Cabin Fever: The sizzling secrets of a Virgin air hostess…

by Mandy Smith

  “Ah, don’t be daft, babe,” she said. “I’m having a blast – and it’s not over yet. We’ve still got Chinatown to attack. You’re gonna love Canal Street.”

  We packed so much into our day, including Canal Street, where I picked up a very authentic-looking pair of Dior sunglasses and a couple of pashmina scarves. On our way back I even got Laura to take a photo of me at the spot where Marilyn flashed her knickers on Lexington. We walked for miles and my feet were throbbing by the time we arrived back at the hotel, where, once again, we had a turnaround time of just thirty minutes to change into our uniforms and glam up before the crew bus rolled up.

  Laura and I were inseparable. We sat together on the crew bus and talked non-stop en route to the airport, exchanging phone numbers and addresses. I was sad when we parted. “It’s been emotional. You’ve gotta come to one of our house parties in Horley,” said Laura as we boarded the plane. “They’re legendary – I’ll introduce you to some of the other girls, too. You’ll love them – they’re all PLU (People Like Us).”

  “Absolutely, I’d love to,” I said. Then she turned left and I turned right – back to Economy Class, and back to my po-faced pal Leanne.

  The flight back to Heathrow was eventful. I figured at some stage of my career I would face some dramatic or traumatic circumstances, mentioned in training, but I wasn’t expecting to be hit with such challenging episodes on my second sector.

  The first drama happened as I was serving dinner. I was facing towards the rear of the plane pushing the trolley, Leanne on the opposite end. As I crouched down to grab a set of meals from the cart I felt someone grabbing at my skirt, it was a man bellowing and clicking his fingers behind me. “Hey, you, stewardess.”

  I looked over my shoulder to be confronted by the snarling features of a middle-aged man wearing a thatch of coarse grey hair. He was leaning over the side of his aisle seat, glaring at me.

  “I need to speak to you, now,” he demanded.

  I flashed him a broad smile, the words “arrogant bastard” springing to mind. “One moment, sir.”

  I finished serving my passenger then headed back to his seat.

  “How can I help you, sir?” I said, kneeling down to speak to him. Up close I noticed he had matching bristly grey nose hair, sprouting out of his nostrils like two paintbrushes. Next to him in the middle seat was a boy no older than nine or ten – presumably his son.

  “What the hell do you call this?” asked the guy, pointing to the kid’s meal.

  “That’s a chicken pizza, sir,” I replied.

  “I know it’s a bloody pizza. It’s a bloody pathetic, sloppy inedible pizza,” he shouted, banging his fist on the boy’s tray. “This is not what we ordered. My son can’t eat this.”

  “Would you eat this?” he raged, grabbing the open carton containing the pizza and flinging it towards my face. The pizza leapt from its container, slapping cheese-side into my face before dropping to the floor with a splat. The other passengers were craning and twisting their heads round to see what all the shouting was about. His son shrank into his seat, eyes closed with embarrassment. I plucked a tissue from my tabard pocket, wiped the cheese and tomato from my face and leaned over the grey-haired man to speak to his son.

  “Erm, that was actually an accident,” said the pizza thrower.

  “That may be so, sir,” I said calmly. “But I think I’ll speak to your son if you’re going to act younger than him.”

  “What would you like to eat, honey?” I asked the lad. “You can have something special, if you don’t like pizza. How about some nice chicken nuggets from the crew cart?”

  The boy’s face lit up. “Chicken nuggets, yes please.”

  When I returned with the nuggets the boy’s father apologised for his outburst. I didn’t bother explaining that this meant I would not be eating myself now, because at least it kept the peace.

  “That’s okay, sir, enjoy the rest of your flight,” I said, smiling. I then strutted back to the waiting passengers I’d abandoned, wondering how he would react to having a pizza slung in his face.

  The second incident happened about halfway through the flight, during a particularly rough patch of turbulence over the Atlantic. Leanne and I were sitting on empty bar boxes in the galley – our first chance for a rest since take-off – when the toilet alarm bell sounded. In training we were told the alarm signalled someone was in difficulty in one of the toilets at the front of the cabin.

