Cabin Fever: The sizzling secrets of a Virgin air hostess… by Mandy Smith Read Free Book Online

the day of our fittings. Before, everything had seemed like such a hard slog, the fear of failureoverwhelming. 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 department 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