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

island of desks planning our show. “Because I’m the one who’s been to stage school – Laine Theatre Arts College … Posh Spice studied there too.”
    Ruth wasn’t happy. After all, she was a qualified dancer – and she’d worked as a Posh Spice lookalike model. She shot her rival a sullen glare, lips twitching into an exaggerated “Posh” pout. The tension in the room was palpable; we all knew a bitch-fight was about to kick off.
    “With all due respect, Sarah,” said Ruth, still pouting, “if anyone’s going to be in charge of choreography here, surely it should be me. You may have done a bit of acting, but I went to dance school. I’m proficient in ballet, tap, jazz, modern, ballroom …”
    “It’s not just ‘a bit of acting’, Ruth,” interrupted Sarah. “I went to a top drama school, studied alongside some of the country’s most talented actors …”
    “Oh, really? Posh Spice isn’t exactly clearing up at the BAFTAs, is she.”
    “Ha, that’s rich coming from the girl who thinks she
is
Posh Spice.”
    Scott butted in. “I agree with Ruth. She should be choreographer. This isn’t the fucking Sarah Show, darling.”
    And so the spat continued. There was lots of finger-wagging and nostril flaring and fists thumping desks, all three shouting over one another, insults flying, while the rest of us exchanged bemused glances. It was like being on the live set of a soap opera.
    The matter was resolved … eventually. Ruth was the one to surrender. “Look, Sarah,” she said, “we’ve only got a week to pull this number together. Why don’t we both make up the dances – combine our talents?”
    You could see the cogs turning in Sarah’s prissy head. “I suppose we could do that,” she said reluctantly.
    Group 309 was back in business, and for a while there was harmony in our camp. Sarah and Ruth were doing a sterling job as co-choreographers and our show was shaping up beautifully. All was well until day three, when Sarah tried to create a solo spot for herself during a run-through of “Disco Inferno”, which sparked yet another screaming match.
    But despite the cat-fights, we were comrades – and we’d been trained to deal with far worse situations than this.
    Flashbacks of our rehearsal rows whizzed round in my head as I danced on the mock stage at Virgin’s head office. I could see Sarah at the front of the stage, wiggling her pert little bum and throwing some sexy new moves into our routine. I giggled to myself.
It’s always going to be the Sarah Show
, I thought.
    We made it through “Tragedy” without tragedy and, after another swift dose of fizzy wine backstage, my nerves all butvanished. As we performed our second number – “Night Fever” – I felt as though I was born to sing and dance. There I was, treading the boards, strutting up and down the stage like Bonnie bloody Langford, making love to the music with my angelic tones (although looking back at the video footage I realise I’d probably just had one too many Astis).
    As my eyes adjusted to the blazing lights, I scanned the audience. The first person I noticed was Richard Branson, standing at the front of the crowd and cutting an avuncular figure in a navy jersey and pleated-front grey trousers. He looked as though he was having a whale of a time: clapping and grinning broadly through his trademark sandy beard, flashing his big pearly whites. He was flanked by a camera crew from an Australian news network who had jetted in to film our Wings Ceremony – another PR opportunity for Richard ahead of the glittering launch of his new service Down Under, Virgin Blue.
    The music played on and Richard and his cameramen disappeared into a blur as I turned and marched in unison with my red-suited co-stars, Sarah’s instructions playing in my head: “March, two three four, knee dip, finger click, knee dip, finger click … faces to the audience, big smiles – tits and teeth, girls, tits and teeth.” And that’s when I