‘Piss off,’ Jonah said good-naturedly, braking hard and slowing at the end of the runway with cool expertise, before swirling into a gentle turn. ‘That was as smooth as silk. Inch perfect.’
‘Charlie Foxtrot,’ the air-traffic controller interrupted bossily, ‘proceed to taxi way Alpha One. Stand Five for passenger disembarkation. Received?’
‘Golf Hotel Charlie Foxtrot received.’ Jonah taxied the 58 feet of plane into its allocated bay, and proceeded to shut down both engines.
As the throb subsided, Pam popped her head into the cabin. ‘Nicely done, boys. Only two seizures and a panic attack. Forgot ourselves for a moment, did we?’
‘Don’t you start.’ Jonah removed his headset and stretched. I have enough trouble with Boy Wonder here. He’s got nerves of Kleenex. Seriously, the passengers are OK?’
Pam leaned across and kissed his cheek. ‘The passengers are fine, sweetie. They didn’t feel a thing – even if the descent was a tad rapid. You made up for it with a peach of a landing. As always. Some of them actually clapped. I’ll just get ’em unbuckled and unloaded and head for my first vodka and tonic of the evening. What about you?’
‘He’s off to play in his shed,’ Vinny struggled into his jacket. ‘Unlike some of us who are off to play with things that breathe and giggle and don’t make your hands dirty – unless, of course, you get very lucky . . .’
Pam raised her etched eyebrows into her bleached hairline and disappeared to sort out her passengers. Below, Kev was manhandling the chocks into place, untangling the leads of the auxiliary power unit, going through the routine procedures necessary before the Shorts could be towed into its hangar for the night. Outside, the late afternoon was closing in.
Jonah collected his charts together. Slowly. Delaying for as long as possible the moment when the bliss of flying was replaced by the dross of being earthbound. Once back on the ground, the reality started to seep in pretty quickly. He’d like to stay flying for ever. Especially on days like this. Especially tonight.
Pam was going home to her live-in lover, a meal, and a bottle of vodka; Vinny to his latest doe-eyed conquest with probably a takeaway curry at half-time; while he was going home to – what? Jonah sighed heavily. Yeah, Vinny was right: he’d be checking on the Stearman tonight as he did every night – but not immediately. First he had to face Claire.
His ex-wife’s phone calls to the flat that he’d been ignoring, and the more strident ones to the Sullivanair office that Estelle had been fielding, had culminated in a letter. Not a solicitor’s one – they’d been down that road before, during and after the divorce. This was one of Claire’s specials. It should have been written in green ink, or blood, or both, the way the vitriol streamed from the pages. Claire was coming to visit. Claire wanted something. Again.
She knew, the words screamed, what time he’d be home. She’d checked the schedules, so there was no point in him lying. She’d be there, at the flat, half an hour after he’d landed. Half an hour to drive half a mile. She hoped that he’d manage it.
He wished that Barnaby was around this week, but he a returned to Derbyshire to deal with a structural emergency at the stately home and wouldn’t be back until the weekend. If Barnaby had been staying with him, he could have simply told Claire it wasn’t convenient. He had company. Well, hell, he could say that anyway, of course. But it wouldn’t be true. And he’d never lied to Claire. Never.
He also knew that he could easily avoid her by spending the night with Vinny, or Pam, or even locked in the shed with the Stearman, but what was the point? It would only be delaying the inevitable.
Wearily, he picked up the charts and his jacket and cap and stood up. The cockpit smelled warm and safe, and dosed in around him in cosy familiarity. Protecting him. He groaned. For God’s sake, get a grip! She can’t eat you! But she could, and did, still hurt him . . .
Grabbing his flight bag, Jonah followed Vinny into the now-empty plane, checking on the way through that the overhead lockers were cleared, that the seats were back, that everything was in place.
‘You on for a drink, then?’ Vinny asked, jumping down steps ahead of Jonah. ‘Or are you going straight over to pet your Boeing baby?’
Jonah shook his head. ‘Can’t stop tonight, Vin. Sorry, devious pressing engagement.’
‘Really?’ Vinny grinned as they crossed the runway towards the terminal buildings. ‘And I thought you weren’t interested.’
‘Interested in who?’
‘The bird at the warehouse.’