  Leanne rolled her eyes. “Probably some warped pervert with his knob hanging out … it usually is. S’pose we’d better go and check it out. This might need two pairs of hands.”

  “Sure,” I said, “let’s go.”

  I followed Leanne to the toilet, situated in front of the middle row of seats. As we reached the door we heard a faint moaning sound coming from inside. I stood behind Leanne as she knocked but got no answer, so she unlocked the folding door from outside (we have a technique) and pushed it inwards. I nearly choked at the sight. Perched on the toilet, jeans and knickers around her ankles, was a woman in her late twenties, covered in blood, rocking back and forth, whimpering like an injured animal. Her face was smeared with blood, as were her arms and legs. There were bloody handprints on the cubicle walls and mirror, and the floor was also splattered. I had never seen anything so horrific.

  The woman reached towards us with a quivering bloodstained hand. “My baby, my baby,” she howled. “Please help me, please, please.”

  It then became clear to us what had happened – she’d suffered a miscarriage.

  “We’re going to help you, sweetheart,” said Leanne, her voice soft and reassuring. We’re here for you. What’s your name?”

  “Julia.”

  “Okay, Julia, we’re going to help you.”

  I couldn’t believe this was the same Leanne. “I’ll deal with the passengers and get supplies,” I said, as I started to clear the area of onlookers.

  The passengers in the first few rows near the toilets were delighted with their move to the Upper Class bar. We then draped blankets around the overhead lockers and spare seats to create a private cubicle space for the woman.

  I gathered plastic aprons, surgical gloves, face masks and cloths from our first-aid supplies in the galley and returned to the scene with more crew to help. Once dressed in our protective gear we were safe to enter the toilet cubicle.

  Julia was sobbing, doubled over with her head in her hands. “Okay, Julia,” said Leanne, crouching by the toilet and lightly touching Julia’s upper arm. “We’re going to help you out of here.”

  Julia, clearly in pain, lifted her head. “Thank you.”

  Very gently, Leanne led Julia out of the toilet into the cubicle space where, for the next half an hour, we cleaned her up, gave her feminine products and a fresh pair of Virgin pyjamas to wear, then settled her beneath blankets onto a seat.

  “My husband, can I see my husband?” asked Julia, her pretty heart-shaped face a luminous white.

  “I’ll get him for you,” offered Leanne.

  As Leanne left the makeshift cubicle I took a seat next to Julia, raising the armrest that separated us. “Is there anything you need?” I asked.

  She slipped a weak arm from beneath the blanket. “Will you hold my hand?”

  I folded her hand in mine. “Of course I will,” I said.

  On touchdown at Heathrow, Julia and her husband were whisked away in an awaiting ambulance. I felt so sorry for her. A miscarriage is traumatic enough, let alone enduring one in an aircraft toilet at 35,000 feet. The toilet was in such a mess we had to seal it off.

  One thing that had amazed me, however, was just how well Leanne had coped with the trauma. She was brilliant, switching from jaded flight attendant to Florence Nightingale in the space of seconds.

  I reminded her of this as we travelled back to Gatwick on the crew bus. “That was really tough, Leanne. I don’t think I could have coped with that on my own, but you were amazing.”

  Leanne pinched the b
ridge of her nose. “I’ve got a bitching headache now, though.”

  And just like that, Florence Nightingale turned back into Leanne.

  It was mid morning when I finally arrived back at my little pebble-dashed house, barely able to place one foot in front of the other. I dumped my luggage in the hallway, walked into the lounge and fell onto the sofa. I was exhausted, emotionally drained – and what was that awful smell? I lifted my forearm to my nose, sniffed the sleeve of my jacket and nearly heaved. It was a strong aroma, like stale pasties mixed with … farts. Eau de Boeing, just as Leanne had predicted.

