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

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. “Ithought 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