‘I’m not and she isn’t. Either a bird or my pressing engagement for tonight.’
‘Great – so am I in with a chance, then? Is it worth me coming to give her the once-over? That is, if she’s going be there this time. Why isn’t she ever there when I’ve been there?’
‘Bloody hell – first, not a dog’s chance. She doesn’t like planes, flying, or flyers. Secondly, even if she did, she’s not your type at all – she can even do joined-up writing. And lastly, I expect she’s got better things to do with her evenings.’
‘Sounds right up my street. I love a challenge,’ Vinny said happily. ‘Is she married?’
‘How the hell would I know? And more importantly, why would I care? We only speak in passing – and most times I’m not there when she is. And vice versa. She’s making money hiring me her warehouse, and I’m renovating the Stearman in peace. That’s as far as it goes. I reckon you’d have more chance of pulling Estelle than you would Billie Pascoe.’
‘Ooh no! Not Estelle!’ Vinny pulled a face of mock shock horror. ‘Even I don’t invite that sort of trouble. She’s yours, mate. All yours – you lucky bastard.’
They’d reached the foot of the steps to the air-traffic control tower. Jonah took a deep breath. ‘Vin, before you go – you haven’t mentioned anything about the Stearman to Claire, have you?’
‘Me?’ Vinny’s eyes were wide-innocent. ‘You told me not to mention the Stearman to anyone, and I haven’t. Not that it’s the best kept secret or anything. I mean there’s about twenty million people on the airfield alone that know about it. But I haven’t seen Claire or spoken to her for months. Why?’
Jonah shrugged. ‘Because you’ve got a rollaway mouth. And because somebody has told her something. I think she’s after money.’
‘Tough tit, then. You haven’t got any money.’
‘Not now I haven’t. Not now I’ve bought the Stearman. She’ll probably try and make me sell it.’
‘Why should she? Isn’t Aerobatic Archie keeping her in recreational drugs any more? Tell her to get stuffed, mate. I would. See ya in the morning.’
‘Yeah, sure. And take it easy on the booze tonight – we’re airborne again at lunch time. No alcohol for twelve hours before.’
‘Christ, you are such a nag!’ Vinny grinned. ‘No wonder Claire left you.’
Thanks a bunch, chum, Jonah thought, pushing open the ATC door. That’s just what I wanted to hear.
Claire was late. He’d straightened cushions, shoved newspapers and takeaway cartons in the bin, squirted air-freshener, and switched the kettle on and off for the last half an hour. He’d showered and shaved and dressed in clean jeans and one of his less disreputable sweatshirts. He’d even used a splash of Boss and then washed it off again.
The doorbell rang. Jonah counted to twenty before crossing the hall, and another ten before opening the door.
‘You’re late.’ As always, seeing her caused a physical pain. When they were apart he could convince himself that what she had become was everything he despised and detested. He could turn her into some sort of demon inside his head – as long as she wasn’t there. ‘I thought maybe you’d changed your mind.’
‘The traffic was lousy. And sorry to dash your hopes. So? Aren’t you going to invite me in?’
He hesitated for a moment. He’d really like to keep her the doorstep. It was always safer that way. ‘Yeah, sure. We don’t want the neighbours hearing the fight, do we?’
‘Jo
. . .’ she spoke reproachfully, stepping past him, there doesn’t have to be a fight. Oh, you’ve decorated . . . It looks nice.’
He hadn’t and it didn’t. The flat was still basic beige, as it had always been. She’d probably been too stoned to notice décor on her last visit. Jonah watched her as she drifted round the room, touching things with those long, probing fingers. Things that had belonged to neither of them. Things that had come with the fundamental furnishings; things that were included on the pathetic rental inventory. Ornaments and books – all supplied with the fixtures and fittings by the yard. No individuality. No taste. No life . . .
Claire stopped, and picked up a tiny china candlestick. ‘You haven’t got a drink, I suppose?’
‘The kettle’s on.’
‘A proper drink, Jo. A real drink. No one can do a whisky sour like you can.’
‘And no one can drink them like you. And you’re driving. Tea or coffee?’
‘Coffee, then.’ She pouted and tossed the candlestick into the air. It fell, smashing against the fireplace’s fawn surround. ‘Oh dear. What a pity . . .’
