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

by Mandy Smith

  “What do you mean, ‘It’s over’?” said Neil, kicking the door open behind me. I ignored him and powered up the stairs, Neil’s deranged yells echoing throughout the desolate building, scary and hollow. “Come back here, you bitch. I mean it, Mandy …”

  I continued climbing, taking two steps at a time, intermittently grasping the grimy handrail, heart banging. Neil was now bounding up the stairs, his heavy thuds chasing the staccato snaps and scrapes of my heels on the concrete until he was inches behind me. He grabbed the back of my leg. I clung to the handrail but my hand was so clammy I lost my grip.

  It happened in a split second. Clamping my calf with both hands, Neil yanked my leg upwards then downwards with such force that I slammed face-down onto the steps. He dragged me all the way down the staircase, my face and body grazing against the concrete with every agonising bump. I screamed as loud as I could, but he wouldn’t stop. At the bottom of the stairs, before I even had a chance to defend myself, he was on top of me, one hand clenched around my throat, the other balled into a fist, raining blows on my upper body. I was fighting for breath. My lungs felt as though they were being punctured, my head grinding into the grimy floor like a giant pestle against stone. Nothing felt or looked real. Beyond Neil’s thrashing form, the door to the stairwell blurred in and out of focus, and a little voice in my head was chanting silent prayers: “Somebody, please save me.”

  I don’t know what made Neil finally decide to end his attack. Maybe it was a sudden realisation that he actually might kill me if he continued. He released his grip. I gasped for air, tears streaming down my face. Neil knelt beside me, breathing hard through clenched teeth, wiping trickles of saliva from the corners of his mouth. Then he disappeared up the stairs and I was all alone, foetal on the floor in my jeans and Jamiroquai T-shirt, body rheumatic with pain, windpipe crushed.

  A young couple found me and very kindly drove me to the nearest police station, where a sympathetic woman police constable with an agony aunt smile sat me down with a polystyrene cup of sweet tea and told me how she too had just come out of a violent relationship. “None of this is your fault. You do realise that, don’t you?” she said.

  I nodded, long locks of tangled brunette hair tumbling around my face, heavy with the scent of the car park stairwell: a dirty, antiseptic mix of stale urine, rubbish bins and Dettol.

  After I’d given my statement – and agreed to press charges against Neil – the police officer asked me if there was anyone I could call to pick me up. “A relative, perhaps?”

  It was gone two in the morning. I had no money. I’d paid for the concert tickets, and Neil had promised to settle up with me later in the evening. I should’ve known I’d never see the cash. I lived with my parents, so I had no flatmate to call upon. “I guess I’ll have to call me dad,” I said.

  We drove home in silence. Dad was heartbroken. Even though I was twenty-five, I was still his little princess. We pulled up in the driveway. The house was in darkness. The engine hushed.

  “Mam must be asleep,” I said.

  Dad cupped his hands over his face and dropped them to his lap with a groan. “I’ll kill him, I’ll kill him, Mandy … I keep telling you: you’re too soft. Tell me where he lives.”

  Once again I was crying. I couldn’t think of anything else to say other than: “I’m sorry, Dad.”

  He turned to look at me, his huge brown eyes filled with pain. “Come here, pet,” he said, pulling me towards him. I sobbed into his chest as he wrapped his comforting arms tightly around me, kissing the top of my refuse-stinking head.

  “Don’t cry, pet. I just can’t bear the thought of anyone hurting you, that’s all. We love you so much. There are good men out there, Mandy, men who will treat you well, how you deserve to be treated.”

  It broke my heart. “I love you, Dad,” I choked.

  He squeezed me tighter. “Me too, pet, me too.”

  I went to work as normal the next day. Despite the heat, I wore a polo-neck jumper to hide Neil’s red handprint on my throat and plastered on the slap to conceal my black eye, busted lip, scrapes and grazes. Fortunately, there was no sign of Neil at the office. Not so bloody tough now, I thought.

  That afternoon, as I stood at the photocopier, staring blankly at the jellyfish-shaped coffee stain on the wall, my mind flashed back to the previous night. What was I thinking? How on earth did I end up with somebody like Neil? And surely there had to be more to life than gawping at these dribbled tentacles. I was so lost in thought I wasn’t even aware I had company.

