Jonah shrugged. ‘I can’t, can I? But now you’ve told me this much, the only advice I can give you is keep an eye on him and get in writing any changes he wants to make to your conditions of tenancy – anything. And we’ll all keep tabs on him too. As tenants, you’ll have rights, and if he steps out of line we can be down on him with the full clout of the law. Don’t worry unduly. We’ll tackle any problems as they arise, all right?’
Billie nodded, savouring Jonah’s ‘we’. It gave her a slight feeling of solidarity.
‘Great. Now smile. You’ve been absolutely amazing this morning, helping me with the rig and everything when I know you hated every minute of it. Don’t let Mr Wainwright spoil things.’
‘He always does, though.’ She slid from the lavatory seat. ‘He’s scary. And I didn’t hate the testing – you know I didn’t. It was a blast, actually.’
Jonah’s eyes rested on her speculatively. Then he smiled. Good. Now – do you think you could put Reuben out of your mind long enough to manage just a mouthful or two of Sylvia’s roast – before we have to endure Zia’s lefter-than-left-wing comrades-in-arms speech?’
Billie shook her head. Her stomach rumbled again in dismay. She clutched at it, blushing. ‘Oh, well, maybe just a little bit, then . . .’
She ate it all, and seconds. It wasn’t until everyone had finished plate-scraping, and she, prompted by Jonah, had given them the sanitised version of events about Reuben, and the warehousers had got quite perky and agreed that as he was a local businessman with several strings to his how that he’d probably be an ideal landlord, and the whole mood had lifted considerably, and Sylvia had clapped her hands and said, ‘Reuben Wainwright? Lovely name! Very theatrical! And so handsome!’ that they got down to some serious business.
They lounged on deckchairs as Zia took the floor and droned on and on about brotherhood and union and fellowship and alliance and combating the oppressors, until Mike from Guspers mercifully interrupted the flow and said that as they were no longer fighting for their survival in the units, that everyone should join forces with Sullivanair to make the air pageant an incredible success and, with luck, save Whiteacres from the Claire and Antony takeover.
They all looked at Jonah. Jonah looked delighted, and then raised his eyebrows at Billie.
‘Of course we will,’ she said without hesitation, although inside she still felt stricken. ‘We’ll do whatever we can. But I don’t see . . .’
Everyone else, though, it seemed, saw very clearly indeed. While Jonah and his flying aces would organise the display in the skies, the warehousers would see to things on the ground. They’d all pool their various resources for advertising. Stalls and food and exhibitions and all manner of excitements were put forward.
‘A treasure hunt!’ Sylvia said. ‘In here! It’ll be like a castaway’s island! They’ll have to buy maps at the door and follow really complicated clues.’
‘And a fortune teller.’ Zia tugged at his straggly beard. ‘Isla’s a wow with the tarot . . .’
Mike said that Guspers could make instant films: a minute long – people could dress up in Zi-Zi’s costumes and act out their fantasies and have a memento to take home at the end of it.
Everyone looked at Billie. Along with Fred ’n’ Dick, she felt that her warehouse had very little to offer. Then she thought about Reuben and how much she hated him – and how Jonah felt exactly the same about Aerobatic Archie – and how kind Jonah had just been to her, and how, if Sullivanair survived at Whiteacres, then she’d retain him as a customer as well as a friend, even if he was reattached to Claire . . .
What was it Stan had always said to her when she was a child? That there was nothing to be proud of in offering what came easily, because that was a cheap gift? That the truly benevolent gave what they could least afford? That the truly kind-hearted donated their lives for the good of others? Christ – she wasn’t going that far, although if she did what she thought she was going to do, it may come very close . . .
She took a deep breath and wiped her damp palms on her jeans, Um – well . . .’ Her voice was squeaky and she swallowed and tried again. ‘Er – that is – I don’t think my unit has an awful lot to offer, but if it’s OK with everyone, and Jonah hasn’t got anyone else in mind, then I’d – um – like to volunteer my services as a proper wingwalker.’
