

“It’s open,” I called, applying a slick of lip gloss.

Laura came sauntering into the room, vodka bottle in hand,
wearing a sexy satin top in the same vivid green hue as her eyes, and black jeans with heels. Her glossy hair tumbled in mahogany waves over her shoulders and her skin looked so fresh – you would never have guessed she’d just stepped off an eight-hour flight.