“We only fly them once a month, so it’s not like you have to be a lesbian, you would just need to have fun with them,” the pilot assured her.
Styron writes about the seedy job interview — and the seven years she spent flying with the rich and famous — in her dishy new memoir “The Mile High Club: Confessions of a Private Jet Flight Attendant” (Post Hill Press; out now), co-written with her brother, James Styron.
“Names have been changed to protect (us from) the malevolent,” the intro reads. “Behaviors have been presented to humble them. You know who you are.”
Styron, now 41, didn’t end up taking the job with the orgy-loving jet owner, but she went on to work for for a number of difficult people.
Some of her clients, she writes, were “miserable, vampires of human joy.”
One passenger berated her for not having the proper tequila stocked, even though it wasn’t requested. Anorexic, food-obsessed wives micro-managed everything that came out of the galley kitchen. An assistant threatened to punch her in the face over a not-hot-enough breakfast sandwich.
Then there was the time a woman shoved Styron into a bulkhead mid-turbulence because her beloved puppies got jostled. “She treated the dogs better than any human on board,” Styron writes.
One of her lowest points was being asked to source champagne on the tropical island of St. Maarten, just after it had been devastated by a hurricane. The client demanded bubbles despite the natural disaster.
“I’m standing there thinking, ‘There’s no champagne. There was just a major hurricane. People are standing outside waiting for bread, and you’re asking me to spend $20,000 on bubbly,’” Styron told The Post.
There was only one supermarket open, which Styron begrudgingly patronized in search of the requested Champs. “It felt dystopian,” she said.
Then there was the two-timing bigwig who would fly with his pregnant wife one day and his mistress a few days later.
“As a woman, it was hurtful to be a part of that,” she said. “Even though I had no choice. What was I going to do, blow my life up to be like, ‘Yo, your man’s cheating on you?’ She probably already knew.”
Sometimes, as the title of the book suggests, passengers got intimated in flight. She and her crew knew the drill: retreat to the front, let the guests go at it, and deal with the cleanup later.
“It’s usually in the bathroom, galley, or right there on the sofa,” she writes. “It’s their house, right? Private jets are like flying living rooms.”
Despite the uncomfortable situations and challenging passengers, the jobs also entailed plenty of good times and perks. She partied in Las Vegas with pilots and jetted off to Costa Rica, Aspen and St. Barts.
One time in LA, the plane broke down on the tarmac, a typical mechanical delay. Danielle was tasked with keeping the charter guests fed and entertained while the pilots tried to fix the plane. The lead passenger was none other than actor and comedian Jamie Foxx.
Unlike most high-profile clients, he took the delay in stride.
He was “the most delightful celebrity,” she said. “He was cracking jokes and telling stories. He was pure light. [After three hours on the ground,] we were out of food, the mimosas were gone, people were losing patience, but not Jamie. He was still smiling. Still gracious. It restored my faith in humanity.”
Misery, however, seemed to be more the norm.
“You think these people have it all,” she said. “But I saw the opposite. They’re really insecure. Their friends are all about one-upmanship. One man owned several planes, had a beautiful wife, everything in the world, and he was obsessing about his hair plugs. Like who cares?”
Styron ultimately retired from aviation and went back to doing what she’d done before, working as an aesthetician.
She now owns Fluff NYC, a brow and skincare studio on the Upper East Side, where she tends to people’s faces — not their egos.
“It’s less glamorous,” she said with a laugh, “but way more peaceful.”
