by Mandy Smith
It was good to let our hair down and enjoy some light relief. The flight out to Barbados had been rather solemn. The day prior to our departure, a Concorde had crashed just minutes after taking off from Roissy Charles de Gaulle airport, killing all 109 people on board and four people on the ground. One of our crew, a steward called Spencer, lost one of his best friends in the disaster. She was an air hostess on board the Air France aircraft, who had just found out she was expecting a baby and hadn’t told her manager yet, as she was due to be grounded for the rest of her pregnancy following that fateful flight. Spencer cried all the way to Barbados. He was heartbroken. “I only spoke to her two days ago,” he explained to me in the galley, tears trickling down his cheeks. “Why did it have to happen, Mandy … why?”
I couldn’t answer his question, but I could offer a shoulder to cry on. “You know, you didn’t have to come to work today; you shouldn’t be working – you’re grieving, it’s natural,” I told him.
He looked at me with his red-rimmed eyes and, with a sad half-laugh, said, “I need the money, Mandy.”
We were all worried about Spencer. He didn’t leave his room on our first day in Barbados. He said he wanted to be alone so we respected his wish … but called his room from time to time to check in with him.
Meanwhile, back in the Mandy and Jonathan love bubble, there was cause for celebration in Barbados. On our second morning, after my naked flower-in-the-bum escapade, Jonathan asked me to marry him. It took me completely by surprise. We’d now been together for two years and although our relationship was strong, he’d never brought up the subject of marriage prior to this. It was bizarre how it happened. We’d just had sex – the Kama Sutra position of the day for us being the Lotus Flower – and I’d asked Jonathan to hold my feet while I did some sit-ups on the floor. It was a routine I performed prior to hitting the beach: 250 sit-ups to flatten the tummy.
“You really don’t need to do all these sit-ups,” Jonathan said, kneeling between my knees as he held my ankles. “You’ve got a beautiful body.”
“I don’t think the receptionist would agree with you after last night’s episode,” I joked.
“I’m still gutted I missed that.”
“Serves you right for not coming skinny dipping with us. Prude.”
I raised my upper body, kissing Jonathan’s lips as I came up. We did this 250 times – sit-up, kiss, sit-up, kiss, and after my final sit-up, as I lay back on the floor, Jonathan popped the question. He rested his dimpled cheek on my knee and smiled. “I love you, Mandy.”
“I love you too.”
“Marry me.”
This made me sit up again. “Are you serious?” For some reason I thought Jonathan was joking.
“Of course I’m serious. I want to marry you. I want you to be my wife, Mandy.”
Images of wedding gowns, a vintage Bentley and dress shopping with the girls whizzed through my mind. I threw my arms around him, shrieking: “Oh my God, oh my God,” over and over.
“I take it that’s a yes, then?”
“Yes. Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes,” I shrilled. I was ecstatic. “I can’t wait to tell the girls – they can all be bridesmaids. Would you prefer a church wedding, or registry office … or we could get married abroad, here maybe? On the beach: won’t that be romantic? Although personally I like a good old-fashioned church wedding. And we should tell our parents – they’re going to be thrilled – let’s call them now. What time is it back home? I wonder whether I’ll go for ivory or white. Vintage or modern? What about a ring … I don’t have a ring.”
Jonathan’s smile faded. “I’ll get you a ring. I’ll save up for one, but I don’t think we should broadcast our news. Let’s keep it quiet for now, eh? Keep it between us two.”
His words punctured the tyres of my vintage Bentley. “Can we not just tell our parents? My mum and dad will keep it under their hats,” I fibbed, knowing full well the moment I broke the news to Mum she’d be on the phone to Jeanie Mac and the rest of the family, saying, “My baby’s getting married.”
“It’s just for now, Mands. Let’s not rush things. We’ve got plenty of time.”
“Okay, but don’t be angry if it accidentally slips out. I’m just excited, that’s all.”
“Me too,” Jonathan said. “Now, let’s get to the beach – the others will be wondering where we are.”
As soon as I saw Laura, her tiny, toned figure lost in a vast, comfy sun-lounger, I ran towards her in the hot sand, arms flailing, shrieking: “I’m getting married, we’re engaged.”
