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

by Mandy Smith

  “She’s been like this all night – cried through the whole performance,” said Dad, enveloping me in his arms and kissing my head. “You were electrifying out there, Mandy – a star in the making. You really are talented.”

  I laughed. “I don’t think I can afford to give up the day job just yet, Dad.”

  “I mean it, Mandy. I really think you could go a long way. I’ve always said it: our Mandy, she can sing.” He glanced at Mum for encouragement. “Haven’t I always said that, Sue: our Mandy can sing?”

  Mum nodded, the glossy brown curls piled high on her head bobbing rhythmically. “You have, James, you have – I don’t know where she gets it from.”

  “Any chance of a kiss?” piped up Jonathan, who’d been waiting patiently throughout my parents’ rave reviews.

  “Ah, come here you,” I said, throwing my arms around his neck and planting a gooey lipstick kiss on his cheek. “I thought you were working. I didn’t expect to see you here.”

  He grinned. “I swapped shifts. I wouldn’t have missed this for the world. I wanted to surprise you.” Then he pulled me towards him and whispered into my ear: “I can’t wait to get you out of that uniform.”

  I was just about to respond with some dirty talk when the compere announced the start of our wings presentation.

  “I’m needed back on stage,” I said.

  “Don’t leave just yet,” said Jonathan under his breath. “I’ve got a huge bloody hard-on.”

  I felt his cock twitch against my pelvis, springing to life like a pop-up toy. “I have to go,” I giggled. “Take off your jacket and carry it in front of you.”

  I kissed Mum and Dad again and headed back to the stage. Jonathan limped to his seat, embarrassment concealed beneath his suit jacket. He’ll keep, I thought.

  Half an hour later I was awarded my wings. “Congratulations, Amanda,” said Richard, pressing the silver badge into my palm and pecking me on the cheek. “Welcome to the world of flying.”

  “Thanks, Richard,” I said. “I won’t let you down.”

  I pinned my wings on my red blazer, held my bunned-head high and marched off the stage into the throng of over-enthusiastic engineers, who had also come along to see me off. I was flushed with pride and excitement … and fizzy wine.

  The celebrations continued at the bar and Richard, generous as ever, bought drinks for everyone. He’s always enjoyed partying with crew. As the drink flowed, I found myself engaged in a rather embarrassing conversation with Richard (fortunately, Mum and Dad had left by this point). There I was, draped all over him like a drunken game show hostess, waving a glass of vodka in the air and cooing: “You’re such a lovely boss, Richard.”

  Richard laughed and put his arm around my waist to steady me.

  “Oh, and my nanna, Jeanie Mac – is your number one fan. She adores you. She’s always saying, ‘That Richard Branson, he’s a smashing young man.’ She’d love to meet you.”

  “Really?” said Richard. “She sounds like a character … and where is Jeanie Mac tonight? I’d like to meet her, too.”

  “She couldn’t make it – she lives in Hartlepool.”

  Then, in my inebriated state, I had a sudden brainwave. “I know,” I squealed, delving into my handbag for my Virgin mobile phone (a recent Christmas present from Richard to all his staff), “Let’s call her – she’d love to speak to you.”

  I handed the phone to Richard, insisting, “Ring me nanna, ring me nanna.”

  “I don’t know her number, Mandy.”

  “Oh, give it here,” I said, grabbing the handset. Squinting one eye I punched in Nanna’s number, which I usually only called from my landline, but which was imprinted on my brain, even when drunk.

  “Hello?” Nanna sounded surprised; she wasn’t used to late night phone calls.

  “Nanna, it’s me, Mandy. Did I wake you?”

  “Oh no, love, I was just putting me hair net on and getting ready to turn in. I’ve got me nightie on, poured a little tipple and …”

  “Nanna,” I interrupted, “I’ve got someone here who’d like a word with you.”

  I passed the phone back to Richard.

  “Hi Jeanie,” he said, “Richard here, Richard Branson. I’m here with your granddaughter Mandy – she’s been telling me all about you.”

  They chatted for at least five minutes. I didn’t have a clue what Nanna was saying but Richard seemed amused.

