Barnaby raised his eyebrows. ‘It’s nice to hear them laughing, considering the pressures they’re under. Jo and I were just discussing ways to overcome the proposed takeover. We’ve come up with one or two quite bright, albeit drunken, ideas, haven’t we, Jo?’
Jonah nodded, making patterns with his dal. ‘Yeah, especially now that the Slingsby’s airborne. Or at least, will be as soon as this bloody snow melts. We’re going to emulate Waldo Pepper –’ He looked at the noncomprehension on Miranda’s face and grinned. ‘Waldo Pepper was a stunt flyer in the 1930s and had a Stearman – in fact he was probably the world’s greatest ever barnstormer. Anyway, that led to Barnaby saying that we really should he getting the Slingsby up and running – because of course he’s ace at aerobatics and that’s what the Slingsbv’s built for.’
Miranda smiled sadly. He was totally gorgeous. And completely unaware of it. And Billie, who was now obviously slightly squiffy and smiling at Barnaby, didn’t seem to have noticed. And all this stunning talent was being channelled into insider talk about some stupid air display thing. Who would want to pay money just to watch a load of old planes?
They should have the sort of business brain that Reuben had. Buying into something that promised an instant return. He had the taxis, and now Caught Offside, and was talking about diversifying even further. And much to Miranda’s surprise, on the first night she’d spent with him she’d discovered that Reuben lived in his tiny bedsit simply because it was the smallest in a rather grand four-storey house that was turned into seven similar apartments. Reuben didn’t rent his accommodation, he owned the whole building and made a tidy income from it. It was something, that for some reason, she hadn’t told Billie.
Barnaby was talking now, obviously fired by the same ancient flying machine enthusiasm. ‘Jo’s got an appointment with the Whiteacres people tomorrow. He’s going to propose that they let us put on some sort of show before they accept the takeover bid.’
‘Great,’ Miranda said vaguely, who’d heard it all before. ‘That sounds lovely. But why don’t you just raise the money and buy the airfield yourselves?’
‘We can’t afford it.’ Jonah refilled her glass. ‘And this way everyone has a lot of fun too. We’re not aiming to raise enough cash to purchase the airfield from the show – however inebriated we are, we know we’d never make enough –’
Barnaby cut in. ‘The idea is to make the show so good that it puts Whiteacres on the aviation display map. We want the hierarchy to see that they must keep it as an annual event – and to do that then they have to keep us.’
‘We’re going to call in the boys from the Aeroclub and get them on our side.’ Jonah spooned up helpings from several dishes and piled them on his plate. ‘Then we’ll suggest to the Whiteacres Aviation Incs that we have the show in June – and, as Barnaby says, if it’s a success we can become an official annual display on the air-show circuit – and be both self-supporting and prestigious – and keep Whiteacres running as it is now.’
Miranda shook her head. She’d been involved in business for long enough to know that instant money on the table was worth more to a seller than any amount of ‘fun’. ‘But if they want a whole wodge of money, surely they’ll turn you down out of hand, won’t they?’
‘Don’t know,’ Jonah shrugged. ‘That’s what I intend to find out in the morning.’
Billie was topping up the glasses again and talking about her lease. Barnaby had returned to concentrating on making inroads into his tandoori murgh. Miranda shovelled up another mouthful of prawns and was suddenly aware how much outside this she was. Whiteacres involved the other three; it meant absolutely nothing to her. She was suddenly assailed by a huge wave of loneliness.
Oh God, she thought, staring down at her plate. I miss Reuben. I actually want to be with him. Oh, bugger – surely I’m not in love, am I . . . ?
Miranda, my dear,’ Barnaby sliced through her revelations, ‘about my previous suggestion. I wonder if we might have dinner together some time? Just the two of us? What do you say?’
Chapter Twenty-six
Estelle rolled away from him, burying her face in the pillow. Her voice was muffled but the accusation was loud and clear. ‘And where was your mind that time, huh? Were you just bringing the Shorts into land at Manila? Or was it a triple loop with somersault and pike in the Stearman?’ She snatched the pillow away and hurled it to the floor, sitting up, indignant in her nakedness, and glared at him. ‘Or maybe it was something that really excites you – like an inverted roll in the Slingsby?’