Laura sat up, looked around through her oversized Prada sunnies, searching for my voice, then spotted me. “I’m engaged,” I cried again. Laura was with Dan, and about a dozen other crew members, all in a line on the beach facing the sun – and all were looking in my direction. They looked like the cast of Baywatch, a landscape of mountainous boobs, tanned six packs and hummock bums.
Hearing me the second time Laura sprang from her sun-bed and ran over to greet me, screaming and clapping. “Oh my God, I can’t believe it. Congratulations,” she said, slinging her arms around me, and then shouted over my shoulder, “Congrats, Jon.”
In my moment of excitement I’d forgotten about Jonathan. I’d ignored his mutters of “Mandy, please don’t,” when I’d dropped his hand and bounced down the beach towards Laura. He strolled up beside me. “I thought we’d agreed to keep it quiet, Mandy,” he muttered into my ear.
“I’ve only told Laura,” I said with a light laugh, as the rest of the crew whistled and clapped.
I joined Laura on her sun-bed and Jonathan sat with Dan. Everyone was firing questions at us.
“So, when’s the big day then?” Dan said.
“Let’s see your ring?” asked one of the implanted girls whose name I couldn’t remember.
“Did you get down on one knee, Jonathan?” Laura said. “Knowing you it was romantic.”
“I was doing me sit-ups,” I replied. “And he popped the question.”
“Can I be a bridesmaid?” requested Alex, who was fastening a Slendertone belt around his waist with one hand and swigging a vodka Diet Coke from the other.
“Course you can, sweetie,” I said with a wink. “You can join my girls.” I turned back to Laura, “Obviously you, Felicity and Suzy are going to be my chief bridesmaids.”
“Eee, that’s great, I’m made up for you both.”
“Talking of Flis,” I added, “Where is she? I thought she was meeting us here.”
Laura grinned. “She’s gone off with that water sports instructor … local guy … what’s his face? The one she met yesterday.”
“Denton?”
“Yeah, that’s the one.”
The previous afternoon, as we’d sunbathed, Felicity had seen Denton – a tall, dark, muscular figure – emerging from the sea. She rose to her feet from her sun-lounger, and declared: “I’m having him.” She sashayed over to him – stomach sucked in, boobs pushed forwards, untying her long blonde hair and shaking it free – and shook his hand, then disappeared along the beach with him. That had been around two o’clock. We didn’t see her again until eight o’clock when she turned up at the room party, still wearing her bikini and a miniscule denim skirt, her face flushed chilli red and sporting a pair of flip-flops, which she’d borrowed from Denton for her walk of shame back from his equipment hut, where she’d spent the afternoon “shagging his brains out”.
Although it was hurricane season, we’d been lucky with the weather so far: blue skies, temperature averaging around twenty-three degrees, with a gentle breeze. The atmosphere today was chilled. Dan and Jonathan went to the bar and returned with a tray of cocktails, while Laura and I stretched out on the double sun-bed, chatting about weddings.
“You’re not going to make us wear hideous dresses, are you?” Laura asked.
“I’m thinking tangerine orange taffeta with puffball sleeves.”
“Or you could go for the slutty ballerina look,” added Alex, perching on the edge of
our bed. I glanced over at him. He was fiddling with the control pad on his slimming belt.
“Why are you wearing that thing?” I said. “You are not fat.”
Alex wouldn’t have looked out of place as an extra in Wham!’s “Club Tropicano” video: waxed, tanned body; skin the colour of Red Leicester cheese from frequent visits to spray-tan booths; his teeth Hollywood white; and his brown, quiffy hair streaked with hay highlights.
“Are you kidding me, girlfriend? I need to lose at least a stone. My Jamie will look elsewhere if I’m not careful. I’ve not eaten any carbs in a week and still I can’t shift this gut,” Alex sighed, glancing morosely at his flat stomach.
“Let’s have a look at that thing,” I said, shuffling down the bed on my bum. “What setting have you got it on?”
“Number two, I think. The instructions said to start on a low setting and gradually build up the intensity.”