  Memories of the last forty-eight hours reeled through my mind: the flight out, the W Bar, phone sex, sightseeing and shopping, pizza in my face and poor Julia. I had a whole day of rest ahead of me, then I’d be doing it all over again. I lay back on the sofa and sobbed.

  CHAPTER 5

  REST DAYS

  The first few months were tough. After that first traumatic flight back from New York, I questioned whether I was actually cut out to be a stewardess. I cried myself to sleep on the sofa and woke up with a crippled back, banging head and eyes the size of Ping-Pong balls. My first thought when I looked in the mirror and saw my puffed up mascara-stained face was: I might have to quit this job.

  But I’m a Northern lass and made of sturdy stuff, and as the tiredness subsided, the fond memories of New York, meeting Laura and the fun we’d had, spurred me on. After all, there’d be plenty more fun times ahead, right? They’d warned us in training to allow ourselves six months to settle in. I also had another good reason for not quitting. I’d finally heard back from Brighton Police regarding the charges I’d pressed against Neil for beating me up that night after the Jamiroquai gig. The sergeant said the charges had been dropped because the police officer dealing with the case had taken too long to prepare it. “She ran out of time,” he explained. He then asked me whether I wanted to lodge an official complaint against her, or seek compensation. I declined. Neil was out of my life for good now and pursuing a lengthy battle against the cops would only serve as a brutal reminder of that awful night. What I hadn’t forgotten, though, was how proud and liberated I’d felt when I’d landed this job – I’d set myself free from Neil and that was my revenge. If I gave up now, he’d win.

  So I wiggled my size-ten bum back into my red skirt and got back on that big white bird.

  It was gruelling. I was doing two long-haul flights in eight days with one or two night stopovers and one day’s rest in between in the UK. Including the security briefings and occasional delays, my working day could sometimes be up to twenty-six hours long – and most of this time I’d spend on my feet without any breaks. The in-flight supervisors in those days were incredibly strict. We weren’t allowed to be seen eating in uniform, so if we did want a snack, it had to be eaten in the privacy of the galley with the curtains firmly drawn. There were no seats in the galley, so as soon as the metal bar boxes were empty we’d use them as stools – sometimes padded with a cushion nicked from an empty passenger seat if you wanted to be posh. Then the in-flight supervisor would come along and tell us to put all the boxes back.

  My body clock was completely screwed up from the time zone changes … not to mention all the partying down-route. It’s no wonder many new recruits threw in the towel within the first few weeks of flying, or ended up getting sacked for screwing up. Like Sarah, from my Ab Initio course, who got the boot for falling asleep on the job. She was travelling home from Orlando – her second trip – when, so overwhelmed by tiredness, she decided to steal forty winks. Thinking no one would notice her absence, she found an empty passenger seat, curled up and nodded off beneath a blanket. When the purser found her and shook her awake, bleary-eyed Sarah barked, “Don’t touch me, I’m trying to sleep.” Instant dismissal.

  There was nearly always a drama on board, usually involving demanding or insolent passengers, who thought it was perfectly acceptable to belittle and abuse crew. This happened again during my second flight to New York, while I was serving coffee to a woman in Economy. She was one of those types who obviously couldn’t afford to travel Upper Class or Premium, but really thought she belonged there – mid thirties, wearing a beige dress from a high-end high street store, knock-off designer shades perched on her head, loads of costume bling and looking down her nose at everyone around her. “Would you care for tea or coffee, madam?” I’d said politely, stopping the cart by her seat. Without looking up she pointed at her cup on her tray, blurted “coffee” and continued reading Marie Claire. She even didn’t say thank you when I filled her cup.

  “Is there anything else I can get for you, madam?” I said.

  Then she glanced up at me, took one look at my name badge and sneered: “Mandy Smith? You’ve come down in the world, haven’t you. Didn’t you marry some millionaire rock star?”

  The ignorant bitch thought I was the model-cum-pop star Mandy Smith, who married, then divorced, Rolling Stones bassist Bill Wyman.

  “Yep, that’s me,” I said with a smile. “Still keeping it real by working – the bills don’t pay themselves. Now, is there anything I can get for your children?”