  “Thank you, that’s very kind,” he responded with an affectionate chuckle. “Yes, still got the beard … yes, I promise I’ll be careful up in those balloons. I’d love to pop in for a brew … I’ll pass you back to Mandy.”

  Bless Nanna. Any other person would have thought the call was a wind up … anyone other than good old Jeanie Mac. She was over the moon. “Wait ’til I tell the girls at bingo tomorrow,” she said.

  Drinks at the bar progressed to even more refreshments at Ikon Diva – a tacky eighties-style nightclub in Crawley, popular among boozy hen and stag parties, mutton-dressed-as-lamb divorcees and sleazy married men whose wives don’t understand them.

  Richard was up for a night of clubbing but his PA wouldn’t allow it. “You can’t, you’re flying to Antigua tomorrow,” she warned him. So it was home to bed for Richard. Jonathan was driving, as he was due to fly to Orlando the following day. Not that he minded watching the rest of us getting hammered – he was just happy to be there.

  The mood was vibrant, everyone still buzzing from the Wings Ceremony, recollecting amusing anecdotes from our Ab Initio course and chatting about the adventures ahead of us. We gathered at the bar, throwing back tequila slammers and declaring our love for one another after each toxic hit. Jonathan stood behind me, arms wrapped around my waist, nuzzling my neck, propping me up.

  “Even if we never fly together, let’s keep in touch,” shouted Scott above the music. “Here’s to Group 309.”

  We chinked glasses to out-of-synch slurs of “Group 309”.

  I was happy, euphoric. Finally, I was pursuing my dream career: Mandy Smith, international air hostess … who would have thought it?

  The club throbbed to the beat of Madness’s “Night Boat to Cairo”. I leaned into Jonathan’s embrace and reached behind me to stroke his groin – that pop-up toy of his was rock-hard now.

  “Shall we head home, big boy?” I teased.

  Jonathan pulled me in closer, his erection straining against my hand, heart galloping in time with mine, pelting my back. “I thought you’d never ask,” he said. “I might have to take off my jacket again.”

  I bade an emotional farewell to my colleagues, vowing to stay in touch – although the reality was I would never see some of them again.

  It was raining heavily when we left the club. “Here, put this over your head,” said Jonathan, handing me his jacket. We made a dash for his car, me slipping all over the shop in my heels (it had nothing to do with the drink, honest). Jonathan had parked his little Clio at Crawley Station next to Ikon Diva. The car park was dark and deserted, apart from a few drunken girls from a hens party who were staggering around aimlessly, dressed as St Trinian’s schoolgirls, with flashing willy boppers on their heads.

  “Back to your place?” asked Jonathan, wiping rain from his forehead as he started the ignition. He looked so cute: the orange glow from a street lamp warming his dewy face and casting droplet shadows on his cheeks through the rain-smeared windows. His shirt was soaked and vacuumed to his body, accentuating his finely-toned biceps. I couldn’t wait until I got home … I wanted him now.

  “Not so fast, tiger,” I said, slipping out of my jacket and unbuttoning my blouse. “Let’s do it here.”

  An impish light danced in Jonathan’s eyes. “What if we get caught?” he said, slipping a hand inside my bra, damp fingers lightly circling my boob, teasing my nipple. I let out a little gasp and reached for his leg, moving my hand slowly yet firmly up his thigh.

  “No one will see us on the back seat,” I husked. “Come on, let’s get you out of those wet
clothes.”

  Five minutes later we were at it like rabbits: horizontal, limbs contorted, skirt ruffled at my waist. Jonathan’s little Clio rocked, rain hammering the roof, whipping the windows. It felt as though we were shagging inside a tin can. On the radio a world-weary American country warbler sang about his alcoholic father deserting his mother, who died of a broken heart.

  “Blimey,” I panted, as Jonathan was grinding away, “that poor bastard.” And we both erupted into fits of giggles.

  It was the perfect end to a perfect night.

