by Mandy Smith
“I’ve changed my mind, I’m not a lesbian … and neither are you. Quick, let’s go.”
She grabbed my arm and hurried me out of the bar. As we staggered along the road, Felicity explained why we had made such a hasty exit. After I’d disappeared to the loo, she’d been hit on by a very butch older lady. “She was all over me, Mands,” she said, “She was touching my leg and was really aggressive. She wasn’t wearing any make-up, and she had a ring through her nose. Then she started a fight with Nick, saying he was standing too close to her.”
“Sounds like she’s not the one for you, hon,” I tittered. We linked arms as we teetered up the road into a more friendly little pub where Nick was meeting some friends, and a beautiful blonde drag queen was on stage, flanked by two seven-foot girlies in sequinned Union Jack dresses. “Thank God for that,” I said, brushing the rain off my jacket and reaching for a glass of champagne. “Back to a bit of normality.”
So, I’d established I wasn’t a lesbian. But this didn’t solve my dilemma. I was thirty-four, an age that had sounded ancient to me ten years ago. If anyone had asked me then, “Where do you see yourself in ten years?” my answer would have been, “Happily married with kids.” I had to get a move on.
I decided to cast my net wider and try online dating. Laura had recently signed up to match.com and had already lined up two dates. “It’s fucking brilliant, man,” she’d said. “There’s loads of fellas out there – get yourself signed up.”
Describing myself as “fun, tactile and sporty”, I uploaded my profile, adding my height, five foot ten (this was important because I didn’t do short men), and a nice photograph. There appeared to be some nice-looking men on the site – all looking for love and companionship, or so they claimed.
My first match.com date was with an ex-paratrooper called Luke – a six-foot-seven, hulking rugby player whose hobbies included salsa dancing and travelling. He ticked most of the boxes: tall, muscular and obviously well-travelled. The only problem was there didn’t seem to be much going on upstairs. As we chatted over drinks at the Shakespeare Tavern, near Victoria Station, I told him I was interested in popular science and admired the work of Brian Cox, and also Stephen Hawking, as I’d just started to read his book A Brief History of Time.
“Oh yeah,” Luke said, wiping away a frothy lager moustache with his tattooed hand. “That’s the bloke in the wheelchair, ain’t it.”
Instant turn-off.
After Luke came James, a plumber from East London. Stupidly, I gave him my home address. He picked me up from my house in his Porsche 911, and from the moment I climbed into the car I knew he wasn’t the man for me. “I call this car my Dyson,” he said, revving the engine.
“Oh yeah, why is that?” I asked.
He grinned. “Because I use it to pick up bits of fluff.”
“Oh really … is that what you think I am, a bit of fluff?” I said, rolling my eyes.
“Of course not – I was only joking.”
James looked the same in the flesh as he did in his online photograph: late twenties, with clipped brown hair and a cheeky grin. But I got a shock when we got out of the car. He was about a foot shorter than me. I was wearing my heels, which made me about six foot three. We looked like Little and Large walking into the pub. If he’d been any shorter, he’d have fit in my bloody handbag. Why hadn’t he mentioned his height in his profile?
James was a chancer. It was obvious he was only after one thing: sex. We’d only been in the pub ten minutes, and he was trying to slide his hand up my skirt. “What do you think you’re doing?” I said, grabbing his hand and pushing it away.
He looked taken aback. “You said you were tactile in your profile.”
“I am a very tactile person,” I said, “but that doesn’t mean you can shove your hand up my skirt on our first date.”
“Oops, sorry, I won’t do it again,” he said.
After that we got along fine. James was actually a good conversationalist and we had a laugh, but by no means was he husband material. I left it an hour after he’d dropped me home before I texted him. I thanked him for the date and explained that I didn’t think we were compatible. Then I called Laura to fill her in on the details.
“Well, how did it go?” she said in a hopeful voice.
“Put it this way, I won’t be seeing him again. He’s only about five foot six … and he shoved his hand up my skirt in the pub.”
