Cabin Fever: The sizzling secrets of a Virgin air hostess… (3 page)

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 like 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.

It was the most agonising, drawn-out two weeks of my life. Every morning when I heard the post arrive, I’d go charging down the stairs like a maniac, hoping to find the letter that would change my life. When it did eventually arrive I had to pinch myself when I read it, as it seemed so surreal: I’d been accepted. I was going to be a Virgin Atlantic air hostess. The letter I was holding in my trembling hand was my passport out of Horsham, a chance to escape from the dreary nine to five – and most importantly, I’d finally be away from Neil. He had still been skulking around at work, unable to accept that I was now with Jonathan. The police inquiry was no further advanced but, somehow, I wasn’t too bothered anymore. My revenge was my happiness, my success, and whatever misery had come before was now securely filed away in a far recess of my mind.

It was a double celebration, since my good news coincided with Jonathan passing his cabin crew course – and his subsequent Wings Ceremony at Richard Branson’s annual summer party. A weekend of sun, sex, alcohol and generally having the time of our lives was most definitely on the cards.

I’d met Richard Branson a few times in the past on his occasional visits to the engineering department. He was a good boss: fun, personable, fair and renowned for treating his staff well. His generosity knew no bounds; his summer party was, by far, the most lavish do I’ve ever been to. Held at his then home in the quaint Oxfordshire village of Kidlington, it was like entering a magic kingdom. No expense was spared, with activities such as quad biking, hot air ballooning, go karting and riverboating available. They even had an inflatable quasar arena. There were live bands on a huge centre stage and all the food and drink you could possibly imagine, from every corner of the globe.

Jonathan’s Wings Ceremony took place outside Richard’s sprawling mansion, on a small stage erected alongside his luxurious swimming pool. Watching Jonathan and his fellow new recruits receive their wings filled me with pride. They all looked so beautiful and polished in their uniforms. It was like being on a movie set. After the ceremony people were stripping off and diving into the pool. Richard was doing his habitual shake-and-spray-the-fancy-champagne-over-everyone routine, the girls pretending to be horrified that the spray had made their shirts see-through. There was a wild yet glamorous vibe among the crowd. Everyone was so sociable and cheery and confident. I was entering a whole new world – a world I knew I was just going to love.

I guzzled champagne and cocktails and numerous vodka Red-bulls. I whizzed around on the quad bikes like a crazy person and whipped Jonathan’s arse at quasar. That night Richard joined us all for a singalong by the campfire. A bevy of gorgeous trolley dollies fawned over him as he attempted to play Oasis riffs on a guitar, consistently stopping and starting as his fingers struggled to find the right chords. It was amusing, in an endearing sense, to see a multi-billionaire business tycoon stumbling his way through
a version of “Wonderwall”. He was still entertaining his guests when Jonathan and I retired to our tent in the early hours, staggering like two drunks in a three-legged race.

Beneath the canvas we ripped off our clothes, limbs causing the tent walls to bulge as we tumbled around. I was in one of those take-me-now moods. Fortunately, so was Jonathan. No foreplay, just straight down to business. Admittedly a two-man tent isn’t the ideal place for rough-and-ready sex, but we seemed to manage just fine, performing all kinds of acrobatics. Heavens knows what it must have looked – and sounded – like from the outside, though. At one point we were going for it with such vigour I thought the tent was going to uproot and collapse. It was one of those drunken romps, the kind that starts out with such enthusiasm and passion, and ends with you both crashing into semi-comas halfway through, because you were far too drunk.

The birds woke me up. It sounded as though they were having a good old gossip. Yes, I decided, I’m still pissed. The metal zip of the sleeping bag nibbled icily at my skin and, Christ almighty, I was really bursting for a wee. I nudged Jonathan. “Wake up,” I urged.

He stirred, blinking awake with a sleepy moan. “Morning, beautiful.”

I giggled, adding to my bladder agony. “Jonathan, I need a wee. I’m absolutely busting for a wee and I’m in a tent. Naked.”

“Just go outside,” he yawned, rolling onto his side.

It didn’t even occur to me to put my clothes on. “Okay,” I said, “come and help me.” I unzipped the tent door and turned around to face Jonathan.

“What do you want me to do?” he said, wriggling free from the sleeping bag.

I crouched by the door. “Just hold my hands and don’t let go.”

So Jonathan held my hands while I stuck my bare bum out the tent door and urinated all over our little campfire. Anybody could have walked by and seen my naked arse sticking out the tent. But when you’ve got to go, you’ve got to go. And besides, I figured a bit of mooning would seem relatively tame to my uninhibited flying colleagues.