by Mandy Smith
The sexual gymnastics that ensued that night made the Kama Sutra look tame. He had me up against the wall, my legs curled around his waist, taking my full body weight while still managing to thrust wildly. We did the cowgirl position, reverse cowgirl, the X position and spoons. He did me over the desk, sideways, back-to-front, upside down and missionary with my legs over my head. I’d never met a man with so much energy – he was turbocharged. We got through at least six condoms, shagging through the night until we folded beneath the bed sheets, glued together in a damp, pheromonal cocoon.
When I awoke Stephen had gone, vanished like a ghost. The radio was still blaring, an over-enthusiastic DJ gushing about upcoming Fourth-of-July celebrations and glittering casino shows. My inner thighs felt bruised, my stomach raw with hunger. Through all the excitement of the last twenty-four hours, I realised, I’d forgotten to eat.
I didn’t get together with Stephen again. I wanted to, but he made it perfectly clear it was just a one-night affair. It was a pity because I really liked him. When we were reunited – at the breakfast buffet that morning – he was standoffish with me.
“Do you fancy doing something later?” I suggested. “I think we’re going to Freemont Street.”
He didn’t reply, so Clare, who was standing beside him, spoke for him. “We have plans for the next few days, Mandy – me and Stephen haven’t had a chance to catch up yet.” This was an obvious dig at me for stealing her friend for the night.
I ignored her and looked up at Stephen. “Oh … I see … well if you want my number I’ll …”
“Look, sorry Mandy,” he interrupted. “I like you, but last night was a one-off.”
I was really upset – I thought we’d connected. All that stuff he’d come out with about wanting to find a “genuine” girl had clearly been a ploy to get me into bed. I wasn’t big on one-night stands; in fact, this was my first. I tried to push Stephen to the back of my mind and enjoy the rest of the trip hanging out with the crew. But it wasn’t the same. I kept bumping into Stephen around the hotel, which was awkward. For once I was pleased to be leaving Vegas.
I cheered up when I discovered I was working in Economy with Sandra on the flight home. At least I didn’t have to put up with Sharon’s constant whinging. True to form, we hadn’t seen Sharon until it was time to leave the hotel, when she’d appeared in the lobby looking pale and drawn with a hotel towel hanging out the side of her case.
“God, I don’t know about you but I’m done in,” said Sandra, as we welcomed yet another mob of travellers onto the plane.
“I’m not bad, actually,” I said. “At least there doesn’t seem to be any nutters on board this evening.”
“Hmm, I wouldn’t be so sure of that,” replied Sandra, nodding in the direction of a woman who was striding up the aisle towards us. I had to admit, she did look a bit weird. Her hair was tied back in a bandana and she was wearing a purple hippy-style skirt, mumbling to herself.
“Hey, excuse me, ma’am,” she shouted, shoving past people who were still trying to ram their luggage in the overhead lockers. “Hey,” she added, clicking her fingers in the air, “You, over here.”
“Shall I go?” I asked Sandra. “Seeing as you’re feeling a bit rough.”
“Yeah, please.”
“How can I help you, madam?” I said, walking the hippy-skirted woman back to her seat.
“Water,” she said in an American drawl, “I need water.”
“If you’d like to sit down, madam,” I urged, “I’ll get you a glass.”
“I need water, get me a whole bottle, goddamn it,” she yelled. “I’m pregnant – thirty-six weeks.”
“In that case, madam, I’ll see what I can do,” I said.
“Why is she flying if she’s thirty-six weeks pregnant?” asked Sandra, when I returned to the galley. “She needs a doctor’s note.”
“That’s a point, I didn’t think of that.”
“Does she look thirty-six weeks gone?” added Sandra.
“Well, she’s got a bit of a gut,” I said, “but maybe she’s just fat?”
I made my way back to the woman, who, once again, was out of her seat and standing in the aisle.
“Madam,” I said, gently. “It’s just been brought to my attention that you need a note to fly if you’re as far gone in your pregnancy as you say you are.”
She let out a warped laugh, tossing back her bandana-clad head. “I’m not frigging well pregnant. I’ve got cancer: growths the size of watermelons,” she said. “Look, I’ll show you.”