He stared at the fragments and then at her. ‘Yeah, isn’t it?’
She didn’t follow him into the kitchen. Even as he boiled water and spooned granules, he could hear her moving around, could picture her usual wry amusement at the starkness of his home: a four-walled shell with no woman’s touch and no soul.
He tried to concentrate on everything he disliked about her, and not to think about her body. The good bits from the past kept inveigling their way in . . . Claire’s hair had always looked like she’d just tumbled out of bed, but these days it looked that way by design rather than reality. Her make-up was just the other side of tasteful, and probably applied under the watchful eye of a professional cosmetician. Her clothes, designer now rather than RAF base thrift shop, were pulled just that touch too tight on the statuesque body.
Jonah added milk. Claire had been on a perpetual diet all through their marriage. Weight Watchers had been fine until she’d discovered amphetamines. She was singing now. Oh God. He’d loved her voice. He’d loved the way she moved, the way she looked, the way she spoke. He didn’t love her any more, he knew he didn’t, but not loving didn’t mean an end to lusting. He still fancied her like mad.
‘Bollocks. Bollocks. Bollocks.’ He snatched up the two mugs and headed back to the living room.
Claire was sitting on the sofa, legs tucked under her, like a child. She dangled a cigarette from her fingers. There was already a sprinkling of ash on the floor. ‘Sorry, sweetheart – I couldn’t find an ashtray.’
‘There aren’t any. I gave up. Here – use this . . . Putting both mugs on the table, he picked up the largest piece of broken candlestick from the hearth. ‘I never liked them much anyway. Do you want to smash the other one?’
‘No thanks.’ She smiled at him. ‘It was an accident.’
‘Yeah, sure.’ He sat down on the other side of the room, nursing his coffee, almost using it as a shield. ‘So, why the visit?’
‘Because you won’t answer my calls. I needed to talk to you. You’re so mean –’
Mean? Jesus! She’d had everything – bled him dry. ‘I can’t afford to give you any more money.’
‘Antony says –’
‘Fuck Antony!’
‘Oooh. Temper, temper.’ She stubbed out the cigarette and leaned forward. ‘I was just going to say that I wasn’t actually asking for money. I was going to say that Antony says he’s heard on the circuit that you’re expanding your business. And he said that I should remind you that our solicitors came to the agreement that fifty per cent of your assets were mine.’
‘Were! Yes – at the time of the divorce,’ Jonah nodded, gritting his teeth, willing himself not to shout this time. ‘You left me, remember? You swanned off with poxy Antony and left me, OK? You chose to go. I didn’t have to give you anything – other than half the house, half my redundancy, half my RAF pension, half my bloody life. Don’t you dare come round here two years on and demand more!’
Claire stared at him for a disconcertingly long time, then she laughed. ‘You are so gorgeous, Jo. So bloody dead sexy. Antony isn’t half as good in bed as you were – still are, I suppose . . .’
Jonah closed his eyes for a second. He wished he could close his ears and switch off the memories as easily. ‘Claire, sodding shut up. If you don’t want money, what the hell do you want?’
‘Your body, of course.’ She laughed. ‘I wish. No, don’t look so scared. I know we’re over. I blew it. And don’t think I haven’t regretted it.’
‘It was your choice. Antony, as I recall, was a grown-up who could offer you so much more – of everything.’
‘Don’t remind me.’ Claire lit another cigarette and exhaled the smoke. ‘Oh, we still have a good time. The tours are fun, and glamorous, and it’s so nice being stinking rich.’
‘Which is what you wanted to be. Obviously what you still want to be – but if Antony’s running out of dosh, you’re wasting your time. I haven’t got any money. Nothing. So don’t try screwing anything extra out of me.’
She slid from the sofa, cigarette in one hand, coffee in the other, and crossing the room, eased herself onto the arm of his chair. God! He wanted her so much! Holding himself rigid so that they shouldn’t touch, he tried not to breathe in her scent.
She leaned towards him. ‘Jo, darling, try listening. I said I don’t want money from you.’
‘That wasn’t how the letter sounded.’
‘Which letter? Oh, that letter!’ Claire shrieked with laughter, leaning even closer, her body touching his. ‘I was on a real downer when I wrote that. Permanent resident in Misery Street. I’d’ve killed as soon as smiled that day. You know me and my moods.’