  “Hey Mands, how’s it going?”

  I spun round sharply, my nerves still shot. It was Jonathan, a design engineer who had just landed a job as a Virgin Atlantic steward – a career move he hoped would help him pursue his dream of becoming a pilot. He was tall, of Nordic descent with looks to match: blue eyes, soft and wavy blond hair, sparkling white teeth and the biggest feet I’d ever seen.

  “Oh, Jonathan … you made me jump.”

  “Sorry, Mands.” He paused for a moment to observe my wounds. “Ouch, what happened to your face?” Jonathan was probably the nicest person in the office: caring, generous and so sincere – the kind of fella you could take home to your parents.

  I looked at the floor, embarrassed. I was a walking advert for a campaign against domestic violence. I could hear the voice-over in my head: “Don’t Suffer in Silence,” accompanied by images of my mashed-up face. “It’s nothing,” I lied, turning my eyes back to the jellyfish.

  Jonathan rested his hand on my shoulder. “C’mon, Mands, speak to me. I might be able to help.”

  I glanced up at his face, noticing how incredibly handsome he was. I’d never really looked at Jonathan this way before.

  “I mean it, Mands, I’m here for you.”

  It was just what I needed to hear. The words avalanched from my mouth. And once I’d started, I couldn’t stop. I told Jonathan the whole sorry story from start to finish, barely stopping for air.

  “I just feel so stupid,” I concluded. “And to make matters worse, I can’t stay in this job now with him here.”

  Jonathan shook his head. “What a bastard.”

  “I can’t believe I didn’t see it coming.”

  “You know what?” said Jonathan. “Virgin is hiring stewardesses. You should apply. With your looks they’ll snap you up. It’ll get you out of this place and the perks are the same as here – plus free travel every week with your job, and lots of partying in five-star locations … you’ll have a blast.”

  “I might have to have some facial reconstruction first,” I joked, retrieving my stack of papers from the tray. Secretly, however, I thought it was a great idea. I’d always wanted to be an air hostess, but Dad had done his utmost over the years to discourage me. “You don’t want to be a trolley dolly, Mandy,” he’d say. “Nothing but a glorified waitress in the sky, with men leering at you. You want to get yourself a proper job.” I knew Dad was only being protective of me, but I felt like there was a whole world out there to explore and I longed to be set free.

  A rose flush washed over Jonathan’s dimpled cheeks. “Seriously, Mands, you’re stunning. I’ve got a spare application form. You should go for it.”

  So I did – I actually went for it. Not that it took much more persuasion. I had one look at the application form Jonathan delivered to my desk and was immediately seduced by the bold text at the top of the page: “You’ll work hard but party even harder.” I can do that, I mused. After work, I headed straight home to fill out the form in the privacy of my bedroom, glass of wine in hand. By midnight it was in the post.

  Life took a turn for the better over the next few weeks. Neil returned to work and was falling over himself to worm his way back into my life, apologising profusely for his behaviour, sending me notes and flowers and blaming his “little flare-up” on drugs. “I’ve never hit a woman before in my life, Mandy, honest,” he said. As far as I was concerned, he could grovel until the bloody cows came home. My mind was firmly made
up: no more bad guys for Mandy Smith. In fact, I’d told myself I’d steer clear of all men for a while. But there was one guy who was proving hard to resist: Jonathan.

  It happened quickly, during Jonathan’s final days at the office before he started his training course. Since I’d confided in him, he’d become my rock: I felt as though I could tell him anything. There wasn’t a single aspect of his personality I disliked. He was the epitome of a gentleman. Attentive, caring and courtly, he made me feel good about myself – and wanted. At first the flirting was quite subtle: lots of accidental-on-purpose hand touching, coincidental yet convenient meetings in the stationery cupboard, a few sexual innuendos here and there. We got on spectacularly, even finishing each other’s sentences. The build-up was electrifying. I’d gone right off my food, which allowed me to resurrect a slinky Miss Selfridge pencil skirt I’d bought months ago but never worn. I was wearing that skirt the night Jonathan first kissed me, in a cosy corner of a smoky bar down the Lanes in Brighton, as Tracy Chapman’s “Baby Can I Hold You” played on the jukebox and life freeze-framed around us.

