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

by Mandy Smith

  “Just a light dusting of blusher – less is more,” added her colleague, colouring Sabrina’s cheeks sunset orange. Poor Sabrina was being attacked from all angles.

  “Blend, blend, blend,” they nagged until they finally put down their tools and moved away from their model so we could all admire their work. My God, they’d made a mess of her. Sarah gasped, cupping her mouth. Bitch One handed Sabrina a mirror. “So this is the look we’re aiming for, girls,” she said.

  Sabrina held the mirror up to her face and immediately burst into tears. Our so-called make-up artists had turned Sabrina’s skin porcelain white. The foundation they’d used was clearly about ten shades too pale for her skin. Sabrina slammed the mirror down on the table, sending pots and tubes crashing onto the floor, and stormed out of the room sobbing.

  The room fell silent. “What’s the matter with her?” asked Bitch Two.

  Bitch One shrugged her shoulders, her face swathed in a look of confusion. “Search me.”

  Understandably, Sabrina assumed the two women were deliberately being racist, although I’m sure this was more a case of Dumb & Dumber.

  There was a drama almost every day. During our first SEP lesson, another instructor, Sophie, came a cropper while demonstrating how to use the emergency slide. Sophie was like a life-size Barbie doll: tall with slender limbs, perfectly sized pert boobs and a whittled-away waist you could comfortably fit your hands around. Her hair was ash blonde, swirled into a classic French pleat, and her huge swimming-pool blue eyes slanted upwards slightly at the outer corners. We all gathered round her on the Rig and watched as she placed her perfect bum onto the slide. “So, once your shoes are off you sit on the slide like so, arms crossed at your chest, and, staying in an upright position, you’re ready to go down the slide.” Sophie adjusted her weight forwards and she was away, her shiny French pleat getting smaller and smaller as she bobbed down the slide. Only, for some reason, Sophie seemed to be falling backwards instead of sitting upright as she’d instructed. She landed with a thud, her right foot crumpling and cracking beneath her. Sophie let out a little giggle. “That’s how not to do it,” she said. Then she rose to her feet and took a couple of steps before collapsing on the floor. Sophie had fractured her foot in three places and spent the next few months in plaster, hobbling around on crutches. But she had made no fuss when it happened. Sophie may have looked delicate and doll-like, but mentally, she was tough as old boots.

  I was discovering that you have to be made of hard stuff to survive in this game. Ab Initio was highly intense – one minute I felt like I was at army boot camp; the next, a finishing school. It’s extremely hard work and, quite often, people drop out within the first couple of weeks. Becoming an air hostess is not just a matter of learning how to look pretty. There’s a lot of hard work that goes on behind the scenes, which people don’t know about. The first two weeks are the toughest. That’s when we do all our SEP training. In addition to this, we also had to sit through hour upon hour of air-crash investigation programmes, viewing reconstructions of some of the world’s deadliest crashes in aviation history. The idea of this exercise was to see how and why accidents occur, and learn from any mistakes made in order to prevent them happening again. By the time we’d seen the twentieth video, we were all quite immune to the graphic images.

  We also had to undergo fire safety training. The main perk about this was that our lessons were taught by a group of muscle-bound firemen from the local station. It’s a wonder we learned anything; most of the girls – and some of the lads – were too busy swooning over them. One of our tasks was to find a dead body and rescue a baby – in this case a mannequin and a doll in a bassinet – from a mock-burning aircraft. Like the ditching exercise, it was terribly dramatic and very claustrophobic trying to navigate your way around the tight spaces in thick smoke while wearing a smoke hood.

  Then there was the first-aid course, which involved learning how to help the on-board managers operate defibrillators. We were shown a video featuring an old man who had suffered a heart attack on board a Virgin flight. He was flanked by two gorgeous dollies who had saved his life by following our CPR procedures and shocking him with the defibrillator. “Virgin saved my life,” he said with a false-teeth smile. I had no idea then that I’d end up using one myself one day – and, indeed, saving somebody’s life.

  We were also given SAS-style training – with ex-SAS officers and paratroopers – where we were taught how to spot sleeper terrorists, restrain people and deal with hostage situations. Obviously, for security reasons I cannot divulge these secrets.