Chapter Thirty
Two weeks after Billie’s suggestion, Jonah was still shocked. Whatever else he’d expected Billie to offer to do for the show, it certainly hadn’t been that. And, more specifically, not so soon after she’d been upset by the revelations of that Reuben Wainwright guy.
Given all that stuff with Reuben, and Billie’s obvious terror of flying, he felt nothing but admiration for her. Wingwalking was definitely not for the faint-hearted, but for someone with her fear it was bravery bordering on insanity. He’d experienced a feeling of fleeting satisfaction in knowing that what he’d said to Vinny about Billie had been true. He’d always been sure that when the Stearman did its first barnstorming display, it would be Billie strapped above him.
God – but for her to ride the Stearman would be like him offering to stand in a pit full of house spiders to save someone else’s skin. He shuddered involuntarily at the thought. Like most arachnophobes, the mere three-inch span of those awful, bouncing, scuttling, scaly, brown things which invaded the house every September and lurked to catch you unawares was enough to make his hair stand on end, his mouth go dry, his heart thunder . . .
He guessed that Billie’s fear was the same. Simply terror on a different level. Mind you, he’d always found it didn’t do to delve too deeply into the female psyche. If deciding to strap herself to the top of the Stearman was a catharsis for Billie’s other problems, who was he to argue? He was just immensely grateful to her. And wildly proud. And, embarrassingly, totally amazed that she so obviously trusted him. It was a very long time since anyone had shown such faith.
He stared at the burbling television screen, seeing nothing, hearing less. Stretching, he zapped the TV into silence. This was, he reckoned, quite crazy. Nearly midnight and he was here, in the beige living room, watching crap and being introspective when Estelle was showered and scented and totally naked in his bed.
Again, almost hearing Vinny’s hoot of incredulous laughter, Jonah lolled back on the couch’s cushion, which, like everything else in this skimpy flat, was spare and hard and irritated more them comforted.
Tomorrow he’d be flying the Shorts to Dublin, which was quite a coup because it was a trip for a clutch of businessmen whom he’d been wooing for ages, and they could put a lot of regular charters his way. And then he had to telephone the ex-RAF mate in Glasgow who, he’d heard on the grapevine, might have dug out the whereabouts of a cheap Shorts and a Skyvan for him. And then he was meeting up with Billie in the shed to see how her practising had been going.
She’d left him a note to say she’d spent at least an hour every day in the stationary Stearman, practising undoing the harness, climbing onto the wing, fastening herself into the rig, and getting the feel of things generally. The ground-level rehearsals had apparently gone well. He couldn’t wait to see the reality – and maybe talk to her about Reuben.
He still wasn’t sure about Reuben’s role in her life: surely if he wasn’t involved with Billie in some wav either past or present, he wouldn’t have had such a profound effect on her. And if, as she said, he wasn’t involved as such, but had some sort of hold over her, what the hell was it?
Jonah desperately hoped that it wasn’t drugs. Recreational, or no, they’d been no fun for him when Claire had got hooked – and no fun for her when she was on her downers. He was pretty sure it wasn’t anything along those lines, though. Billie seemed to have so much natural fizz that artificial stimulation would be somewhat gratuitous, wouldn’t it? Anyway, he’d kept reassuring himself, even if it had been drugs at some time in the past, it certainly wasn’t now. Billie showed none of the signs of addiction that he’d recognised so clearly
and painfully in Claire.
So, maybe it was money? Maybe Billie still owed Reuben money on an unpaid loan – or perhaps she’d helped herself to the petty cash in a desperate moment when she’d been a taxi-driver? Or maybe she knew something sinister about Reuben and he was determined that it stayed between the two of them?
Whatever it was, she hadn’t wanted to share it, had she? Jonah sighed. He would have liked to have been able to help her – but how could he when she clearly didn’t want him to know? When they’d been in Sylv’s bathroom he’d really wanted to cuddle Billie, she’d looked so frail and defenceless and almost defeated – even though he knew damn well she wasn’t.
Instinctively he’d moved to put his arms round her and tell her there was nothing that would shock him, and if she wanted to talk, he’d be more than happy to listen. But, of course, he hadn’t, and he was really afraid that all he’d done was end up spouting platitudes and sounding like some holier-than-thou Victorian paterfamilias.
