Free Cabin Fever: The sizzling secrets of a Virgin air hostess… by Mandy Smith

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.
    I spoke to her reflection in the mirror. “Wow, you look fantastic.”
    “You too, hon,” said Laura, already pouring generous measures of vodka. “It’s party time.”
    “Diet Coke?” I said, opening the mini bar.
    “Just a smidge.”
    We knocked back our drinks and headed down to the lobby, where the rest of the crew had congregated. The other girls looked breathtakingly beautiful, like celebrities on the red carpet – head to toe perfection. They all dressed chicly, smelt of posh perfume and cosmetics and all appeared to be clutching a Chanel, Louis Vuitton or Prada handbag. I glanced down at the beaded Topshop clutch in my hand and turned to Laura. “Looks like I’m the only one who doesn’t possess a designer handbag here.”
    Laura laughed. “They’re not real, like. They’re knock-offs. You can get some in Chinatown – I’ll take you there tomorrow if you like?”
    I hooked my arm through hers. “Thanks babe,” I said. “That’d be brilliant, I can’t wait to hit the shops.”
    Miss My-boyfriend-bought-me-a-necklace-from-Tiffany’s was there in the lobby, looking like Claudia Schiffer’s doppelganger, face framed with long silky blonde locks, stylishly teased into gentle waves and not one split end in sight. She was wearing a classic, mid-thigh-length fitted black dress cut low at the back and sky-high glitzy sandals. Her willowy but toned limbs reminded me of honey-coloured fibreglass, like a mannequin’s,and her eyes glittered like two Swarovski crystals.
No wonder he buys her gear from Tiffany’s
, I thought.
    The W Bar was also on Lexington Avenue, just a few blocks from our hotel – a short but thrilling walk. It was twilight and the skyscrapers were coming to life in dancing lights. I could hear horns tooting and the distant sound of sirens. A man in a suit whizzed past us on rollerblades, attaché case under his arm. I was awestruck by it all. I imagined that Laura and I were
Sex and the City
characters, strutting down the sidewalk in our heels, giggling. The show had only just hit our screens in the UK and I was hooked, hence my fascination with New York.
    Everything inside the W Bar was white – white walls, white leather cubes for seats, swathes of white fabric hanging from the ceiling, white candles and tables. There were about fifteen of us altogether, taking over a corner of the room, making one hell of a noise.
    “Right, you fuckers,” shouted Martin, “Who’s for cocktails? I say we start off with Manhattans.”
    No one disagreed.
    We were huddled around a low frosted glass table. A couple of girls were perched