  Lessons in survival techniques entailed acting out every imaginable life-or-death scenario under the sun: how to survive in a snow storm, an avalanche, on a desert island, stranded at sea; hunter-gatherer techniques (eat your heart out Ray Mears); and bizarrely, how to fend off sharks – a good whack on the nose with an oar does the trick, apparently.

  With so much to learn, I had no time for a social life. All my time at home was spent studying for exams. I was stressed out to the max and losing sleep because of Becky’s annoying habits when she returned from trips. No matter what time it was – normally late at night or in the early hours of the morning – she would slam the front door, pour herself a huge G & T and vacuum the whole house from top to bottom – even if it was clean.

  I was missing Jonathan like crazy. He was now flying all over the world as a Virgin steward and training for his commercial pilot’s licence in his spare time. Every time that avocado-green phone trilled I’d race down the hallway, hoping it was him calling from America, or Johannesburg, or whatever far-flung destination he was in. Our phone calls were like extracts taken from Mills & Boon novels, I mean real gooey stuff – entire international calls filled with soppy lines such as, “No, you hang up first,” “I can hear your heart beating,” “I miss you so much my heart aches,” “I love you to the stars and back,” “I love you more,” “No, I love you more.” By the time we’d finished exchanging verbal love letters, his money would run out and we wouldn’t have time to discuss anything else. Not all of the calls were gushy though – there were a few sexy ones thrown in … full of explicit descriptions of what we’d like to do to each other.

  There was a point – about two weeks into the course – when I thought I was having a nervous breakdown. I was plagued by anxiety dreams and the workload was humungous. Some days we’d be taught something new in the morning and sit an exam on the same subject that very afternoon – and be expected to achieve a grade of at least 90 per cent. There was also a pile of hefty manuals to memorise. I remember sitting on the bottom step of the hall stairs, sobbing down the avocado phone to Mum and Dad, anxiously twirling the coiled wire round my fingers.

  “I can’t do it – it’s so difficult,” I’d cry, gasping for air. “I can’t cope. I’m never going to pass.”

  Mum was almost crying with me. “Oh baby, I hate to hear you so upset, but I know you can do this. You’ve worked so hard. We’re so proud of you.”

  Dad never really offered the same level of encouragement, although he meant well. “They’re not paying you enough for all this stress. Tell them it’s too much. They’re expecting you to do all this work for peanuts.”

  To which I’d reply: “Can you put Mum back on, please?” through more tears.

  I didn’t quit. Of course I didn’t. And despite my mini panic attacks, I still managed to pass every exam with flying colours and make it through to week five. Although we still had a week’s training left to go, it was a given at this stage that we’d passed the course and could now be fitted for our Virgin uniforms.

  It’s incredible how a red outfit can cause so much excitement. We were all high as kites on the day of our fittings. Before, everything had seemed like such a hard slog, the fear of failure overwhelming. Now, we could finally begin to look forward to life in the skies, adventures all over the world, wild parties and, of course, working our arses off.

  The tailoress in the uniform departme
nt waited on me hand and foot. She was so complimentary and enthusiastic, I felt like I was in a posh changing room at Selfridges with my own personal shopper.

  “Oh,” she said when I walked into the vast dressing room, “What a beautiful figure.” She clasped her hands to her chest, nodding her head. “Yes, this uniform is going to look amazing on you.”

  She pulled the tape measure from around her neck, circled it around my waist. “I think you’ve lost weight, Mandy.”

  She grabbed her clipboard from a nearby chair, scribbled my new measurements down alongside my previous ones. “Yes,” she confirmed, “You’ve definitely lost weight.”

  I laughed. “I’m not surprised – it’s been a stressful few weeks. Don’t worry … it’s nothing a few pies and pasties won’t cure.”

  I wasn’t the easiest person to fit. Because I’m tall – just over five foot nine – with orangutan arms, I had to get a size-sixteen woollen overcoat for the shoulders and extend the sleeve length, then have it taken in everywhere else. My size-ten skirt and size-twelve jacket and shirt, however, fitted beautifully.