She slid from the bed, pushing the cascade of hair away from her face so that it immediately tumbled in a silvery waterfall across her bare shoulders. ‘Wherever your mind was, it wasn’t with me, was it?’
Jonah propped himself up on his elbow. What was the point in denying it? Estelle was far too astute to be fobbed off. And saying sorry wasn’t an option either. She deserved more, and Jonah couldn’t give it. Not now, anyway. Maybe not ever.
He watched her as she walked to the window. The ubiquitous net curtains possibly prevented the occupants of the neighbouring flats getting the full-blown view of her stunning naked body, but he wouldn’t bank on it. And he knew she didn’t care. She was like some exotic lily in the dross of this functional bedroom, with its magnolia walls, faded curtains, and appalling padded pink velour bed-head.
‘I was thinking about the meeting . . .’
‘Christ, Jonah!’ Estelle swirled round. ‘I don’t want to know that! I may not be naive enough to think that what we’ve got is love, but surely there should be at least a modicum of interest? I really don’t need to go through the motions – but sometimes it’d be nice if you just remembered to tack an “e” on the front!’
And yanking his towelling robe from the bottom of the bed, she stormed off towards the bathroom.
Jonah groaned and levered himself from under the duvet. It was the first time for ages that Estelle had spent the night at his flat. She’d been busy – too busy to sleep with him, she’d said – ever since her New Year return from Austria. And, to be honest, ever since that day when they’d launched the Stearman and he’d taken Billie up in preference to Estelle or Claire, she’d changed towards him. He stared at the relentless cold whiteness pervading the room through the thin curtains. How long ago it all seemed now: that glorious autumn day when he and Barnaby had soared into the warm October sky without a care in the world.
He rolled over, burying his face in the pillow, remembering. And then, last night, when the taxi had dropped him off from the Dil Raj, he’d unsteadily unlocked the door and Estelle had been sitting on the hard-edged sofa waiting for him. Having wrinkled her nose at the smell of the spices and not even bothering to ask where he’d been or who with, she’d insisted he’d had a shower – which she’d shared – and then they’d gone to bed, and things seemed to be back to normal.
Now, in the last twenty minutes, he’d destroyed the relationship’s fragility again. He exhaled. It was ironic that this time at least, it hadn’t been thoughts of Claire that had interrupted the coitus.
In fact, since the day of the Stearman flight three months ago he’d been able to think of Claire with hardly any lustful stirrings at all. She’d behaved so abominably that afternoon, literally stamping her feet and having a tantrum because Jonah hadn’t taken her up, that he’d fleetingly thought he was well rid of her. He’d known that she was high, of course; he’d made allowances for that. He always had. But even so, her display of ill temper, added to Antony’s bloody gung-ho patronising attitude towards the Stearman’s performance – especially as Jonah had been feeling on top of the world – had made him want to punch someone.
Unfortunately, because Estelle hadn’t behaved that much better about not being included in the maiden flight, he’d taken it all out on her. Not physically, naturally, but with a flash of verbal temper which had shocked and dismayed him. He’d stormed back into Billie’s shed, slamming the doors, and cursed Claire, Antony and Estelle to
hell for ruining the greatest achievement of his life. It was all the more galling because he’d been so maniacally happy only seconds before.
And now, after months and weeks of apologising to Estelle for being human, he’d blown it – again.
As he had no desire to share Estelle’s shower this morning in case she garrotted him with the soap-on-a-rope, he decided that dressing quickly and sloping into the kitchen for solitary coffee and toast might be a good idea. He had to be at Whiteacres in an hour. The Aviation Incs had agreed to see him before they commenced their daily business. Half an hour with them to try to salvage his future, and then he, Vinny, Pam and the Shorts would be winging off to Bristol, weather permitting, with a party of quantity surveyors.
He got as far as boxer shorts, socks and his uniform trousers, and padded into the kitchen to switch on the kettle. ‘Shit!’
All his white Sullivanair shirts were still in a damply crumpled ball inside the washing machine. He should have remembered to have rescued at least one and ironed it when he got home last night, but he had been so pleased that Estelle was there – for once it had felt wonderful to not be alone in the utilitarian beigeness – that the domesticity’ had completely slipped his mind.
