Read Folly Du Jour for Free Online

you may start to worry. These big planes are perfectly safe, you know, and the company has an unblemished record. Look – do you see – it’s an Argosy. That means it’s got four wings, three engines and two pilots. That should be enough to get us through.’ He wished he could believe all this rot himself. ‘And, look, Miss Watkins . . . Heather . . . take this. I find it really helps.’ He passed her a lump of barley sugar.
    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