Laura snorted. “Cheeky twat. Mind you, he doesn’t sound as bad as the one I’ve just binned. I went on a date with someone from ‘match’ last night … Jesus. He didn’t even bother telling me he only had one arm and one leg, and I’d been chatting to him on the phone for a week. He was sat down when I went into the pub to meet him, so I got a bit of a shock when, half an hour into the conversation, I noticed they were missing.”
I shouldn’t have laughed, but I couldn’t help myself. “You’re joking? Why hadn’t he bloody told you?”
“God knows – he was sweet about it when I asked him, and he said he’d been in some kind of motorbike accident. But he’d never even mentioned it beforehand, and all his profile pics were from before the accident. My profile clearly states that I’m into rock climbing, white-water rafting and kayaking. What kind of match dot com is that?”
“Maybe we’ll both have more luck next time, babe,” I said.
“I bloody well hope so.”
James texted me every day for a week after our date, demanding to know why I didn’t want to see him again. “I thought we had chemistry,” he wrote. “Who do you think you are, bitch?” Some of his messages were like essays – psychotic essays.
He finally got the hint when I sent all his messages back to him and wrote, “Do me a favour: read these and then come back to me and tell me why we’re not going on another date.”
Juggling the task of finding a suitor in the UK with work was difficult, and flying over 700 hours a year was beginning to take its toll. My health was suffering: breathing in all that germ-laden cabin air meant I was forever catching colds and suffering from sinus problems. The long trips had become few and far between, and we were expected to work entire sectors, which could be anything up to sixteen hours, with no proper break. I felt as though I’d lost all control over my life, and I was missing out on all the important family events. I couldn’t go to my nanna’s eightieth-birthday celebration in Keldy Forest, because I was in Barbados. I was gutted – she’d rented a cabin for the weekend and invited the whole family along. I missed my favourite cousin’s farewell party before he moved to Perth, Australia, and countless weddings and christenings. Some of my friends outside the airline industry couldn’t understand why this upset me. “Oh, poor you,” they’d say. “Can’t go to the party because you’re in the Caribbean. What a tough, deprived life you lead.”
One important celebration I did manage to be home for, however, was Felicity’s thirtieth birthday. It was a night that changed my life. For years my married friends had been chanting that old dating cliché to me: “You’ll meet the person of your dreams when you least expect it,” and I’d longed for this to be true. After Felicity’s party, Nick had dragged me to visit his boyfriend, who was the manager of the Koba cocktail bar in Brighton. They were arguing, as usual, so I was sat at the bar pretending to look at my phone. I hadn’t been expecting to meet anyone … I’d given up all hope of bumping into the man of my dreams in a crowded bar long ago, hence I’d turned to internet dating. But strangely enough, it did happen.
I was waiting at the bar to be served when he sidled up beside me. “It takes forever to get served in here, doesn’t it,” he said.
My eyes met his. “Nightmare.”
“I’m Glenn, by the way,” he added.
“Mandy.”
He was strikingly handsome, with public schoolboy looks, soft hazel-green eyes, ruffled short brown hair, a coy smile – and he was huge, not just taller than me (at least six foot four), but with the widest shoulders I had ever seen. I also noticed h
e had massive yet soft hands, which looked like they’d never seen a day’s work in their lovely manicured life.
I spent the next half-hour or so chatting to Glenn. The conversation was comfortable – no awkward moments – and he wasn’t trying to impress me with cheesy one-liners. We sparked; the chemistry was amazing and he made me laugh with his sparkly personality, which seemed to light up the room. When I asked him what he did for a living, he said, “I play Xbox – earn a fortune. I’m really climbing up the Xbox career ladder.”
“Shut up,” I teased. “What do you really do?”
“It’s boring, really – I sell corporate gym memberships … and play rugby. I’m captain for Hove.”
When we parted company, we exchanged phone numbers. “I’ll call you,” he said.
I was asleep when he called at 2am the following morning, drunk and hyper. “Mandy, I won, I won,” he shrieked down the phone.
“Who is this?” I whispered.