“Maybe we should crank it up a bit?” I offered. I leaned forward and pressed the up-arrow button a few times. The vibrations intensified. “How does that feel?”
“Good, really good. Let’s go higher.”
I jabbed the button several times. The vibrations were now travelling through the bed.
“I can feel it working now.”
“Crank that up some more,” added Laura, rotating onto her belly.
“It feels proper good, that.”
So I continued jabbing the button until the belt reached full speed. “How does that feel, babe?” I said.
Alex grabbed the edge of the bed with both hands, his whole upper body convulsing. “I … think … I’m …”
He couldn’t get his words out and I noticed his Red Leicester face was turning a sickly shade of green.
“Are you okay, Alex?” I said. “You look a bit off-colour.”
“I think … I’m … going …”
He then heaved violently, leaned forwards and spewed into the white sand. I ripped the belt off him, trying not to laugh. Laura snorted loudly as Alex vomited again. I rubbed his back. “I’m sorry babe, maybe I took that a bit too far.”
Alex wiped his mouth with his hand. “Well, that’s one quick way to shed the pounds,” he said.
As he recovered, Alex seemed quite chuffed that he’d emptied the entire contents of his stomach and celebrated by ordering a club sandwich. “I can afford the calories now,” he beamed.
We stayed on the beach until sunset. A few cocktails were downed, although we couldn’t drink too much ahead of our flight home the next day. This didn’t deter some, though; a few went on to party in Bridgetown. Laura was pissed off when Dan decided to join them. “I thought we were going to have a quiet night,” she said, as we trundled across the sand towards the beach restaurant. “I’ve got to work tomorrow – I can’t get hammered.”
“I haven’t got to work, though,” was Dan’s response.
I wasn’t too keen on Dan. Laura had invited him to Barbados on one of her free-of-charge staff travel tickets, and now he was abandoning her on her last night by buggering off with a bunch of people he’d only just met. I wondered what Laura saw in Dan at times. He wasn’t exactly Mr Personality; compared with Laura’s effervescent nature, he was relatively dull and hardly made any effort to get to know her closest friends. He was quite good looking, I suppose: mid thirties, about six foot with a gym-buff body and a moody, handsome face. But his lack of charisma somehow cancelled out his good looks.
So Dan vanished with the Bridgetown-bound posse and Laura came to the restaurant, where we celebrated my engagement to Jonathan over a couple more cocktails, just “for the road”, spending the last of our trip allowances.
I couldn’t sleep that night – I was still buzzing after Jonathan’s proposal, and when I did eventually drop off, I drifted into a wedding anxiety dream. It was the day of my wedding, which, bizarrely, was due to take place at Whiteleys shopping centre in Bayswater, London. But, for some reason, I was at JFK Airport, where our flight had been delayed, then cancelled, and I still hadn’t bought a dress. Felicity was there … and Laura, I think. I was running around the airport, trying to find a shop to buy a calling card, but everywhere was shut. An announcement was put out over the tannoy – it was Jonathan’s voice: “Urgent call for Miss Mandy Smith – your wedding has been cancelled … I repeat, your wedding has been cancelled.”
I woke up mumbling: “But it’s my special day.” It took me a moment to realise where I was. We stayed in so many hotels that they all tended to blend into one after a while. This room had apple-green walls decorated with a few contemporary-style Caribbean paintings – an up-close image of a fuchsia, another depicting a sunset over the ocean – and archway doors leading to a balcony overlooking the Platinum Coast. It was 9am. Jonathan was still sleeping, his arm curled around his head on the pillow, mouth agape. I kissed his forehead and left him to sleep.
On my way down to breakfast I bumped into Laura in the corridor. She emerged from her room, slammed the door behind her and then turned and stuck her two middle fingers up at the door.
“Hey Laura, are you okay?” I said, even though it was blatantly obvious something was bugging her. She turned round, her face set in a tight scowl. “He’s a fucking idiot.”
I gave her a hug. “What’s he done now?”
Laura pulled away and linked my arm in hers. “I’ll tell you over brekkie.”
