Cabin Fever: The sizzling secrets of a Virgin air hostess…

by Mandy Smith

  It was the most agonising, drawn-out two weeks of my life. Every morning when I heard the post arrive, I’d go charging down the stairs like a maniac, hoping to find the letter that would change my life. When it did eventually arrive I had to pinch myself when I read it, as it seemed so surreal: I’d been accepted. I was going to be a Virgin Atlantic air hostess. The letter I was holding in my trembling hand was my passport out of Horsham, a chance to escape from the dreary nine to five – and most importantly, I’d finally be away from Neil. He had still been skulking around at work, unable to accept that I was now with Jonathan. The police inquiry was no further advanced but, somehow, I wasn’t too bothered anymore. My revenge was my happiness, my success, and whatever misery had come before was now securely filed away in a far recess of my mind.

  It was a double celebration, since my good news coincided with Jonathan passing his cabin crew course – and his subsequent Wings Ceremony at Richard Branson’s annual summer party. A weekend of sun, sex, alcohol and generally having the time of our lives was most definitely on the cards.

  I’d met Richard Branson a few times in the past on his occasional visits to the engineering department. He was a good boss: fun, personable, fair and renowned for treating his staff well. His generosity knew no bounds; his summer party was, by far, the most lavish do I’ve ever been to. Held at his then home in the quaint Oxfordshire village of Kidlington, it was like entering a magic kingdom. No expense was spared, with activities such as quad biking, hot air ballooning, go karting and riverboating available. They even had an inflatable quasar arena. There were live bands on a huge centre stage and all the food and drink you could possibly imagine, from every corner of the globe.

  Jonathan’s Wings Ceremony took place outside Richard’s sprawling mansion, on a small stage erected alongside his luxurious swimming pool. Watching Jonathan and his fellow new recruits receive their wings filled me with pride. They all looked so beautiful and polished in their uniforms. It was like being on a movie set. After the ceremony people were stripping off and diving into the pool. Richard was doing his habitual shake-and-spray-the-fancy-champagne-over-everyone routine, the girls pretending to be horrified that the spray had made their shirts see-through. There was a wild yet glamorous vibe among the crowd. Everyone was so sociable and cheery and confident. I was entering a whole new world – a world I knew I was just going to love.

  I guzzled champagne and cocktails and numerous vodka Red-bulls. I whizzed around on the quad bikes like a crazy person and whipped Jonathan’s arse at quasar. That night Richard joined us all for a singalong by the campfire. A bevy of gorgeous trolley dollies fawned over him as he attempted to play Oasis riffs on a guitar, consistently stopping and starting as his fingers struggled to find the right chords. It was amusing, in an endearing sense, to see a multi-billionaire business tycoon stumbling his way through a version of “Wonderwall”. He was still entertaining his guests when Jonathan and I retired to our tent in the early hours, staggering like two drunks in a three-legged race.

  Beneath the canvas we ripped off our clothes, limbs causing the tent walls to bulge as we tumbled around. I was in one of those take-me-now moods. Fortunately, so was Jonathan. No foreplay, just straight down to business. Admittedly a two-man tent isn’t the ideal place for rough-and-ready sex, but we seemed to manage just fine, performing all kinds of acrobatics. Heavens knows what it must have looked – and sounded – like from the outside, though. At one point we were going for it with such vigour I thought the tent was going to uproot and collapse. It was one of those drunken romps, the kind that starts out with such enthusiasm and passion, and ends with you both crashing into semi-comas halfway through, because you were far too drunk.

  The birds woke me up. It sounded as though they were having a good old gossip. Yes, I decided, I’m still pissed. The metal zip of the sleeping bag nibbled icily at my skin and, Christ almighty, I was really bursting for a wee. I nudged Jonathan. “Wake up,” I urged.

  He stirred, blinking awake with a sleepy moan. “Morning, beautiful.”

  I giggled, adding to my bladder agony. “Jonathan, I need a wee. I’m absolutely busting for a wee and I’m in a tent. Naked.”

  “Just go outside,” he yawned, rolling onto his side.