There was no possibility on earth that Estelle might have salvaged a shirt and ironed it while waiting for him to come home. Even if Estelle was the sort of person who believed that ironing was a woman’s right, she lived in clothes so tight that any creases warmed themselves out on her body during wear. He very much doubted if Estelle had ever plugged in an iron in her life.
Irritably, he shook out the knot of shirts. Trickles of cold water sprayed over his feet. With a burst of wart-shrivelling curses, Jonah slammed them back inside the machine and kicked the door shut. Jesus! The only shirt that was ironed and half decent was the denim one he’d worn to the Dil Raj last night. Even if he hadn’t spilled anything on it, it probably reeked of curry. He thundered back into the bedroom and snatched it from the end of the bed.
‘What the hell are you doing?’ Estelle dripped into the room, and watched in amazement.
‘Seeing if it smells. It doesn’t.’
‘Well, whoopee-doo.’ She tugged the towel from her hair. ‘You’re surely not going to wear that to plight your troth to the old farts, are you?’
‘Do I have a choice?’
‘No, I suppose you don’t.’ Estelle screwed the slithering mass of blonde hair on top of her head. ‘And at least it’s blue. They’re probably so ancient and decrepit that they won’t be able to see that it’s not Turnbull and Asser.’ Jonah knotted his RAF tie and grabbed his uniform jacket. There was no time for coffee or toast now. He picked up his cap. ‘Estelle, I’m sorry . . .’
‘Yeah, sure you are.’ She didn’t turn from the dressing table. Didn’t pause in massaging cream into her throat. ‘So am I, Jonah. So am I.’
He paused in the doorway. ‘I’ll let you know the outcome, shall I?’
‘Whatever. I just think you and Barnaby are being ridiculous. Why the hell would the old farts want the hassle of an air display when your beloved ex and her rampant aviator are simply panting to hand over millions?’
Jonah shrugged. He really didn’t know. In the cold and sober light of day, he was beginning to doubt the wisdom of the whole idea. Estelle was probably right. Was it sheer bloody-mindedness that made him want to fight? If the takeover had been mooted by complete strangers, would he still feel this sense of outrage? It annoyed him to find that he couldn’t honestly answer his own question.
And even supposing sodding Aerobatic Archie bought the airfield, what would it really matter? He could move Sullivanair somewhere else and start again, couldn’t he? He didn’t want to, but he could do it, couldn’t he?
Yes, he could. But what about Billie? And Sylvia? And the hippies and the film-makers and even the morose old boys with their replacement windows? What the hell would happen to them? It simply wasn’t fair that someone as rich and egocentric as Antony Archibald should be allowed to destroy the small but all-important aspirations of people he didn’t even know existed.
Belatedly, Jonah wondered whether he should kiss Estelle goodbye and decided against it. He made do with a sort of wave-cum-salute which she ignored. Jonah closed the bedroom door, swamped by a feeling of impending doom.
The Whiteacres Aviation Incs, all five of them, had listened to him for twenty minutes. They’d skim-read the proposals he and Barnaby had put together. They sat, blazered and immaculately trousered, and looked down their haughty noses at him, his suggestions, and his rather rumpled denim shirt.
‘Fascinating,’ the oldest Inc said, his tone implying that it was anything but. ‘Leave it with us, Flight Lieutenant Sullivan, and we’ll be in touch.’
Jonah stood up. He hated people using his obsolete title. He also felt it wasn’t the time to say so. ‘Thank you for seeing me, gentlemen, and for hearing me out. If there are any questions arising from our discussions, my telephone numbers are on the proposals, and of course the Sullivanair office is always manned.’
They nodded at him dismissively.
He walked towards the door. ‘Can I tell my – er – colleagues, that you won’t go any further in accepting the takeover offer until you’ve considered our suggestions?’