  The woman sneered and turned to speak to her kids, two girls aged around nine and eleven sporting matching purple velvet dresses. “See that, girls,” she said, nodding in my direction. “That’s where you’ll end up if you don’t do your homework and do well at school – serving tea and coffee on a plane.”

  Unfortunately, this kind of attitude towards crew is prevalent among some passengers. Many believe our sole duty is to dish out meals and pour coffee. Some of them never see what goes on behind the scenes – when we’re cleaning up after miscarriages, restraining violent passengers and, in some cases, saving lives. If that woman had been on my flight back from Delhi the following week, for instance, she might have witnessed me cleaning up and restitching a gentleman’s five-inch stomach wound, which had burst open mid flight following a recent operation. On the plus side, however, I was discovering that many perks came with this air hostessing lark. Just eight weeks into my career I’d flown to New York, Orlando, Johannesburg and Delhi – and I was discovering a beauty treatment gem at every destination. In Joburg, at the luxury Sandton Sun Intercontinental Towers Hotel, I could get my hair cut and styled at a snip of the price I would back home – plus an amazingly soft paraffin wax treatment. Delhi’s Hyatt Hotel was for threading – an eyebrow shaping there set me back no more than eighty-five rupees, which is about eighty pence in Sterling. I’d also heard you could get your bits waxed to perfection at a bargain price in San Fran, but I was yet to travel there being so new (flight routes are all about seniority).

  I was also making lots of new friends, and with every flight came a whole new set of faces. My social life had gone from a few drinks down the local pub on a Friday night to riotous parties all over the world in the matter of weeks.

  My social life at home in the UK was becoming more hectic too. In addition to the crazy room parties down-route, there were also crew house parties happening all over Sussex, which were equally as outrageous, involving lots of nudity, drinking and sex – as I discovered when I attended my first one at Laura’s house.

  I was just home from Joburg, enjoying my rest day, curled up on the sofa watching Some Like It Hot while my washing churned in the machine, when Laura called.

  “Hey Mandy, please tell me you’re not jetting off anywhere today,” she said, her voice loaded with excitement.

  “Not today – just back from Joburg yesterday – Vegas tomorrow. Why?”

  “House party at mine tonight – you’ve got to come – all the girls will be here and I want you to meet them.”

  I was tempted. For once I wasn’t feeling too tired – and Jonathan was in the Caribbean so I had no date fixed with him, and no other plans except to get organised for the following morning. And Laura had told me so much about the girls – the BA hostesses she lived with, Sally and Joanne, and her best Virgin dolly pals Felicity and Suzy, whom I was it
ching to meet. But partying the night before a ten-hour flight was probably not a wise idea.

  “I don’t know Laura. I’ve got to check in at ten in the morning.”

  “Ah bollocks, that’s plenty of time. Bring all your stuff for tomorrow and you can leave from my place in the morning. Stop drinking by midnight and you’ll be fine.”

  “But what if …”

  “I’m not taking no for an answer. It’s not going to be a wild one – just us girls, pizzas, face masks, manicures, few glasses of vino. A few others might be popping in later but I’ve not told that many people about it. Come on, Mands … I’ll do your nails for you for tomorrow.”

  How could I resist?

  “Okay, but I’ll need to be semi sensible.”

  “Great, see you about five.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  I arrived at Laura’s bang on five. Best to start early and crash early, I reasoned. I wasn’t entirely sure what the appropriate dress code was for a house party so I opted for a smart yet casual knitted brown dress with knee-length boots and tights.

  “Maaandy,” shrieked Laura, flinging open the front door, glass of white wine in hand, looking stunning as ever in a gun-metal halter-neck satin dress.

  I trotted in with my wheely case, squealing. Laura haphazardly rested her glass on the hall radiator shelf and threw her arms around me. I hugged her back and we rocked from side to side, giggling and screeching.

  “Come into the lounge,” she said, when we eventually let go of each other. “Jo and Sally are here – the others are on their way. Can I get you a drink? I’m so excited to see you.”