“Glenn … I won a thousand pounds. I went to the casino with my mates after I met you and won a thousand pounds on roulette. I won a thousand pounds … at the casino. You must be my lucky charm.”
“I’m really happy for you,” I said, smothering a yawn. “Call me in the morning. I’m really tired.”
“What time?”
“About ten or eleven.”
“I won a thousand pounds.” I could hear him still celebrating with his friends as the phone clicked into silence.
“Goodnight, Glenn.”
At 10am, on the dot, he called again. I recognised his number from the night before and answered it. “You must have a stinking hangover.”
“I woke up to find a washing machine in my bedroom – haven’t got a clue how it got there,” he said.
“Maybe you bought it on the way home with your winnings?”
“So,” he said, changing the subject. “Will you let me take you out? I need to spend some of this money I’ve won.”
“Okay,” I said casually.
April 7, 2008. The date is still engraved in my mind. It was a Monday: the day I went on my first official date with Glenn. He took me to Brighton for the day, where we had lunch in Yo! Sushi and ambled through the cobbled lanes. We bought lots of little trinkets and tried on silly hats displayed on stalls outside hippy shops. In the late afternoon, as we strolled along the pier, Glenn kissed me for the first time. I was leaning against the railing at the end of the pier, inhaling the fresh sea air infused with the sugary scents of popcorn and candy floss, enfolded in Glenn’s arms, my head resting back against his chest. We stood there for a moment, gazing at the sun-glazed sea. It was a clear day, but there was a crisp nip in the air. “I love this view,” I said. “It’s funny – I’ve travelled the world and seen some spectacular beaches, but I absolutely adore Brighton.”
“It’s stunning,” agreed Glenn, kissing the crown of my head. I was wearing a cashmere cap, but I could feel the heat of his mouth through the wool. I turned to face him, tilting my head, and our lips connected. It was a gentle, warm kiss that tasted like the banana and chocolate crepe we’d just shared.
From that day onwards, Glenn and I were inseparable. There was a real chemistry between us, both physically and mentally. He was super intelligent – he beat me at Trivial Pursuit, which I wasn’t too chuffed about – and we shared the same interests. We didn’t stop talking: some nights we’d chat into the early hours, curled up on Glenn’s sofa, or mine. We’d discuss politics, the universe and, most importantly, our future together. For the first time in years, I felt content and secure.
I waited eight weeks before I slept with Glenn. But when it happened, it was the most wonderful feeling in the world. It was tender and spiritual – I felt so close to him, so loved.
A month later, I moved into his flat in Brighton and rented my house out to Virgin colleagues. Finally, I was in a relationship that was working. Glenn was my lover and friend, and I missed him terribly when I was away on trips. The novelty of travelling the world and partying twenty-four seven was beginning to wane. As my love for Glenn grew deeper and stronger, I also started to think about my own mortality, which I had never done before.
In July 2009 Virgin Atlantic announced plans to cull 600 jobs amid reduced winter services. The airline’s chief executive, Steve Ridgway, warned the industry was “as bleak as ever” but vowed to keep job losses to a minimum. As a manager I was offered voluntary redundancy, which after much consideration, I accepted. It wasn’t an easy decision to make; I’d had a fantastic career and met some amazing friends along the way – friends who had become my family. But my new life belonged here, in England, with the love of my life, Glenn. It was time for me to hang up that red skirt and move on.
My final trip as a Virgin trolley dolly was to New York – the same dream city where my crazy career began. The outbound flight was a nightmare; I’d caught a nasty stomach bug and spent most of time running to the toilet. The good news, though, was that Laura was on this trip, and we planned to relive all the fun we’d had when we’d first met in New York ten years earlier – visit all the old haunts and reminisce over the good old days.
This time we were staying at the Helmsley Hotel on East Forty-Second Street. “Right,” Laura said as we picked up our room cards, “Three S’s and I’ll meet you in the lobby in thirty.”
“I reckon – seeing as this is my last trip – we should share a room,” I suggested. “Have a proper girly weekend.”