  Once again I was in a relationship. Only this time, it felt solid, secure. It was impossible not to fall in love with Jonathan. He was adorable. I waited a while before I slept with him … at least a couple of months. But, believe me, once we started, we couldn’t stop. Location was a slight problem; Jonathan also lived with his parents, so our romps were confined to quickies in our bedrooms and contorted sex on the back seat of Jonathan’s little silver S-reg Renault, normally with a seatbelt clip ramming my bum or a window winder nudging the back of my head.

  Our first comfortable encounter happened in my bedroom while my parents were away on holiday. “I want to make love to you, Mands,” Jonathan said, a hint of coyness creeping into his voice.

  It was a Friday evening, after a scorcher of a day. Even then, as we lay on the bed by the open window, legs braided, kissing and pawing away at each other, I could feel the heat pouring in, bringing scents of lavender, cut grass and freshly lit barbeques.

  I reached down to unzip Jonathan’s trousers. Make love? That was an expression I hadn’t heard in a long while. I wasn’t quite sure how to respond. “Me too … to you, I mean – not to myself.”

  He laughed. “Take off your dress.”

  We tore off our clothes and re-conjoined on the bed, skin warm and damp, pulses throbbing.

  Jonathan rolled on top of me. “You’re beautiful,” he said, between urgent kisses.

  I grabbed his bum and gave it a playful slap as he was grinding against me. “I want you inside me,” I whispered.

  Jonathan pulled away, slithered between my legs and sat back on his knees. “Not just yet,” he said, parting my legs. He pulled me up onto his knees, pushing my thighs even further apart. “Beautiful,” he repeated. “I want to make you come.”

  I closed my eyes, tilted my hips and revelled in the sensation of Jonathan’s fingers, circling, tickling until my legs trembled and I came in ripples. That was most certainly one of Jonathan’s finest talents: he was extremely good with his hands.

  A proud smile spread across Jonathan’s face. He reached over to the bedside table for a condom. “Did you enjoy that?” he said, rolling on the condom.

  “God, yeah.” I was still recovering.

  He stretched out on top of me and eased into me, panting heavily as his strokes gained velocity and vigour. I came again, moaning loudly. Outside I could hear our neighbours’ voices, which meant they could probably hear me, but I couldn’t stop myself. Then, as the final wave crashed through me, Jonathan joined in, a crescendo of, “Ah, ah, ah,” as he came in a series of mini convulsions.

  We were so loved-up; I couldn’t remember a time when I’d felt so happy. The following morning, after more sex, someone else put a smile on my face: the postman. It was the letter I’d been waiting for – from Virgin Atlantic. The interview letter.

  I raced up the stairs squealing, clutching the piece of paper. “I’ve done it, I’ve done it – they want to meet me. They actually want to meet me.”

  I was dancing around the bedroom like a mad woman while Jonathan sat up in bed, laughing. I couldn’t think straight for the excitement. What shall I wear? I thought, already rummaging in my wardrobe and sending a clothes storm in Jonathan’s direction as I tossed various outfits over my shoulder.

  “Come here, you gorgeous, funny thing.”

  I turned around to find Jonathan with a pair of my trousers draped over his head. I made for the bed. “Seriously, though, Jonathan. Do you think I have a chance? What if I mess it up and they don’t pick me? This opportunity may never happen again and I’ll be stuck in engineering with stalker boy for the rest of my life and …”

  Jonathan grabbed my hand and pulled me onto him. “Of course they’ll pick you. They’d be crazy not to.”

  Bless him, he was so sweet; if I hadn’t felt so shagged out I would have gone for round three. “Thanks, Jonathan,” I said, curling up beside him.

  “For what?”

  “For being here for me.”

  I meant every word. At that moment, I felt like the luckiest girl in the world.