  It didn’t even occur to me to put my clothes on. “Okay,” I said, “come and help me.” I unzipped the tent door and turned around to face Jonathan.

  “What do you want me to do?” he said, wriggling free from the sleeping bag.

  I crouched by the door. “Just hold my hands and don’t let go.”

  So Jonathan held my hands while I stuck my bare bum out the tent door and urinated all over our little campfire. Anybody could have walked by and seen my naked arse sticking out the tent. But when you’ve got to go, you’ve got to go. And besides, I figured a bit of mooning would seem relatively tame to my uninhibited flying colleagues.

  Who cares if they’ve seen my bum? I thought, as I fell back into the tent giggling. Although, in retrospect, I blame the vodka Redbulls.

  CHAPTER 2

  AB INITIO

  The noise was deafening: the sound of sheer terror in the face of death. People were screaming and sobbing and wheezing and choking. Some chanted desperate prayers. There were babies wailing, overhead lockers smashing open and items crashing around the cabin. Outside the air whined murderously past, ascending to an alarming pitch.

  This was the sound of a Boeing 747, hurtling, like a missile, into the Atlantic Ocean.

  The cabin was in darkness except for the strips of light on the gangway floor and the green glow from the emergency exit signs overhead. The only passengers vaguely visible were the ones sitting in the row facing me – a shaky line of deathly white faces searching my own for reassurance as we dropped from the sky. One woman hyperventilated and passed out in her seat. The man next to her shook uncontrollably, whimpering, “Please God, no.” The aircraft shook and rattled furiously in the assault. Over the horrific noise the pilot announced: “Brace, brace,” and even though I knew this meant we were thirty seconds from impact and the chances of survival were slim, I had to remain calm.

  I pulled my seatbelt as tight and low as it would go, sat on my hands, pushed my head into the back of my seat, into the rear-facing brace position, and shouted my commands: “Heads down, feet back, heads down, feet back.” There’s a good reason for pushing your feet backwards: if you were to sit normally, your shin bones would shoot up through your knees on impact. I glanced across at my colleague Angela, who was now also hollering, “Heads down, feet back,” in synch with me.

  The plane smacked violently into the sea, skidding and crashing through the waves. I could hear the water assailing the fuselage, ripping away the underside of the plane. The aircraft crashed across the sea for miles before coming to a shuddering halt. I unclipped my harness, grabbed the intercom and shouted over the PA: “This is an emergency, evacuate, evacuate.”

  Pandemonium spread through the cabin as passengers charged from their seats and fought their way to the emergency exit in the dark, screaming and tripping over one another. The woman in the front row, who had passed out but since recovered, fainted again as she tried to stand up, landing in a heap by my feet. The praying man was now on my shoulder, sobbing, “Please do something, you have to help us, please get us out of here.” I shoved him to one side and peered out of the emergency exit porthole window. I couldn’t see any flames. “Open the door,” yelled the praying man.

  I lifted the handle, swung open the door and immediately pulled the red tag to inflate the slide-raft. It was my job to get everyone onto the raft safely – and ensure no one had any sharp objects. Just one tiny stab of a heel would puncture the inflatable raft. People were climbing over me as I bent down to move the unconscious woman on the floor. I grabbed at the nearest passengers and shouted at two of them to take her with them. “You and you: grab her and take her to the end of the raft with you.” One man cupped her shoulders with his arms and dragged her to the d
oor, while the other grabbed her feet, pushing and shoving her as they shuffled along. Better unconscious than dead, I thought. In seconds the plane could break up or fill with water. We had precious little time. As Angela helped the remaining passengers off the plane, I carried out a final check of the cabin. Shining my torch down the aisle, I spotted an arm poking out from behind one of the aisle seats. “We’ve got a casualty,” I shouted, making my way down the aisle, kicking bags and other debris aside. Angela followed. It was a woman, out for the count, still strapped into her seat. I unbuckled her.