  I drew back the curtain and emerged from the cubicle. “How does this look?” I asked, walking towards the full-length mirror.

  The kind tailoress’s eyes met mine in the glass. “You look amazing, superb.”

  I twirled in front of the mirror, checking my reflection from all angles. “I love it, absolutely love it.”

  I was smiling so much I thought my face was going to explode. There was an air hostess staring back at me … now all she needed was her wings.

  CHAPTER 3

  WINGS

  The spotlights were burning and blinding. I could feel the foundation melting on my face and the audience was a smudge of fidgety shapes through the haze. The woolly hum of chatter subsided to empty silence, punctuated by the occasional cough or exaggerated throat clearing. I felt giddy and sick – a combination of nerves and excitement … or was it the five glasses of Asti Spumante I’d just necked kicking in? Stage fright, don’t you just love it? However, the show must go on – and the opening bars of the Bee Gees’ “Tragedy” pumping from the speakers signalled it was “tits and teeth” time.

  This was the final hurdle – the show that would earn me my wings and launch me up above the clouds into the glamorous world of high flying. I couldn’t afford to mess this up.

  I was on stage with sixteen colleagues from my Ab Initio course. Collectively, we were known as Group 309. We’d completed our exams, made it through the rigorous training exercises, learned how to push a trolley and serve coffee (which, incidentally, is the last thing they teach you at Richard Branson’s School for International Air Hostesses), survived the tears and tantrums, and now here we were, in uniform, dancing to “Tragedy” in front of Richard Branson himself.

  We’d spent a week rehearsing for our Wings Ceremony cabaret show, holed up in our classroom at the Flight Centre for hours every night. We’d chosen the seventies-style Brit Awards as the theme for our performance, making up our own lyrics and dance routines to cheesy disco hits. It was supposed to be a team effort, but with resident divas Sarah and Ruth – and queen bitchiness himself, Scott – on board, it wasn’t long before our group performance turned into a fierce battle of one-upmanship.

  The rows were always instigated by Sarah, who, from day one, made it perfectly clear she was to be the star of the show, appointing herself group choreographer and flouncing round the room like Joan Collins.

  “It makes sense that I choreograph the dances,” she asserted, as we sat around an island of desks planning our show. “Because I’m the one who’s been to stage school – Laine Theatre Arts College … Posh Spice studied there too.”

  Ruth wasn’t happy. After all, she was a qualified dancer – and she’d worked as a Posh Spice lookalike model. She shot her rival a sullen glare, lips twitching into an exaggerated “Posh” pout. The tension in the room was palpable; we all knew a bitch-fight was about to kick off.

  “With all due respect, Sarah,” said Ruth, still pouting, “if anyone’s going to be in charge of choreography here, surely it should be me. You may have done a bit of acting, but I went to dance school. I’m proficient in ballet, tap, jazz, modern, ballroom …”

  “It’s not just ‘a bit of acting’, Ruth,” interrupted Sarah. “I went to a top drama school, studied alongside some of the country’s most talented actors …”

  “Oh, really? Posh Spice isn’t exactly clearing up at the BAFTAs, is she.”

  “Ha, that’s rich coming from the girl who thinks she is Posh Spice.”

  Scott butted in. “I agree with Ruth. She should be choreographer. This isn’t the fucking Sarah Show, darling.”

  And so the spat continued. There was lots of finger-wagging and nostril flaring and fists thumping desks, all three shouting over one another, insults flying, while the rest of us exchanged bemused glances. It was like being on the live set of a soap opera.

  The matter was resolved … eventually. Ruth was the one to surrender. “Look, Sarah,” she said, “we’ve only got a week to pull this number together. Why don’t we both make up the dances – combine our talents?”

  You could see the cogs turning in Sarah’s prissy head. “I suppose we could do that,” she said reluctantly.

  Group 309 was back in business, and for a while there was harmony in our camp. Sarah and Ruth were doing a sterling job as co-choreographers and our show was shaping up beautifully. All was well until day three, when Sarah tried to create a solo spot for herself during a run-through of “Disco Inferno”, which sparked yet another screaming match.

  But despite the cat-fights, we were comrades – and we’d been trained to deal with far worse situations than this.