  CHAPTER 4

  UPTOWN GIRL

  I was so paranoid I’d forget something that I packed and repacked my bags about four times, double checking every item against my list: four bulky flight manuals; a set of ice tongs; ten pounds in change for my duty-free float; passport; Virgin ID; make-up and flat cabin shoes, all to be carried on board in my leather crew bag. In my hard Delsey suitcase: spare uniform for my return flight; undies; support tights; little black dress (in case Richard Branson’s in town); casual yet sexy outfit for a night on the tiles; nightie (in case of emergency: never get caught naked if you have to evacuate the hotel in the middle of the night, advice which came in handy over the years) and toiletries.

  I was ready far too early; I had at least four hours to spare until check-in, but I was so excited I wanted to get on my way as soon as possible. I was jetting off on my first flight as a Virgin Atlantic air hostess. My destination: New York City. How cool was this? I’d never been to the Big Apple before, so I was thrilled to discover my first roster included two New Yorks back to back.

  I stood in front of the full-length mirror in my bedroom, admiring my reflection. I was a vision in red, immaculate and glamorous. My hair was scooped back into a neat bun, secured with enough hairspray to obliterate the ozone layer, and I’d paid meticulous attention to my make-up, ensuring I’d used all the correct colours in accordance with Virgin’s strict palette. I almost didn’t recognise myself.

  A shrill voice blaring from the hallway interrupted my moment of self-appreciation: Becky. I grabbed my luggage and ventured into the warzone.

  “One hundred and six fucking pounds, Jeremy. One hundred and six pounds, forty-two pence on gay bondage chat lines. Are you mad?”

  Becky, wrapped in a white fluffy bathrobe nicked from some five-star luxury resort, was furiously waving our latest phone bill in Jeremy’s face. A padded-satin pink eye-mask embroidered with the message “Do not disturb” was clamped to her forehead. Jeremy pushed past her, wheeling his case behind him. The poor soul had just returned from a Hong Kong trip. I turned to lock my bedroom door behind me, hoping not to get caught in the crossfire. Becky was a pain in the arse when it came to our bills – I always thought she’d make a great debt collector … or loan shark. She was obsessively pedantic; we all had to go through the phone bill and highlight every single call we’d made.

  “Don’t you walk away from me.” Becky was now screaming like a lunatic, stomping her fluffy slippered feet.

  Jeremy’s voice was light and lispy. “Nice ass, Mands.”

  I turned around. “Do I look okay?”

  Jeremy fanned his face theatrically with his hands. “Oh my God. Talk about a cock tease. You look fantastic. Wunderbar, wunderbar.”

  “What about this fucking bill?”

  “What about the fucking bill? For heaven’s sake, Bec, I’m just in the door.”

  “You owe me money … for the bill … for your pervy fucking phone calls.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Jeremy snatched the piece of paper from Becky’s trembling hand and studied it for a brief moment before slamming it down on the chintzy phone table. “How do you know they’re gay bondage chat numbers, anyway?”

  Becky’s face broke into a catty mock smile. “Because I called them … every single one of them.”

  “Well then, sweetie,” said Jeremy. “I do hope you’re going to pay for those calls.” Then he headed upstairs to his room, laughing.

  Becky shot me a glare. “And you can wipe that smile off your face, too. Have you paid your share?”

  I motioned towards the table with a saccharine smile. “Cheque’s on there. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a plane to catch.” And with a new air of confidence I hooked my holdall in the crook of my arm, extended the handle of my case and breezed along the hallway, calling, “See ya.”

  I recognised only one person on the crew bus to Heathrow – Sian, one of the girls from my Ab Initio course. And although we hadn’t got to know each other terribly well during training, we greeted each other like long-lost friends. We giggled and squealed and speed-talked at the tops of our voices all the way from the Flight Centre to Heathrow, full of beans, discussing our uniforms and destinations – Sian, I discovered, was off to LA – and anticipating our impending adventures down-route. No one else on the bus was as lively as us; most of the crew were sleeping. Why weren’t they excited? Forty-eight hours later, after two gruelling transatlantic flights, I would discover why.

  Our pre-flight briefing was held in a tiny room inside the Queen’s Building at Heathrow, a dismal fifties-era construction eventually demolished in 2009. There were about twenty crew crammed into that room, all destined for Newark. Everyone appeared so chilled and confident. Realising I was the only newcomer (Sian was in a separate briefing elsewhere in the building), my excitement was suddenly eclipsed by a dragging sensation of fear deep in my chest. I found a vacant seat and tried to blend in amid the sea of red figures.

