Folly Du Jour - Barbara Cleverly [13]
A second steward in spanking white mess jacket and white peaked cap welcomed them aboard what he proudly called ‘the Silver Wing service’ and, taking them for a couple, ushered them towards a pair of seats alongside at the rear of the plane.
‘Every passenger has a window seat, you see,’ said Joe, helping her to settle. ‘Though you can always draw the curtain across, should you have vertigo.’
They braced themselves for take-off. It came with the usual terrifying snarls of the engine and bumps along the runway and then there was the stomach-clenching moment of realization that the machine had torn itself free of the earth and was soaring at an impossible angle upwards. A glance through the oil-spattered glass showed the grey blur of London disappearing below them. Higher up, the sunlight brightened and they caught the full glow of the westering sun gilding the meadows and woods of southern England.
‘It will be dark before we arrive, won’t it?’ Heather Watkins asked, suffering a further pang of apprehension.
‘Yes,’ Joe admitted. ‘This is technically the night flight, after all. We should touch down just before ten o’clock.’
‘But how will the pilot . . .?’ Hearing the naïveté of her question, Heather fell silent.
‘Beacons all the way along the flight route,’ said Joe confidently. ‘But while the light lasts, he’ll just follow the railway lines. Look – over there!’ He pointed out a group of buildings below. ‘You can see exactly where we are. Do you see – it’s Ashford. That was the railway station. They paint the names of the main stations on the roof in big white letters all the way to Paris. They have emergency landing strips every few miles. And even in the dark the pilot can’t mistake the Eiffel Tower. It’s lit like a Christmas tree!’
Miss Watkins checked every few seconds to see that the wings were wobbling satisfactorily, the railway lines still beneath them, and finally began to relax.
‘Doing anything interesting in Paris?’ Joe asked when he judged she was capable of a sensible reply.
‘Oh, the usual things,’ she said. ‘Shopping and shows for a few days then we’re all off to the south of France. For the tennis tournament.’ She fell silent.
‘Do you observe or compete?’ he asked.
‘Oh, I play. Not very well. I mean I’m not in the Suzanne Lenglen or Helen Wills league yet but I’m improving. The boys,’ she indicated the four young men sitting ahead of them, ‘are all players. My brother Jim – that’s him with the red hair – is the team captain and general organizer. The other two girls are team wives. I’m the odd one out.’
‘Very odd,’ Joe agreed. ‘Most unusual. I’ve never met a lady tennis player before. One who plays seriously.’
‘There aren’t many of us in England. In France it’s thought rather dashing and quite the okay thing to be! We’re even allowed to wear skirts up to our knees over there.’
She rummaged in her handbag. ‘Look – here’s where we’re staying . . . well, you never know. It’s a little hotel on the Left Bank. In the rue Jacob. Handy for the bookshops. And a stone’s throw from the police headquarters, funnily enough . . .’ she added with a gurgle of laughter. ‘It’s right opposite the Quai des Orfèvres!’
‘I’m booked in at the Ambassador on the Right Bank, handy for the Opéra,’ he said lightly. ‘And a few steps away from the department stores. Au Printemps . . . Galeries Lafayette, funnily enough . . . One way or another, I think it’s very likely in the way of business or pleasure our paths will literally cross again. And if my mental map of Paris serves me well, that’ll be just about at Fauchon’s, Place de la Madeleine. In time for what they call “the five o’clock tea”.’
So that was the way to conquer a fear of flying – sit yourself next to a beautiful, athletic redhead and flirt your way there – Joe thought as they began to circle Paris, preparing to land at Le Bourget airfield just to the northeast. He wished he’d suggested something a little less staid than a salon de thé. The Deux Magots in St Germain would have struck a more adventurous note. Well, it was just a few