  Despite doing my homework on the Virgin recruitment process, and receiving scores of valuable tips from Jonathan and other staff in the know, I still couldn’t contain my nerves on the day of my interview. My legs were hollow, my palms were sweaty and I swear the entire cast of Riverdance was performing in my stomach. After much humming and hawing over what to wear, I’d settled on a smart black suit with a sensible just-below-the-knee skirt and black court shoes with a moderate heel. I didn’t like wearing tights but I made an exception on this occasion, as I’d been warned by one seasoned hostie that Virgin Atlantic didn’t like bare legs. My hair was folded up in a sophisticated French pleat, and my lips and nails painted crimson.

  The first part of the interview – the group interview – was held in a basic training room at Virgin Atlantic’s HR offices in Crawley town centre. I was among a crowd of about twenty girls who, like me, were all desperate to shine that day. Our interviewing panel consisted of three immaculately groomed, beautiful women – one petite and blonde, the other two willowy brunettes – all dressed in the iconic Virgin uniform. They were tough cookies alright.

  “Not all of you will be successful today,” said the blonde. “But try not to be too despondent if you’re not chosen this time. It’s not easy – some people attend several interviews.”

  “Take Jack, for example,” added one of the brunettes, holding up a photograph of a jovial looking guy with heavily gelled black hair. “Jack was selected after his fifth interview. He was so determined.”

  She made it sound like we were auditioning for a talent show. I glanced around the room at my fellow interviewees, noting their expressions, their eager smiles and approving nods as Jack’s story was relayed.

  “He’s doing brilliantly now,” concluded the blonde.

  Poor Jack. You have to wait six months after an unsuccessful interview before you can reapply, so he must have been attending interviews for years.

  After the pep talk, it was over to us. One by one, we were asked to introduce ourselves to the group and explain why we wanted to become air hostesses for Virgin Atlantic. Some of the girls blurted out the wrong answer: “Because I want to travel the world.” Of course they did – I did too, but I knew it definitely wasn’t the response the panel was looking for. They didn’t want to hire people who just wanted to go globetrotting on Virgin’s budget. So I kept my reply to a short, sweet, “I love working in a customer-service based environment, with new challenges every day.”

  I also noticed that some of the girls had missed the point on the dress code. One of them, who introduced herself as Michelle from Croydon, was sporting a shiny polyester suit in the most luminous shade of turquoise, the skirt falling a good few inches above her bare knees. She wore a mask of bright orange foundation that clashed with the turquoise and ended in a sharp line around her jaw. She looked lik
e a tropical cocktail. I did feel sorry for her though – she was so keen and bubbly.

  Our next exercise was to form into small groups and compose a jingle for Virgin to the tune of a nursery rhyme. We were given newspaper articles from which we had to cut out sections of text to compile the lyrics, and each group was given a different tune. As we worked away the interviewers walked around the room, scribbling on notepads, scrutinising our behaviour. There were a few domineering characters; a girl in my group was trying to take over the task, but I adopted a more affable, helpful approach, since I knew they were looking for team players.

  At lunchtime we learned our fate. The tension in the air was so thick I could almost hear a drum roll. The blonde woman delivered the news. “If I call out your name I’d like you to stay behind. Those whose names I don’t call out, I’m sorry, but you haven’t been successful this time.”

  She paused for effect – too long for my liking – hugging a clipboard to her perfect boobs. Meanwhile, I was convinced my name wasn’t on that list and was already planning my journey home.

  “Amanda Smith.”

  I was stunned. I’d made it through to the next round … I was one of the four names called out. This was fucking fantastic. I watched the other interviewees leave the room, flashing faux smiles, no doubt asking themselves, “Will I be the next Jack?”

  I gave it my best shot during the afternoon session. After two maths exams, incorporating questions on currency conversion and time zones, I was led into a small office for a one-to-one interview with one of the brunettes. This was actually a lot easier than the group interview, because I no longer had to worry about outshining a room full of beautiful girls. Somehow, my nerves had become overshadowed by a sudden burst of confidence, positivity and determination. As far as I was concerned, that job was mine. I smiled, maintained eye contact and exuded a can-do attitude as I answered every question fired at me.

  “Right then, Amanda,” said the brunette at the end of the interview, “Let’s get you weighed and measured.” Back then we were also asked to submit two photographs with our application – a head-and-shoulders shot, and one full-length snap. Thankfully my height and weight matched the figures I’d stated on my application. A firm handshake and a “we’ll be in touch” later, and I was out of there.