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

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. Shewas 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