He sighed again, knowing he should go to bed, and not wanting to. Unable to pour himself a drink because of flying, he used his normal delaying tactics and let his mind trawl through the other happenings of the past two weeks instead.
Barnaby was back from Derbyshire with wads of money from calling in debts and flogging horse shares and a couple of inherited paintings, and had spent the last week testing the Slingsby to its aerobatic limits, and wining and dining Miranda at the Dil Raj. This last bit Jonah thought was strange considering she was supposed to be attached to the odious Reuben, but Barnaby had said she’d told him that she was seeing someone, it was all cards on the table, and he and Miranda merely enjoyed each other’s company.
Jonah, knowing Barnaby well, didn’t believe a word of it. He knew that Barnaby was smitten by the zany Miranda; knew that her mournful beauty – so at odds with the pink hair and the frank speech – had knocked him for six. Jonah had a feeling it was all going to end in tears – and that they wouldn’t be Miranda’s.
Possibly the best recent news of all – after Billie’s heroics, of course – had been that the Whiteacres Aviation Incs had given the pageant the go-ahead for the second Sunday in June, and were busily arranging air space and flying slots and being generally bureaucratic. Claire, who had rejoined Antony Archibald on his tour and was currently in the States, hadn’t been in touch with Jonah at all, so obviously she didn’t know – yet.
Jonah stared at the blank television screen again and groaned. He had to stop thinking about Claire. He’d felt such a bastard when he’d scared her so badly, when all he’d been intending to do was to put her off having anything to do with him, the Stearman, wingwalking, and especially Whiteacres. It had all backfired so badly. He’d rushed her home to the flat, fed her brandy, run her a bath – and made love to her for hours.
It hadn’t helped either of them. Claire had been stoned throughout so he could have been anybody, and he’d felt bloody stupidly guilty because of Antony. They’d dressed in silence and he’d driven her to Heathrow to fly out to join Antony’s team, and he’d then gone to Southampton and hopped on the catamaran to the Isle of Wight and the no-questions sanity of his parents.
Still, he thought, stretching, he really should stop crucifying himself. It was all going to be all right. The warehousers had been frantically busy getting all their plans organised and – He stopped. And now he really should go to bed and he still didn’t want to sleep with Estelle . . .
Not being into self-analysis, he wasn’t really sure why.
For some reason she’d been furious about Billie volunteering for the wingwalking thing, and they’d had several pretty heated rows, but it wasn’t that. He enjoyed arguments. When he’d been married to Claire, her tempers had spilled over into red-hot passion and they’d enjoyed incredible sex afterwards. No! He punched the rock-hard cushion. Stop thinking about bloody Claire! It’s over. You both know it’s over . . .
Jonah was dogged by the nagging feeling that if Estelle had ever said that she loved him, or if he felt any sort of reciprocal deep emotion for her, then making love would be a natural culmination of their fairly casual relationship. He was pretty sure that after loving Claire so deeply, he’d probably never be able to perform adequately again . . . Christ – was this it? The end of his sex life for ever? Simply because he was more hooked on planes than women? Because he always wanted what he couldn’t have – and when he’d got it, it wasn’t what he’d thought it would be?
Whatever it was, he really couldn’t put bed off any longer or he’d be falling asleep over the Irish Sea. He switched off the lights and walked into the bedroom. Estelle was asleep. He felt guilty at the relief. He watched her as he undressed, so beautiful even with the blonde hair tousled and the make-up carefully creamed off. Claire had never removed her make-up before going to bed. There’d never been time . . .
He slid in beside Estelle, knowing that he’d let her down again, and that she must have fallen asleep waiting for him, far too proud to pad out to the living room and remind him of her presence. In the morning there would definitely be recriminations and she’d take her revenge by letting people know once more that he was no great shakes in the bedroom. And then, which was probably worse, she’d perform a few minor acts of sabotage in the Sullivanair office, and letters would be filed before they were answered or phone calls would be cut off, and he’d feel like a total shit because it was all his fault.
