All my life I’ve been haunted by the feeling that in another life I was definitely the Queen of England. That’s why, though a child of unassuming folks from unassuming Michigan, I feel so at home in outrageous luxury, so buoyed by conspicuous decadence.

          And now, at last, I’ve found my airline. Regent Air  -- the Art Deco’d Orient Express of the sky, a flying Rolls-Royce. Limos crouching in faithful attendance like sleek weimaraners, Taittinger champagne in graceful flutes, china by Spode, monogrammed napery, caviar and macadamia nuts, cabin crew in black-tie splendor.

          At first, with its coast-to-coast $3,240 round-trip fare ($4,320 one-way for a velvet compartment that sleeps two in a queen size bed), Regent Air seemed clearly designed for Arab potentates and cattle barons and, surely, bankruptcy, I thought. Then came the February flight sale (to run indefinitely) -- $1,620 round-trip, New York to Los Angeles, a pittance more than $1,300 for conventional first class, meaningless if you figure in the four gratis limos door-to-door, a free manicure aloft or secretarial help, the monogrammed towels and scented soap, the tufted-leather commode in the mirrored bathroom, where you can study your image if you sit while (assuming you’ve completed a successful psychoanalysis).

          At $1,620 the ultimate luxury took on an irresistible appeal, especially when a well-heeled producer called summoning me to Hollywood to “take a meeting.” I booked a chaise longue and manicure on Regent Air, 7 P.M out of Newark. The airline’s long, dark stretch Zorromobile crouched outside my house fit the fantasy, with its bar, sunroof, spiffy uniformed driver, and Live at Five on the telly. I expected to be driven onto the field along a red carpet – at least. But no. A little gray cloud descended as the ground crew (cute and peppy, like an old M-G-M musical) led me to a rather tacky waiting room. An accordion and a violin were wailing. “When you walk through a storm, keep your chin up high…”seemed ominous. And I think I even spied a Styrofoam cup. Maybe it was plastic. I tried to blot out the image.

          An elderly air-force general who looked slightly smashed walking around introducing himself and promised, “We’ll have a good flight tonight.” Where were the dashing executives and movie moguls and the aging preppies with perfect capped teeth Cosmopolitan had promised I’d meet in first class? Never had I seen a tackier crowed. Except for the tanned woman in white cashmere who I recognized at once from years of devotion to Women’s Wear Daily. It was Lyn Revson. We clutched each other.

          “This music,” I said.

          “These people,” she said.

          “If that’s the pilot,” I said, “I’m not getting on the plane.”

          Happily the musicians and their groupies retreated. The general proved to be a passenger. And though only the cabin crew had perfect white teeth (Ziegfeld could have cast them… even the fight engineer was a stunning blond), the plane itself was indeed the ultimate seduction.

          Austin designer Michael Reese supposedly has a $10-million budget to redo three Boeing 727’s. Intended to seat 120 grownups as if they were midgets, the craft – now accommodating 35 passengers – has been veloured and fitted in brass shiny as gold, with widely spaced leather plus swivel chairs, Lalique-inspired peacocks, in acrylic, separating the bar-lounge from four private compartments, and beautician’s salon in the rear, a soothing distance from the secretary’s muted electronic typewriter waiting your dictation.

          Regent Air’s Triumvirate of owners, Clifford Perlman, Stuart Perlman, and William McElnea, has gambled $25 million (or more) that there’s a market for a revival of the elegance lost with the old Twentieth Century Limited. The Perlmans are the brothers who sold their interest in Caesars World (operator of Caesars Palace, in Las Vegas; Caesars Tahoe; and Caesars Atlantic City) for some $90 million after the New Jersey Casino Control Commission refused to grant them a gambling license, claiming they’d done business in the past with reputed organized-crime figures.

          The champagne began to flow, stopping briefly for takeoff as Lyn Revson confessed this was her second trip on Regent Air. “My last trip to the Coast, each of two airlines lost a bag. I waited two days for my clothes. I’ll only fly Regent from now on.”

          A Californian returning from the Caribbean agreed. “First class has been so downgraded,” he complained.  “With all those advantage deals. And they serve food from a rolling cart, but they throw it at you.”

          Champagne began bubbling again, and the nonstop macadamia nuts and smoked almonds materialized. A leather-bound volume offered four new films, three golden oldies (including An American in Paris), dozens of cassettes, from Michael Jackson to Pavarotti to George Burns and Gracie Allen, plus a dizzying library of audio self-improvement – Think and Grow Rich was tempting. I thought about asking for Listen and Lose Weight, but I didn’t want to dull my appetite for dinner.

          Nothing about the food suggested that Tinseltown’s tastemaker Wolfgang Puck had a whisk in the pot as official consultant – except the ubiquitous radicchio and gently poached scallop.  The Russian buffet was classic. Caviar, lovely smoked salmon, delicately poached lobster with caviar sauce, rare roast beef, and a country terrine that looked like Spam with truffles, everything handsomely mounted – but not very regal all tumbled together on the one tiny plate brought to me at my swivel.

          A table was set for dinner with crisp linen – I mean, real linen, -- silver, carved crystal, and a sweetly perfumed red rose tucked into the napkin. Shockingly good cream of oyster soup, zesty salad, California-crisp vegetables, lamb that was not rare as requested (“I wish you’d complained,” said the chef. “I had some that was still running”), very ordinary cheeses and lovely fruit, Sacher torte, and splendid wines – French burgundies or my choice, Acacia Chardonnay and Jordan Cabernet, two California champions – made the time fly.

          (Breakfast on the 9:30 A.M flight from Lost Angeles was even pleasanter: mimosas or Bloody Marys, more Russian buffet, strawberries and blueberries with cream in a carved goblet, flaky warmed croissants and pain au chocolat, omelets to order – “Use you imagination,” the purser urged – lamb chops and giant Brussels sprouts, toasted English muffins or “buyalys.” (Do you think that was their misspelling of bialy?)

          Poor, beautiful Kathleen, the cosmetologist who couldn’t quite pour wine without spilling it. There was scarcely time for my manicure as she struggled to paint me “Love That Red” without removing her own deep-rose polish. As we circled the Los Angeles airport, the pilot said we’d be a few extra minutes. “Oh wonderful,” she cried. “Now I can do your top coat.”

          At the foot of the red-carpeted stairs, an attendant grabbed my hand baggage from Kathleen (she wouldn’t let me touch anything) and led me through the world’s dowdiest terminal to my limo. There were my bags already in the trunk.

          It’s true the promised stock-market-quotation equipment isn’t installed on-board yet. And you can’t phone home from on high. But as we purred toward the hotel, I realized all the angst of flying had been purged. No tickets. No boarding passes. No truculent cabbies or porters or waiting for baggage. All the legroom and walk room and diversion… and maybe next time, breakfast in bed. If I can find someone else to pay, I’ll never have it any other way.

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