  “We’ll have to carry her,” I said, hooking my arms beneath the limp woman’s armpits and heaving her upwards. “I’ll get her legs,” said Angela, pulling off the passenger’s shoes. I could hear the ocean roaring and hammering against metal as we half-dragged, half-carried the woman to the emergency exit and eased her out onto the raft. Angela handed her to the passengers at the end of the raft, while I gathered all the provisions I could find – bottles of water, food, first-aid kit. Then, satisfied there was no one left on board, I could leave the aircraft. I threw the supplementary survival kit onto the chute and pulled the hooked knife from a pocket within the slide for my final task: cutting the raft free from the plane. Kneeling at the aircraft end of the raft, Angela and I unclipped the flap that was hiding the shoelace-woven rope keeping us attached to the sinking plane. I pulled at the cords as quickly as I could, my training kicking in and autopilot taking over – this was the hardest part, remembering which raft you were on – then at last we were separated. I could cut through the cord, and, just as the slide-raft detached itself, a monstrous yawning sound, followed by the creak of tearing metal, filled the air as the fuselage broke in half.

  “So, how do you think Mandy did there?” said our Safety Emergency Procedure (SEP) instructor, Julie, as I took my position on the raft. The crowd replied with an animated round of applause.

  Of course, this wasn’t a real crash, but I had just passed the commands part of my SEP exam with flying colours. We were at the Rig – a makeshift plane in a warehouse at Gatwick Airport. The SEP exam is deliberately tough, to weed out any people who can’t handle the pressure. Inside the Rig, sound effects are blasted through amps and footage is played on monitors behind the windows. It’s very dramatic and you don’t have a clue what kind of scenario is going to be thrown at you. Just before the ditching-in-water incident I’d also dealt with an engine fire. Smoke had filled the cabin, flames raged at the windows and I was responsible for getting everyone off the plane – even though the fire was blocking two of the exits. You have 4.3 minutes to evacuate in an aircraft fire, even when wearing a protective smoke hood. After that, it becomes an inferno. The plastic fixtures and fittings are also extremely toxic once they start burning, and you can die from inhalation alone.

  I was one week into my Ab Initio training course, and already I felt overwhelmed by the information overload. There was so much to learn, and we were sitting exams nearly every day. As for the people I was meeting: I’ve never encountered so many drama queens in my life. The passengers on board my ditching exercise were all fellow students, and you won’t find a more over-the-top group of actors than a classroom full of trainee Virgin cabin crew. There were some real divas. The first woman to faint during my crash scenario was Sarah, a stage-school graduate still waiting to see her name up in lights. Petite and proportionately curvy, with wavy blonde hair and American cheerleader looks, she demanded constant attention, her every gesture wildly theatrical. Then there was Ruth, the woman Angela and I had to carry off the plane, a part-time Posh Spice lookalike who had also been to drama school but was less vocal about it than Sarah. The third diva in the group – the praying man in the front row – was Scott, a flamboyant queen with greased-back black hair. Above all, he was a proper gobshite – always stirring and winding people up.

  Angela was the person I really bonded with during the six-week course. Unlike the prima donnas, she was fairly timid for an air hostess in the making, but a good laugh all the same. She had a mane of glossy black hair, which she wore scraped back into a neat bun, and welcoming coffee-coloured eyes.

  In addition to my new workmates, I’d also acquired some housemates. About ten days before my course started I moved into a house in Horley – literally a stone’s throw away from the Flight Centre – with three other Virgin employees: Becky, an in-flight beauty therapist and bitch from hell; Jeremy, a senior air steward who spoke with a German accent even though he wasn’t German and racked up huge phone bills calling boy bondage chat lines; and Karen, a Virgin Holidays brochure writer who was really sweet but rarely came out of her room.

  Our house – a pebble-dashed semi – was like a seventies paradise inside, with woodchip wallpaper, Artex ceilings, garish patterned carpets and a strong avocado-green theme throughout. I was given a large room on the ground floor with patio doors leading out to a small weed-infested back garden. Most of the time I had the place to myself because everybody else was away on work trips. You sure knew about it if Becky was around, though. Territorial and possessive, she liked to think she was head of the household. I’ll never forget her guided tour of my new abode.