Then she bent over, grabbed the hem of her hippy skirt and pulled it up – right over her head. And lo and behold, she wasn’t wearing any knickers. I was staring at the biggest seventies-style bush I had ever seen. “Look,” she continued. “Now you see it?”
“I sure do,” I replied.
A quick call to ground staff and she was removed from the plane. She wasn’t pregnant, or suffering from cancer – just completely barking mad.
“You seem to attract all the nutters,” said Sandra, as we sat in our jump seats ready for take-off. “She was a right fruit loop.”
“I know what,” I said, “Let’s phone the flight deck once we’re up, ask Roger if he rogered that.”
We giggled like schoolkids as we rose into the Vegas sky, leaving our sins where they belonged: in Sin City.
CHAPTER 16
SHORTCOMINGS
“What’s that noise?” said Laura, clawing open the galley curtain and peering down the aisle.
“What noise?”
“It’s coming from the wardrobe. I think there’s somebody in there, Mandy. Come and listen.”
“Maybe it’s not locked properly,” I said, thumbing through the Upper Class meal presentation book. “Just give it a good slam.”
“Oh shit, it’s rattling … I can hear a voice.”
I put the book down and peered over Laura’s shoulder. The door was pulsating erratically and I too could hear a voice: it sounded like someone blowing high notes on a harmonica. “Yeah, there’s somebody in there,” I said. “Either that or we’ve got a poltergeist on board.”
“Shit, I locked that door a while ago,” Laura said, striding towards the cupboard.
She pushed the door, it burst open and out stomped Austin Powers star Verne Troyer, his face flushed, gnarly veins throbbing at his temples, clutching a leather jacket in his tiny fist and yelling: “Goddamn it.”
I hid behind the curtain. I couldn’t watch – it was too comical. Just the shocked look on Laura’s face had made me feel as though I was going to lose control of my bladder. I tried to concentrate on preparing the salmon parcel starters, but I could hear all the commotion from the other side of the curtain and it was sending me into convulsions of laughter.
“Goddamn it, goddamn it,” repeated Verne.
“Verne, what were you doing in there? Are you okay?” said Laura.
“Goddamn it, man, I’ve been locked in that goddamn cupboard for ages. I went in there to get my jacket and, bang, somebody slammed the door and locked it.”
I had to hold my nose and cover my mouth. Every time I thought I’d recovered from a fit of giggles, Verne’s red face flashed in my mind, setting me off again.
“I’m so sorry. Is there anything we can get you – a drink, perhaps?” There was a tickle in Laura’s voice that told me she was on the verge of laughter too.
“I don’t want a goddamn drink.”
“Is there anything else I can get for you?”
“No … no I’m fine.” He seemed more embarrassed than angry, as he strode off towards his seat.
Laura came back into the galley, took one look at me and burst out laughing. For the next ten minutes or so we couldn’t stop, both bent over the counter, shaking, tears rolling down our cheeks.
“How long do you reckon he was in there for?” I said, rubbing my stomach.
“Dunno, I … locked … the …” Laura couldn’t even get her words out for giggling. “Twenty min
utes or so.”
“I’ll go and see him in a while,” I said. “I’m sure he’ll calm down.”
Once we’d recovered I headed out to check on Verne. I found him at the Upper Class bar, standing on a stool and joking about the incident with his mates.
“Man, I thought I was never going to get out of there – I was banging on that door for ages.” I heard him say.
I left him to it – I didn’t want to embarrass him in front of his friends, and it was evident he’d recovered from his drama.
Also travelling with us in Upper Class on this LA-bound flight were members of the indie rock band Kaiser Chiefs. They’d been keeping a low profile – snoozing and watching the in-flight entertainment from their flat bed seats. One of our girls, Cheryl, an ardent celebrity hanger-on, was beside herself with excitement and had insisted that she be the band’s personal hostie, which seemed to involve flirting with them for most of the flight. Blonde, petite and busty, with eyes like Prussian-blue ink splodges, Cheryl was always wangling invites to glitzy parties on the back of schmoozing with the rich and famous in Upper Class.