He switched off the bedside lamp, hitting the side of his face on the padded headboard and cursing silently. As he tentatively reached for her, Estelle turned in her sleep and nestled in his arms. Jonah swallowed and held her and felt no love, no arousal; the only emotions he felt were sorrow and regret because those vital things were missing.
Sodding nice one,’ Vinny said as they made the afternoon return trip from Dublin. ‘Bloody diverted to bloody Southampton. Now we’ll have to sit there for ages until we can get a slot back to Whiteacres. What the hell’s going on?’
Jonah flipped off his headset. ‘Air-traffic control say they’ve got a BAC One-Eleven making an emergency landing at Whiteacres and taking our slot there. It’s no major disaster, just low fuel or something. We’ve got the option of circling till it’s sorted, or going straight into Southampton.’
‘I’ll go and put it to the passengers.’ Pam straightened her cap. ‘I’ll tell them landing at Southampton will be quicker. A few more free drinks, the last of the peanuts, and the offer of a couple of taxis up the A 34 to Whiteacres at Sullivanair’s expense should do it.’
Jonah checked the dials in front of him and nodded. He hoped so. The outward journey had been a dream; the businessmen had been delighted and said they’d definitely fly with him again. He didn’t want to foul-up now.
‘But we’ll be bloody late getting back and I’ve got a steaming date,’ Vinny groaned, resting his head back in the copilot’s chair. ‘And it looks like being a really warm evening too. I thought I’d take her out into the country . . . You know – find a nice little pub by the river, and then . . .’
Jonah stopped listening. Vinny’s delayed date was just slightly less important than him not being able to meet up with Billie for the Stearman run-through. He’d ring her from Southampton as soon as they’d touched down and he’d sorted out his passengers. He’d have to ring Estelle too. He’d promised her a drink to make up for the previous night’s débâcle.
He tuned into Southampton’s radio frequency, confirming that they’d be landing there in approximately ten minutes. The cheerful voice OKed and received, ’and reviewed air pressure and wind speed.
‘Twelve S.O.B., Southampton, including crew,’ Jonah said into his mike. ‘Golf Hotel Charlie Foxtrot – heading received. Turning onto heading now . . .’
The rest was routine. Veering onto his allotted glide path, with Vinny calling out the speed and the height as both dwindled, Jonah reduced the engine power, set the flaps and began to nose-down for landing. He lifted his eyes momentarily from the control panel. Vinny was
right: it was going to be a beautiful evening. Through the windscreen the sun was glinting off the sea, then the sea disappeared and the sun followed their course and melted across the mud flats like molten toffee.
Jonah banked sharply. They were over the oil refinery at Fawley now, and turning on to follow the estuary. Five more minutes and they’d be in Southampton. Twenty minutes and he’d be able to ring Billie and talk about the Stearman.
Pam popped her head into the cabin. ‘The bods back there are fine and dandy about the diversion. No probs. Chuffed to bits to be getting a taxi. They’ve asked for brochures for further flights.’
Jonah stuck up his thumb as she disappeared to strap herself in for landing. The suburbs of Southampton rushed up to meet them like welcoming dogs, and with the skill of years of practice, Jonah guided the Shorts’ ten thousand kilos towards the runway.
It was half an hour before Jonah could get to a phone. First, he rang his ex-RAF contact in Glasgow and arranged to meet when he next flew up there, to view the Shorts and the Skyvan. Then he rang Estelle. Her mobile was switched off and the office answerphone was on. Sodding hell. She’d probably left – not just the office, but the company.
He tried Billie’s mobile next. She’d had a landline connected, but he thought she was probably in the Stearman going through her routine. He could see her, with her hair dishevelled and the tip of her tongue protruding from the corner of her mouth as she concentrated. No answer. So he punched out Billie’s warehouse number. Two rings and the answerphone kicked in.
‘Pascoe’s Warehousing. Thank you for ringing me – please don’t think I’m not here and you can come over and burgle the place – I just can’t get to the phone . . . Oh, and I’m not going to put you on hold or play “Greensleeves” or Vivaldi, so don’t hang up. Please leave your name and number and a short message and I’ll ring you as soon as – ooops – run out of answer tape time – Bye!’
Walking on Air Page 32