We loaded our plates at the breakfast buffet and settled at a table on the outdoor terrace. “So he didn’t come home last night,” said Laura piling a forkful of eggs Benedict into her mouth. “He rolled in at eight o’clock this morning – said he’d only just got back from Bridgetown. I didn’t have an issue with this – we all party round the clock. But when he was in the shower the phone rang. It was some tart, asking to speak to ‘Dan, my boyfriend’. She said he’d left his watch in her room.”
“Shit, did you confront him? What did he say?”
“I didn’t bother confronting him … there’s no point.”
“Surely you’re not going to let him get away with it, though?”
Laura shrugged. “It’s okay. While he was still in the shower I cancelled his ticket home. He knows nothing about it – he won’t find out until he checks in.”
I laughed. “Good for you, babe. I can’t wait to see his face.”
“Mmm, look behind you,” Laura said, her chirpy grin returning.
I looked over my shoulder. It was Felicity, sporting a naughty grin and a sexy black fitted playsuit. She fell into the seat next to Laura and, before she said anything, pulled an ivory pair of knickers out of her bag and threw them on the table, narrowly missing Laura’s eggs Benedict.
“Mind me food,” Laura said, shifting her plate away from Felicity’s underwear.
“Do we have to look at your smalls over breakfast?” I added.
Felicity then explained how she’d spent a night of passion with Denton in his equipment hut. “We got up to all sorts in a three-man inflatable kayak,” she said. But when she’d woken up that morning, she couldn’t find her knickers. “I couldn’t find them anywhere,” Felicity added, reaching for Laura’s coffee. “I woke Denton up, and said, ‘Hey, what have you done with my pants?’ And he denied knowing anything about it until I had searched high and low for them, then he produced a jar, rammed full with women’s knickers – mine included.”
“Weirdo,” I said.
“He then said he wanted to keep my knickers as a souvenir. ‘I will smell them and always think of you,’ he said.”
Orange juice spurted from Laura’s nostrils. “What did you say to that?”
Felicity sat back in her chair, folded her arms across her breasts and said, “I told him, ‘You can’t keep them – they’re part of a matching Bravissimo bra and pants set.’”
Everyone on the terrace turned to look at us – we were all laughing so hard.
“So,” Felicity added, wiping a tear from her eye, “what’s been happening with you girls?”
Laura compo
sed herself. “I’ve binned Dan, and Mandy’s engaged,” she blurted, and then burst out laughing again.
“Bloody hell,” Felicity said. “I can’t leave you lot alone for five minutes.”
This was what it was like on trips. No matter what dramas occurred, we always laughed. It was our coping mechanism. We laughed again later that day when Dan tried to check in at Barbados International Airport. Our crew watched as he argued with the woman behind the desk, thumping his fist on the counter and saying, “I’m a pilot for British Airways.”
“Come on, let’s go,” Laura said. “What a knob-head.”
On cue we all extended the handles of our Delseys, turned and walked in a sassy red line towards security.
“Laura, wait,” yelled Dan, running behind us. “There’s a problem with my ticket – they’re saying I’m not on the flight.”
We all stopped, and as though rehearsed, looked over our shoulders, and with big, cheesy smiles, sang, “See ya,” then carried on walking through security.
CHAPTER 9
THE MILE HIGH CLUB
“Marathon ground control, this is November niner niner, eight zero Delta, requesting clearance for take-off.” Jonathan’s voice flooded my ears through the headphones like a powerful aphrodisiac.
“This is Marathon ground control. November niner niner, eight zero Delta, you are clear for take-off.”
I reached over and gave Jonathan’s bare thigh a gentle squeeze. “Chocks away,” I said with a cheeky giggle.
Jonathan pushed in the throttle and the little Cessna chuckled along the tarmac.
“Airspeed alive,” he called out as the plane gathered pace, his brow knitted in concentration. God, he looked sexy – so authoritative, masterful. The Cessna thrashed down the runway, engines growling, vibrations tickling my bum through the seat until the plane leapt into the clear Florida sky like a giant tin locust. I peered out of the window and watched the Keys shrink beneath us, surrounded by waters of varying shades of turquoise, cyan and teal.
“It’s a lovely clear sky out there,” said Jonathan, “Perfect for VFR [Visual Flight Rules] flying.”