About two hours before touchdown she came breezing into the galley, clapping her hands, “Guess what, guess what?”
“What?” Laura and I said in unison.
“You’re going to love me,” she enthused.
“Out with it, then,” I said.
“I’ve got us all invited to the Kaiser Chiefs’ gig tonight on Hollywood Boulevard.”
I thought Cheryl’s vocal cords were going to snap with excitement.
“Nice one,” said Laura.
“Yeah, and that’s not all,” added Cheryl. “We’re also going to the backstage party afterwards.”
It was a top effort on Cheryl’s part, and we celebrated her victory with a giggly galley group hug, jumping up and down and squealing.
There was mass excitement on the crew bus – everyone singing Kaiser Chiefs songs en route to our hotel, discussing what to wear to the gig and who’d remembered to pack hair straighteners, tongs, hairspray, serum and a variety of other beauty products necessary to transform ourselves into glamorous rock chicks. “Shall I show off my boobs or my legs?” asked Cheryl. “You should never have both on show.”
“Ah, get it all out – if you’ve got it, flaunt it.” was Laura’s response.
After checking in at the crew hotel in Torrance, most of the girls – about ten of us – congregated in my room to get ready. Within minutes, the room resembled an explosion in a beauty parlour: the contents of our make-up and toiletry bags tipped out over every surface – the floor, bed, dressing table, bedside tables and chairs – and hair appliances plugged into every available socket. Clothes, shoes and underwear were being tossed around and swapped, and a perfume and hairspray smog hung in the air.
“Does this dress make my thighs look huge?” said Alison, a gregarious Essex girl, whose thighs were as thin as chopsticks. She stood in front of the full-length mirror, pouting at her reflection while backcombing a length of highlighted brown hair.
“Yeah, they look like an elephant’s legs,” Laura said sarcastically, stepping into a pair of black skinny jeans.
“Oh bugger off, Geordie.”
“Anyone fancy a cheeky vodka?” Cheryl said, producing a one-litre bottle from her suitcase, her face caked in mud mask.
Just the mention of the word vodka, and we were downing make-up tools and scrambling around for glasses. Since we were no longer allowed to take miniatures off the aircraft, most of us girls now brought our own bottles with us from home for such an occasion.
Layers of make-up, clouds of perfume and several vodkas later, we were primped and preened to dolly-tastic perfection and ready to unleash ourselves on the mean streets of Hollywood.
Thanks to Cheryl’s effortless flirting on the flight out, we skipped the queue outside the Fonda Theatre, where the Kaiser Chiefs were playing; the doorman had a note of Cheryl’s name and unclipped the rope barrier with a smile and a wink. The gig was amazing; they’d even reserved seats for us in the front row, although we didn’t sit down for long. We danced and jumped around and sang ourselves hoarse – the atmosphere was electrifying.
The backstage party was held on the swish rooftop terrace, which had been beautifully decked out with a fake lawn and hundreds of fairy lights. One section of it was converted into rooms boasting curtains and sofas in Moroccan shades of purple, red and orange. There were bottles of champagne and beer on ice, set on ornate Moroccan tables. Dozens of music biz types, sporting skinny jeans and indie-style vintage outfits, were all milling about trying to look cool. We took over one of the comfy cubicles and helped ourselves to the free champagne – two hours of singing and dancing had left us parched. A few of us left after a short while: Alison wanted to go to another party being thrown by some bloke she’d been seeing called Greg, who played in a rock band none of us had heard of. “I promised him I’d be there an hour ago,” she said. “Please come with me. The party’s at the Viper Room – it’s a great venue and there’ll be loads of fit blokes there. Please, please, come. I don’t want to lose this one – I think he’s a keeper.”
How could we refuse? “I’ll come,” I said.
“I’m in,” Laura added.
“Oh fuck it, the Kaiser Chiefs aren’t exactly falling over themselves to speak to me … I may as well join you,” said Cheryl.
So the four of us headed to Sunset Boulevard to deliver Alison to her man. And from there the night descended into chaos.