“Sounds good to me,” Laura giggled. Standing there in the lobby, Laura looked no different to ten years ago: she still had the same impish grin and flawless skin, and there wasn’t one wrinkle visible around those vivid green eyes that had captivated me from the moment we met. “I can’t believe this is the last time we’ll ever do this,” I sighed, surveying the chaos in the lobby. It was the usual scene: cases strewn across the floor, lots of excitable chatter and room numbers being exchanged.
“Ah, for fuck’s sake, don’t you start getting all sentimental on me – we’re here to have fun, remember,” Laura said, nudging me in the ribs. “Now let’s get upstairs and crack open the vodka.”
It was the best New York trip ever. On our first evening, we returned to the W Bar with the rest of the crew and reminisced over all the outrageous stories from bygone years. Laura recounted the tale of when we’d skinny dipped in Barbados with “flowers shoved up our arses”, and our escapade in New York in the cop car, among a string of embarrassing stories and details of my chequered love life. “Do you remember that bloke who asked you to dress up as a Nazi officer?” she blurted out after her fifth Manhattan. “And what about that sexy pilot you shagged all over the world – God, he was hot. And what about that …”
“Enough,” I interrupted. “That was years ago. You have to kiss a few frogs before you meet your prince.”
It was just like old times.
I took lots of photographs on that trip. Laura and I spent our second day wandering the streets of New York as though we were tourists visiting for the first time. She took photos of me at the LOVE sculpture on Sixth Avenue, adopting a variety of poses: peering through the gap between the V and the E, kissing the E and leaning against the side of the V, my body angled forwards as if I was about to fall. We went to Central Park, the Empire State Building, Fifth Avenue, and, of course, our beauty mecca, Sephora … where I spent a fortune. I was chucking everything into my basket – moisturisers, every Bare Minerals product I could lay my hands on (Bare Minerals is my must-have brand), perfume, nail varnishes and face packs. “Bloody hell, Mands, have you got enough there?” Laura said. “You’ll need to take out a mortgage to buy that lot.”
“But what if I never come here again?” I said, my eyes falling on a product called Glam Glow.
“Don’t be soft – you’ll be back – you can come on trips with me. Or I can always bring shit back for you. Some of us still have to work.”
I hugged her. “Okay, I’ll put back the Marc Jacobs perfume and a couple of nail varni
shes … but the Bare Minerals is staying.”
Leaving New York was sad. It had always felt like a second home to me, and I’d miss its energetic charm and comforting smells: the waft of freshly brewed coffee and cinnamon bagels from the delis; the smell of warm pretzels in Central Park and honey-coated peanuts along Fifth Avenue; the meaty and herby scents of Chinatown. But as I boarded the crew bus outside the Helmsley Hotel for the final time, I realised it was the people I’d shared all my happy moments in New York with that I’d miss the most: the crew. I cried when I hugged them all goodbye at Heathrow. Glenn had come to meet me, so there was no need to catch the crew bus back to Gatwick. Some of the crew I’d only just met on this last trip, but to me, they were still family. My chosen family.
The following week I returned my uniform: it was strange walking into the tailoress’s room again. Seeing a girl twirling in front of the mirror as the tailoress pinned the hem of her skirt, I was transported back to the day of my fitting. I remembered the giddy excitement I’d felt when I emerged from the changing room. I walked over to the tailoress. “Hi,” I said, “I’m here to return my uniform.”
“Just hang it on that rail,” she mumbled, speaking through pin-clenched lips.
It was as though I didn’t belong in her world anymore. She didn’t even look at my uniform – I could have kept it and she wouldn’t have known any different. I hung my uniform on the rail and turned towards the girl. She was young, early twenties, with blonde hair and a freckled face. “You look fantastic,” I said. “It really suits you.”
She smiled. “Thanks, I’m so excited – I never thought I’d make it through the course … then I thought I was going to lose my job, because I was one of the last people recruited before the redundancies. I’ve lost so much weight with all the stress that I need a refit.”
“Ah, the good old Ab Initio diet,” I said. “I remember being on that ten years ago.”