Stories of outrageous acts performed in flight and at hotels all over the world. Pop stars, racing drivers, long-forgotten politicians all had been caught over the years. There were tales to be told. How generous and kind and down to earth some megastars were and how some were the complete opposite.A favourite anecdote was, how unbelievably rude minor royals could be. There was more than one story about a famously boorish “spare” Prince. Nobody liked flying with him, it was never fun. More than once there was a suggestion that he may be sweating now that the FBI had linked him to a notorious American paedophile. There were stories of a much more personal nature too. Karen Hastings, a senior Purser, told of how furious she was when a last-minute roster change meant that she had to miss her fortieth and her sons fifteenth birthday to fly to New York and how it had all come good when on the return flight her colleagues persuaded David Bowie to lead them all singing happy birthday to her. ’ I slowly stroked my hand along his cheek, trying to reassure him. ‘A dream? My God. The pain! They were hurting me. And you – you were… you were gone. And my sister… she was there. She was there! Where did she go?’ His voice, haggard with sleep and fear, cracked again. He started sobbing, a rough tearless cry welling up from his chest. He whispered out a name, once, under his breath: ‘Cathy.’ The agony I could hear in the one word left me speechless. I leaned down and kissed his temple, cradling his head against my shoulder. ‘Steven, it’s okay. It’s okay now, sweetheart. I’m not gone. I’m here. It was just a dream.’ I continued whispering soothing platitudes, as he reached around me and pulled me into a tight embrace. We moved together until I was folded up in his arms, my cheek pressed against his chest, his fingers tangled through my hair, and my arm under his, rubbing his back in small reassuring circles. Steven’s chest continued to heave for a few minutes as he wept, and then.
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