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

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 andglamorous. 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