(FORTUNE Magazine) – Dreamlike strains of New Age music fill the air as Allison, a shapely twentysomething, ushers me into the softly lit, mirrored chamber. Aromas of camphor and lavender waft forward. The painted ceiling is a sky of clouds. "You'll want to take off your shirt for the facial," she intones in a beguiling cockney. Soon, I'm on my back, drifting away as Allison, gently yet forcefully, massages a tingling balm into my forehead, the back of my neck, my shoulders, the hollow of my chest. Tension, exhaustion, and the last vestige of my finely honed American work ethic melt away under her expert fingers, carrying me into another world. "You must get a lot of marriage proposals," I venture. "Oh, a few," she smiles.

This is not just any hard-hitting report on transatlantic air travel. Allison, you see, is plying her beauty therapist's craft at the Virgin Clubhouse for upper class passengers at Heathrow Airport. I'm undercover on an assignment involving no small amount of personal risk--after my wife reads this. My mission: Cut through the slick, multimillion-dollar ad campaigns of British Airways and Virgin Atlantic Airways and lay bare the truth about the rival premium services.

Of course the two airlines are embroiled in a grudge match royale. In 1992, Virgin accused B.A. employees of using a shared computerized reservations system to poach passengers. B.A. admitted "irregularities" but claimed Virgin CEO Richard Branson was using the case for publicity purposes. Branson sued for libel and won. Now Virgin is pursuing a potential $975 million antitrust case against B.A. in the U.S.

Both airlines boast about their top-class services, but Virgin has one clear advantage: upper class, costing some $1,000 less than British Air's first class, technically qualifies as a business-class fare. So if your company travel department doesn't damn you to economy, you can wangle an embarrassingly cushy top-of-the-line Virgin seat.

And so, ensconced at Heathrow, I explore the perks at the Virgin Clubhouse; at 11,500 square feet, it is a pee-wee's playhouse for adults. I play a round of golf on Virgin's four-hole putting green, finesse a high-speed run on the 3-D downhill skiing simulator, and almost figure out the video and CD pod. "Something to drink, sir?" asks another attendant, decked out in Virgin's signature uniform of white blouse and red skirt. I look at my watch--it's not quite noon--and hesitate. "Go on, sir," she encourages. "It's not too early." I relent and, Bordeaux in hand, ascend a spiral staircase to an Edwardian conservatory with a topiary garden. Eventually I find the music room, decked out with a state-of-the-art Linn sound system. Dvorak's Ninth Symphony is blaring when my flight is announced.

The flight? It's one of my most deeply held beliefs that when a one-way ticket costs $2,248, as Virgin upper class does between New York and London, a passenger shouldn't need to forgive minor failings. So why am I not irked when the flip-up TV screen doesn't work, my martini is watery, and the bangers and mash are so uninspired? Simple. With Virgin's relentlessly upbeat flight attendants, I can't help it. They chat and smile as they attend to my every whim. My faulty TV screen, for example, is treated with as much attention as if it were, say, a blown-out Pratt & Whitney engine. Jane displays a similar concern for my palate and steers me to an obscure Monthelie 1992 Domaine du Chateau de Puligny Montrachet ($35 a bottle retail). Then there's Dominique, the inflight beauty therapist, who after lunch goes to work massaging my already-massaged neck and temples with an invigorating mixture of essences. "You must get a lot of marriage proposals," I venture. "Oh, a few," she smiles.

Post-rub, a crew member invites me to the cockpit, and I ask the pilots for their take on the B.A.-Virgin face-off. "Well, our girls are far prettier than B.A.'s," deadpans one pilot, as the rest of the boys guffaw. Then it strikes me: This isn't an airline. It's a cult.

After 7 3/4 hours, Virgin Flight 003 descends into J.F.K. Car service at both ends of the trip is included in the Virgin ticket, and those traveling light can use a motorcycle service on the British side to cut through London traffic. Without delay, my chauffeur whisks me back to my midtown Manhattan office.

Because of some bad luck, my British Airways experience gets off to a bumpier start. "The 10:30 flight to London's been canceled," explains the B.A. customer rep at check-in. "Technical problem." Well, these things happen. The question is, with my ticket running $3,367, what is B.A. going to do about it? "We're trying to book you a seat on the Concorde tomorrow morning," the rep explains. The offer is generous, but unusable, given my mission. I want to try the haute cuisine in the preboarding dining area, to enjoy a comfy sleep in B.A.'s newfangled sleeping module, and to breakfast and shower in the Heathrow arrivals lounge. "No thanks, I'm frightened of high speeds," I declare. The rep scowls, rebooks my flight, and sends me on my way. No help changing hotel reservations, no ride back into the city.

The next evening I arrive at J.F.K. ready for the preboarding dinner. The theory here is that the sleeping module is so comfortable, I'll want to snooze all the way to London. "Sorry, sir, that's been canceled while we renovate," the agent announces.

I'm starting to feel dark premonitions about my flight. But I soothe my nerves with a glass of Piper Heidsieck in the slick if slightly antiseptic departure lounge. Come boarding, I feel better, and the heartfelt welcome I get upon entering the 747 first-class cabin, not to mention the additional champagne, puts me in even better spirits.

And then I come upon the best treat of all: my bed. I have to hand it to B.A. The sleeping modules more than live up to their billing. These ergonomic marvels actually consist of two seats facing each other. One, a 20-inch-wide reclining wing chair, is where I sit. Across from me is a jump seat, in case a companion wants to join me for dinner or prep me for my morning sales pitch. When it's time to sleep, the main seat reclines to a perfectly horizontal position and the jump seat folds out to form the foot of the bed--in all, a full 6 feet 6 inches long. Table and TV screen flip out from the side console, and a videocassette player lets me select any one of 60 onboard tapes, from Showgirls to Braveheart.

I choose Brief Encounter, an oldie starring Trevor Howard, to put me in the proper English spirit while sipping a disastrously tepid martini. The food, as on Virgin, is only passable. A lobster tail starter is bland, and the herb-crusted lamb noisettes are overdone. But the wines redeem the menu and vastly outweigh Virgin's selection. A Laboure-Roi Corton-Charlemagne 1992 ($40) bespeaks the glory of Burgundy. An exuberant Chateau Gruaud-Larose 1986 ($80), rich and fruity, brings tears to my eyes.

Soon I fold out my seat and snuggle up with a feathery duvet, skipping the complimentary blue and white sleeper outfit, a sort of lightweight sweat suit, that some passengers have slipped into. I doze off blissfully...

"An hour and a quarter to landing." The attendant startles me. "Already?" I ask, blinking. "Can't we go around again?" It's been the most comfortable flight I've ever had and, I quickly calculate, I've been sleeping for 2 1/2 hours.

After Heathrow customs and baggage claim, it's 7:45 a.m., and I find my way to the B.A. arrivals lounge, a handsome enough two-level setup with breakfast bar and couches. I pick up some complimentary toiletries and follow the gray-haired valet to shower No. 16. The cabin, gleaming with polished wood trim and marble tile, is glorious. The water gushes from the showerhead, and I hum the theme to Masterpiece Theatre as I soap. After 15 minutes I step out of the shower and then, what the heck, I step back in for another 15. When I'm done, I find my newly pressed slacks and jacket hanging outside the door. Now, that's a proper entrance to London.

So who wins the transatlantic face-off? Money no object, and despite my rather shabby treatment, I'd still consider flying B.A. New York to London, but only if I absolutely needed a good night's sleep. The module makes any other overnight seat seem like a subway bench by comparison. But coming home, Virgin's ferocious can-do attitude--and hands-on treatment--makes it the clear winner, regardless of price.