The youngest Inc, who had looked reasonably interested throughout, nodded. ‘You can. And if you’re intending to put on your little display in June then I can’t see there being a major problem, actually. There’ll be no difficulty with air space, we can see to that with ATC. Also, as we weren’t looking to sell until September and –’
‘Malcolm!’ the oldest Inc roared. ‘That’s quite enough. Flight Lieutenant Sullivan has all the information we are able to give at this moment in time. That will be all, Flight Lieutenant. I can assure you that we will discuss your proposition thoroughly and that we will be in touch. In the meantime I bid you good day.’
Jonah escaped from the fuggy claustrophobia of the office and punched the ice-cold air. Yes! That was what he wanted to know. They’d give clearance for the show whatever happened – because it would mean additional income even if they then decided to sell out to Aerobatic Archie in September.
His brain was racing as he skidded across the wet tarmac in the biting wind. He was sure now that they’d sanction the show; they’d be foolish not to. All he needed was a stunning list of participants, and publicity, and . . . his head reeled. First things first. He’d got the Stearman and the Slingsby; Barnaby was going home to Derbyshire next week to sell shares in three of his horses and was going to put the money into buying something else; Vinny – if pushed – could give pleasure flights in the Shorts; and the boys from the Aeroclub could put their Pipers and Cessnas to good use by offering trial flights, and staging mini fly-pasts and . . .
He galloped up the steps to the Sullivanair office. Estelle still wasn’t in. He grabbed a handful of Post-it notes and proceeded to obliterate the computer screen.
‘The old farts were a pushover! Should be OK. We’ll go ahead the second weekend in June! Less than five months! It’ll take some organising!’
‘If Claire or Aerobatic Archie ring, tell them I’m dead.’
‘If Barnaby rings or comes in to the office tell him to meet me at the Stearman after four o’clock.’
He hesitated, then added a final note.
‘I truly am sorry. I’m a git and you’re a star. Why don’t you find yourself a man who deserves you? Especially one without destructive tendencies? In the meantime, please put up with me and forgive me for my crassness.’ He looked at it. He could have added, ‘Love Jonah.’ But he didn’t love Estelle any more than she did him. He just felt guilty about being so bloody cavalier.
He stuck the note on the middle of her diary. God – February next week. The year was racing away. He looked at Estelle’s neat and methodical entries for the coming week. It was, as Vinny had always warned, a foolish thing to have done to have started sleeping with her. She was not only ace at
keeping Sullivanair ticking over behind the scenes, but also had a double first in avionics and electrical engineering. If she left him she’d leave the company and replacing her would be impossible.
It was only when he was watching Kev, the ground handler, supervising the hauling of the Shorts from its hangar, that it occurred to him that he’d miss Estelle in his business far more than he’d ever miss her in his bed.
The flight to Bristol and back was uneventful. The snow had stopped falling overnight and brilliant sunshine had begun to melt away the worst of the yellowing pockmarked piles heaped on either side of the runway. Vinny and Pam had been very rude about Jonah’s shirt and slightly sceptical about the enlargement of the proposed show’. Neither of them seemed to share his optimism that Whiteacres Aviation Inc. would definitely give him the go-ahead, and even if they did, whether an air pageant would actually interest anyone.
‘That’s only because planes are old hat to you two,’ Jonah had said as they stared at him in the Shorts’ sunlit cockpit while they cruised through pellucid blue sky three thousand feet over the M5. ‘Look at the way they pull in hundreds of thousands of people each year at Fairford and Farnborough.’
‘Jesus!’ Vinny had grinned. ‘Talk about delusions of grandeur. Going to fork out for the Red Arrows? The World War Two Memorial Flight? A fleet of Tornadoes and Harriers? Oh – and we mustn’t forget the Concorde fly-past, must we? Hell, that’ll make a bit of a hole in the Sullivan coffers!’
‘Vinny’s right.’ Pam had clung on to the back of Jonah’s seat as they’d banked suddenly. ‘What you’re intending to do is very small beer.’
‘I know.’ Jonah had concentrated on the altimeter. ‘That’s what I want. Something to make Whiteacres different. I want to involve local people and make it something that they can relate to. I want this pageant to be the aeronautical equivalent of the village fete.’
‘Dear God . . .’ Pam had shaken her head and returned to the cabin to dole out a double ration of the stale peanuts to the quantity surveyors.
Walking on Air Page 28