  Flashbacks of our rehearsal rows whizzed round in my head as I danced on the mock stage at Virgin’s head office. I could see Sarah at the front of the stage, wiggling her pert little bum and throwing some sexy new moves into our routine. I giggled to myself. It’s always going to be the Sarah Show, I thought.

  We made it through “Tragedy” without tragedy and, after another swift dose of fizzy wine backstage, my nerves all but vanished. As we performed our second number – “Night Fever” – I felt as though I was born to sing and dance. There I was, treading the boards, strutting up and down the stage like Bonnie bloody Langford, making love to the music with my angelic tones (although looking back at the video footage I realise I’d probably just had one too many Astis).

  As my eyes adjusted to the blazing lights, I scanned the audience. The first person I noticed was Richard Branson, standing at the front of the crowd and cutting an avuncular figure in a navy jersey and pleated-front grey trousers. He looked as though he was having a whale of a time: clapping and grinning broadly through his trademark sandy beard, flashing his big pearly whites. He was flanked by a camera crew from an Australian news network who had jetted in to film our Wings Ceremony – another PR opportunity for Richard ahead of the glittering launch of his new service Down Under, Virgin Blue.

  The music played on and Richard and his cameramen disappeared into a blur as I turned and marched in unison with my red-suited co-stars, Sarah’s instructions playing in my head: “March, two three four, knee dip, finger click, knee dip, finger click … faces to the audience, big smiles – tits and teeth, girls, tits and teeth.” And that’s when I spotted the people I’d been longing to see all night: Mum and Dad, their two proud faces beaming back at me, Dad craning his head above an extraordinarily big-haired woman, Mum dabbing her eyes with a tissue. She was sitting between Dad and an extremely handsome young man I was sure I’d seen somewhere before. Wow, I thought, he’s a bit of alright. Then, at a second glance through the searing lights, I realised I did know him … it was Jonathan, my boyfriend.

  I nearly messed up my knee dip, finger click routine. Jonathan wasn’t supposed to be here – he’d told me he had “work commitments”. I hadn’t seen him since I’d started my Ab Initio course. What a lovely surprise. He look
ed so gorgeous, like a model from a Gillette advert: clean-shaven, chiselled, fresh-out-of-the-shower and manly. He gave me a little wave and mouthed, “I love you” – at least I think that’s what he said. Then “Night Fever” slipped into “Ring My Bell”.

  How I made it through our finale of “Disco Inferno”, I’ll never know. Aside from trying to focus on counting, turning, clapping and shimmying – and remembering the new lyrics – my mind was also racing with saucy thoughts about Jonathan. Six weeks without sex. Six weeks and two days, to be accurate. Six weeks and two days of teasing phone calls. No wonder I felt so horny. “You won’t be able to walk once I’ve finished with you,” Jonathan had told me during our last conversation. “I’m gonna make up for lost time.” Let’s hope he keeps that promise, I thought, as I belted out “fly Virgin fly” for the final time.

  The music faded and the audience rose to its feet, cheering, clapping and whistling. On stage we linked hands and bowed, dipping our immaculately coiffed heads to the wild applause. It was one of the proudest moments of my life – I was brimming with emotion. Group 309 had gone down a storm; we’d pulled it off without any tiffs or traumas. It was teamwork at its best, and we celebrated our efforts with a big group hug. Even Sarah and Ruth embraced, their differences now a distant memory.

  The grand moment was upon us. We were about to receive our prized wings. But first it was time for a quick catch-up with our adoring audience.

  Mum hugged me so tight I could feel my ribs cracking. “Oh, Mandy. Mandy, Mandy, Mandy. I’m so proud of you, baby,” she choked, tears spilling from her velvety-brown eyes. “So, so proud. Ever so proud.” Mum released her grip, tilted her head to one side and nudged Dad. “Look at our little girl, James. Hasn’t she done us proud?”

  Even with her tear-stained face Mum looked the epitome of elegance. She was in her late forties then, but could easily have passed for a woman in her mid thirties. Tall, slender and blessed with perfect bone structure and dazzling smile, she was by far the best looking mum in the room.