He did. He tried really hard to dislike her for her moods at that moment and not want her for her body. ‘OK, but there were about a million phone calls as well.’
‘Yeah, right. Because I wanted to talk to you. I still miss you, and when Antony said he’d heard that you were not only planning to expand the short-hauls but also do something even more spectacular – oh, I don’t know. It’s just such a turn-on, darling. Since we split you’ve become this dashing flyer again, with your own plane, and now, apparently, planes. Maybe I should have stuck around.’
Jonah edged himself away. Claire had left him because he was boring, she’d said so a thousand times. He thought of nothing but flying twenty-four hours a day. A run-of-the-mill RAF pilot in dung-coloured overalls, with no excitement. About as much of a career thrill as a bus driver . . . Christ, piloting the Shorts on charter flights in the UK was hardly space shuttle celebrity status, was it? That’s what she’d said, sod her. And sod bloody Antony with his ear-to-the-ground chums. He was damned if they were going to get their hands on the Stearman.
‘OK, then. You don’t want money – which is great because I haven’t got any. And you can tell Antony that he’s got it all wrong. I’m not expanding. I haven’t even been able to afford to do any work on the Slingsby since we split. And as I’m not going to be rivalling Antony in pilot-thrill stakes, I guess this visit has been a waste of time.’
Claire shook her head. The cloudy curls brushed his face, arousing and disturbing.
‘Nothing’s ever a waste of time with you, Jo.’ She squirmed round on the arm of the chair and leaned provocatively across him to stub out her cigarette and put her coffee mug on the floor. ‘You’re a bloody bad liar. I think Antony’s grapevine buddies have got it dead right. I think there’s more to Sullivanair than meets the eye. And if there is, then Antony wants to know about it.’
‘Forget it.’ He stood up abruptly, almost tipping her to the floor. ‘You’re not entitled to anything in my life any more. And why the hell should Antony have any interest?’
Claire shook her hair away from her face. ‘Because he’s giving up the team next year. He’ll have completed his five years and he’s looking to invest his platinum handshake in somet
hing else. He thinks there’s money to be made from owning your own airfield. You know, big business in running a flying school, offering corporate hospitality, that sort of thing. Maybe an aviation museum with a bit of virtual reality. Classic wing flights. Perhaps a nice little sideline in charter trips . . . And Whiteacres is so central, isn’t it?’
Jesus Christ! Antony couldn’t do it – could he? How much of Whiteacres was privately owned? Was there a board of doddering old farts just waiting for someone to present them with a stonking cheque so that they could go off and spend their twilight years grazing in Hastings? Could Antony Bastard Archibald buy out the ground from beneath his feet?
Claire was heading for the door. ‘Look, Jo, you probably don’t believe me, but I just wanted to warn you, that s all. Antony is very determined. And very rich. If he wants something he gets it. It might be a good idea for you to run now while the going is good.’
Chapter Twelve
Strobes pulsed in time with the bass, splintering intermittent explosions of light into the darkness. A hundred or so packed-together bodies gyrated happily. The bar staff looked like they were going for the world record on Pernod and blacks.
Billie, in the Joseph dress, shrank away into a corner of ‘blue banquette and nursed her gin and tonic. Electric blue was Bazooka’s predominant colour; well, in the dark anyway. Billie, who had once inadvertently seen the club n daylight, knew that the lights and the glitz hid a million tawdry secrets, most of them magnolia.
Miranda and the rest of the girls – Debs, Anna, Sally and Kitty – were all somewhere on the tiny dance floor, baring their oiled shoulders and flicking back their scented hair. Billie, who despite an hour in the bath still felt grubby, had excused herself on the grounds of exhaustion. Which wasn’t far off the truth. It had been a pretty shitty day.
True, the Stearman seemed to be taking shape quite with Jonah Sullivan and his henchmen obviously beavering away in her shed under cover of darkness like the Tailor of Gloucester’s mice, so that each morning there was a significant transformation. She’d skirted the beige bodywork, picked her way round the fretwork ribs, and been careful not to move anything. Two new customers, having kept her flyers, had telephoned and asked if she’d take their attic overspill, and she’d happily agreed and added them to her list of customers on the computer.
Walking on Air Page 12