  “TV is mine, the remote control is mine, that coffee table and that magazine is mine. Lamp, candles, potpourri – and the bowl it’s in – all mine,” she’d said, gesturing at the items one by one with sharp jabs of a perfectly manicured hand. “I’m in charge of the bills and you’ll pay me your share – by cash or cheque, your choice.”

  Becky was one of those girls who looked prettier than she actually was, because she knew every beauty trick in the book. Her make-up was always immaculate, eyebrows perfectly shaped and her red-brown hair styled in a sophisticated Meg Ryan-esque shaggy bob. Becky was also the proud owner of a spanking new red MX5 sports car. There were a number of dollies driving red MX5s at that time, the standing joke being they were post-coital thank-you presents from Richard Branson. We used to love winding Becky up over this.

  I was surrounded by glamour. The Flight Centre was also used to coordinate staff travel and as a check-in point for Virgin crew flying out of Gatwick, so every day we’d see staff coming and going, looking so sleek in their uniforms, the girls gliding effortlessly in heels like models on a catwalk, impeccably made-up, not a hair out of place. Grooming rules were incredibly strict at Virgin, especially for the girls. As ambassadors of the brand we were expected to look spick and span at all times: in the air, on the ground, at the training centre … basically, whenever we were in uniform. Long hair – any length below collar level – must always be worn up. Nails should be spotless and well-manicured. Neck scarves tied to the front, never on the side or at the back (although they are these days). Heels should be worn at all times while on the ground. A smart evening dress should be taken on every trip, just in case Richard Branson was in town and required you to attend a publicity function. And probably the most important rule on the list: never, ever be seen in uniform without sporting lashings of red lippy. This rule came with its own set of sub-rules. It couldn’t be any red lipstick; there was a list of acceptable shades from top-of-the-range brands – all available in our own little duty-free shop at the Flight Centre, so there was absolutely no excuse for breaking this rule.

  To help us look the part, we were given grooming lessons by two overly made-up, bitter-faced women in black suits, whom we nicknamed Bitch One and Bitch Two. They were harshly critical and mocking, constantly pointing out our faults, pulling us up for wearing the wrong make-up and making snide jokes about people’s imperfections and blemishes. I’d been looking forward to grooming classes, excited about experimenting with make-up, trying out new hairstyles and being all girly and glamorous. Alas, it wasn’t to be. During our very first lesson “the bitches” not only insulted me, but also reduced another poor girl to tears.

  It was Bitch Two who had a pop at me, just after we’d taken our seats around the poisonous duo’s sprawling make-up counter. The bottle blonde zoomed right in on me, narrowi
ng her glacial eyes and forcing a tissue into my hand. Her voice was vinegary. “You’ve got the wrong lipstick on. Take it off.”

  “It’s Clinique,” I said, “It’s on the list … it’s allowed.”

  “That may well be the case, but it doesn’t suit you. Off, wipe it off.”

  Bitch One nodded in assent. “You need a different tone of red.”

  I patted my lips with the tissue.

  It got worse. As the class got underway, the bitch twins asked for a volunteer to be made up “Virgin-style”. Sarah and Ruth’s ears pricked up, and they both shifted in their seats, pushing their boobs out and flashing expectant looks that screamed “me, me, me” at the black-suited women.

  “How about you,” said Bitch One, pointing at Sabrina, a stunning girl with feline eyes and skin the colour of golden toffee.

  Sabrina shrugged. “Okay.” She made her way to the front of the room and sat on the stool by the make-up counter.

  “So, we’re going to start by taking the hair right back from the face,” said Bitch One, aggressively scraping an Alice band over Sabrina’s head.

  “Indeed,” said Bitch Two, squirting a generous blob of make-up remover onto a cotton wool pad, “We don’t want to get foundation in her hair.” Bitch Two removed Sabrina’s make-up, tut-tutting under her breath while her lacquer-stiff mousey-haired partner in crime rummaged through the mountain of cosmetics.

  The demonstration began, both women painting and drawing all over Sabrina’s beautiful face while providing a running commentary of their work.

  “A little problem area here beneath the eyes,” said the mousey-haired artist, loading more and more foundation onto Sabrina’s face. “Your complexion is very uneven … very, very uneven.”