Why?
Oh, I know what you lot think. A Cocktail Girl's life is all champagne, first-class travel and fur-lined bodysuits… right?
Er…
Wrong!
OK…
Maybe there's some champagne. On special occasions. And weekends. And most week nights. And yes, there once was a fur-lined bodysuit-related incident … But as for first-class travel – not a bit of it!. Economy all the way. Squidged up in row 40-whatever, dissed by the cabin crew and farted on by my fellow travellers … Well! It's not very cocktail, is it?
I suppose not
I have dreamed of first class, or more specifically, of Upper Class. Virgin is the most cocktail of all the airlines. There's something about Richard Branson that says "Campari sundowners on the terrace in five" to me (not sure what. His eyes? His beard?). So when the opportunity to fly to New York in the bar of Virgin Upper (or Virgin Posh, if you prefer. I do!) came my way, I nearly exploded with delight.
I'm quite sure you did.
On arriving at Heathrow, I was directed to the Special Rich People Only Lounge (or Clubhouse). You can tell it's good because it's situated up a sweeping flight of stairs, down the side of which water features cascade. (All the other soi-disant "first-class" lounges slum it on the floor below.) Inside it's all James Bond retro luxe. Split-level, thick pile, Eames chairs and dangling white-leather swing things. I loved it. A nice chap called Theodore plied me with cocktails. "It's 7.45am," I said sipping tentatively on his signature Poire Passion. "You wouldn't be the first," said Theodore cheerily.
Did you actually make it onto your plane?
Yes. I was borne aloft from the Clubhouse, through the gate and into my gigantic seat on a fragrant puff of privilege. (I may have actually walked, but I can't remember.) Once seated, I was tended to by a gaggle of extremely solicitous types, who – it turned out – were cabin crew, but who I quickly began referring to as "my mum, but better". They just kept bringing me stuff and making sure I was happy. I was! I had a quick scout round for any famouses – they only ever travel Upper; anything else would diminish their magic powers – but there were none. I decided to look for potential husbands instead.
This has air rage written all over it.
Which is why I hit the bar, four hours into the flight. It is a minuscule affair – a true mini-bar. A teeny stretch of leather-clad perfection which sits (like a metaphor) in the divide between Premium Economy and Posho Land, and it's almost as wide as it is long (it needs to be, to fit in all the complimentary fizz). Cabin crew (my true mums) were hanging out behind it, having a giggle and pouring champagne. I perched on one of the three stools alongside the only other customer – a chap called Gregory who was French (good!) and reading Grazia (better still!). He didn't talk to me at first; but I broke him down with clever use of serviette play, free nibbles and my oodles of natural charm. We discussed our shared passion for Mad Men, London's Eurotrash scene and cool sunglasses; and he was enormously fun.
Did you marry him?
No. But if he hadn't had a girlfriend, I might have.
Lucky escape (for him).
That's one way to look at it, yes. Anyway, next, we landed, I got spat through immigration – and pouf! My Upper Class dream was over. I walked away with a slight après-flight hangover… and a precious new bit of wisdom. When you travel economy, your fellow passengers are the enemy. They want your space, your air, your sleep, and your choice from the menu. In Upper Class they're all Gregorys – new friends waiting to happen. • Virgin Upper Class, Heathrow-Somewhere above the Atlantic-JFK; Virgin-atlantic.com