  Our in-flight development supervisor, Martin, led the briefing. I warmed to him instantly. No taller than five foot six, with spindly arms and legs, he spoke in a boisterous Glaswegian accent that belied his tiny frame. His instructions were clear and to the point.

  “I’m not going to beat around the bush,” he said. “This is Mandy, she is new. You all remember what it’s like to be new, so look after her. Here’s how it works. We work hard on the flight out – look after the fuckers – feed them, water them … whatever they want, we make ’em feel special, especially in Upper. Then we get them off the plane, have a fucking good party in New York, and do it all over again on the way back – all of you as fresh faced and beautiful as you are now, please. Anyone not understand?”

  Next came the serious part – the moment I was dreading. Before boarding every flight each crew member must correctly answer a safety question each. Get it wrong and you’re asked a further two questions. And if you fail on your third attempt, you’re grounded, having to sit your SEP exams all over again before they let you fly. Fortunately, I didn’t cock it up and, ten minutes later, I was strutting down the jetway and stepping into the aluminium tube that was to become my new home away from home.

  My heart dropped when I met the colleague I’d been teamed up with. Her name was Leanne and she wasn’t exactly the smiley, how-can-I-help-you air hostess type I’d anticipated. She was utterly miserable and angry. It was like working alongside someone who’d just bought a one-way coach ticket to Beachy Head. Not one positive word escaped her ghastly mouth, and she didn’t paint an attractive picture of life in the sky. According to Leanne, the hours were shit, the passengers shit and everything was, well, “shit”.

  Leanne was tall and stocky – much heavier than your average hostie – with chunky wrists and ankles. She had one of those “Essex girl” facelifts, where the hair is tied into a ponytail so high and taut it actually stretches your face upwards. The first words she spoke to me will stay in my mind forever. I was all bright and breezy when I introduced myself to Leanne in galley two of Economy Class prior to take-off. “Hi, I’m Mandy. Lovely to meet you,” I said.

  Leanne frowned. Wow, I thought, that’s got to hurt with that ponytail facelift.

  “If you’re going to fart, don’t do it in here,” she said.

  I laughed. “I don’t feel the need just now.”

  “If you are going to let off, do it out there,” she added, jabbing the curtain with her thumb.


  “Excuse me?”

  “Oh, did they not explain the wind problems during training? Well, get used to it. Flying as many hours as we do makes your stomach swell up like a balloon. You’ll be a walking cesspit, farting like a trooper. Never in the galley, though. Let it out down the aisles, over the passengers. It’s called crop dusting. Your uniform will stink of farts – we call it Eau de Boeing.”

  “Nice,” I said with a faint smile.

  Leanne’s jaded ramblings continued all through take-off and the meal service – it was relentless; she was like a psychic vampire, sucking every positive thought from my head. I felt slightly disillusioned, like all my initial enthusiasm and excitement had been zapped out of me by Leanne’s stun-gun mouth. I had been so keen at the start of the flight, running around, sweating like mad, offering to help and attempting to put into practice everything I’d learned during training. But Leanne made no effort to welcome me, which made me question what I’d signed up for. And she broke all the rules. Once our dinner service cart was empty, she sat in the galley and wolfed down a portion of chicken korma meant for the passengers, which is strictly off-limits as the other crew were still in the aisles. Our crew meals were provided separately in the crew cart, so we usually only ate the passenger meals if there were any left over.

  “You’d think doing this job as long as I have, I’d be a stick insect by now,” she moaned, shovelling forkfuls of calorie-laden curry into her gob.

  It was impossible to connect with Leanne. She obviously detested her job and simply didn’t want to be there. My attempts to bond with other crew members didn’t exactly go according to plan, either. Overhearing a conversation between two pretty, breathy-voiced Premium Economy dollies in the galley, I couldn’t help but join in. One of them, a lofty blonde with supermodel looks, was gracefully displaying a dainty open-heart silver necklace.

  “Oh. My. God,” said her shorter, curvier friend. “That’s stunning. Is it from …”