“Sorry ladies, I can’t let you in,” drawled the imposing doorman when we arrived at the Viper Room. He looked us up and down, plunging his hands deep into the pockets of his knee-length leather coat and puffing out his expansive chest. He looked like a huge leather sofa – even his face was leathery. “Certainly not dressed like that.”
What did he mean? We looked great: Cheryl and I in our sexy corset tops, smart jeans and kitten heels, Alison in her little black dress and high-heeled strappy sandals and Laura sporting a short denim skirt and strapless black top – all clutching our little designer evening bags and smelling like a duty-free shop, given the amount of perfume that had been sprayed.
“Well, excuse me,” I said, glaring at the inflatable leather man. “That’s a bit rude. We’ve made a big effort tonight, and we’ve just got off an eleven-hour flight.”
“I’m sorry ma’am, but it’s a private party … a grunge party. Man, the girls in there … they don’t dress like this,” he said. “Hell, no. I’m sorry, ladies, rules are rules.”
“Oi, just you wait a minute, mister,” snapped Alison, shifting her weight from one spiky heel to the other, hand on hip, breasts pushed forward. She meant business. “We’ve just left the Kaiser Chiefs’ after party early, to come here. My boyfriend, Greg, is playing here tonight and I’m supposed to be meeting him. I’m already an hour late, I’ve flown eleven hours to visit him and I just need to get in there.”
The doorman recoiled into his leather shroud and sheepishly unclipped the red velvet rope. “In you go then, ladies,” he said. “Have a nice evening.” His sarcastic tone was only just audible above the noise of the open door.
It was dark and moody inside the club, rather like the Batcave. The floor was sticky and wet in patches from a combination of old and fresh spillages of drinks. The air was humid and saturated with the smell of sweat and stale beer. The walls were filled with graffiti and stickers and it was a fight to even get to the bar through the throng of scruffily dressed clubbers. I could now understand why our leathery friend outside had been hesitant to let us in; not one person in there was dolled-up like us four. Most of the guys were wearing ripped jeans with checked shirts tied messily around hips, the T-shirt of the guy behind the bar read “drink Rye and worship Satan” and the rock chick girls were darting us looks that said, “I’m gonna smack your face in.”
“I’m going to find Greg,” shouted Alison above the music.
“How the hell are you going to find him in h
ere?” I said, “It’s bloody mobbed.”
“I will,” she insisted. “I have to – I want to get laid tonight.” Alison disappeared into the messy crowd, using her slim hips to nudge her way past clubbers.
“Oh my fuckin’ God. It’s dire in here,” shouted Laura. Nirvana’s “Smells like Teen Spirit” was now thumping from the speakers and the grunge mob were pogo jumping in all directions.
“Where are all the ‘fit’ blokes Alison promised us?” Cheryl said. “We should have stayed at the backstage party.”
We weaved our way towards the bar, sweaty revellers colliding into us. But before we reached the bar, Alison reappeared, tears streaming down her face. “Mandy,” she yelled, holding her Fendi in the air as she dodged past more erratic dancers. I lurched forwards and threw my arms around her. “Get me out of here,” she sobbed into my shoulder. I took her hand and led her back through the crowd, Cheryl and Laura hand in hand behind us. The leather man unclipped his velvet rope, unable to disguise a self-satisfied grin. “Have a swell evening, ladies.”
As we teetered along Sunset Boulevard, arms linked, Alison relayed her story. “He’s a bastard,” she sniffed. “A bastard – just like all the others.”
“What happened, babe?” I said.
“I found Greg …” Alison paused to catch her breath. “I found him … with his tongue down some filthy-looking blonde bird’s throat, hands all over her – up her skirt and everything. It was like a live porn show.”
“What a prick,” Laura said. “I hope you gave him what for.”
A light smile played on Alison’s glossy lips. “Too right. I grabbed a drink off some random person, slapped Greg hard on the shoulder, and when he turned around I threw the drink in his face … ice cubes and all.”
“Good for you,” I said. “Sounds like you’re too good for him. You can get any man you want – you’re stunning.”
Alison shrugged. “And to think I bought him a present. I was going to surprise him with it tonight … it’s a vibrating cock ring.”