WRIT LARGE: Ch 10, Part 2

Dancing in the Clouds

Once we are in the air and able to unbuckle the safety belts, the boy is out of his seat and staring out of the window. “Look,” he says to Olivia. “The super-trees. And there’s the Marina Bay Sands and Grandfather’s store. Look at the sea, Olivia. There are waves. Is that a dolphin?” He turns to her and tugs on her sleeve. “Do you think that’s a dolphin?”

Olivia slides into his seat and peers out of the window. “Where? I can’t see anything.”

But the boy is unfazed. “Leann,” he taps on the back of her seat. “What can you see?”

Leann swivels her seat and joins the boy at the window. “There’s a yacht,” she presses a manicured finger against the window.

The boy nods. But he isn’t content with having Olivia and Leann’s attention. “Cathie, look out of the window,” he says.

Cathie, whose safety belt is still buckled around her waist, rolls her head across the back of the seat, but doesn’t move. “I’m not getting up,” she says.

“Why not? Don’t you want to look out of the window? Leann, show Cathie the yacht.” He walks around Olivia so that he can be closer to Cathie, and Leann widens her eyes at me. Cathie has a hand over her mouth, and I realise that she probably left her tablet just a little too late for it to take effect.

I intercept the boy before he reaches Cathie’s seat, and ask him if he would like to visit the cockpit and speak to the pilot. His eyes light up. “Can I?” I tell him to wait beside me while I ask Tuah, which he does. He may be hyper, but he is still a polite child who is used to obeying his elders.

“Of course,” says Tuah when I explain quietly that the child is a little excitable. “I will come with you.”

He leads the way to the front of the plane, where fortunately, the pilot is happy for the boy to sit in the co-pilot’s seat while the buttons are explained to him in detail. “I remember the first time I saw a cockpit,” says Tuah. “I was about the boy’s age. I thought it was the most fascinating thing I had ever seen, like something from a James Bond movie, and I vowed that I would become a pilot when I grew up.”

I ask what changed, and he says, “I realised that I was more interested in the hotels than the flights.”

We discuss the resort we are travelling to and Tuah informs me that we will be staying in a rooftop penthouse apartment. “They have spectacular views of the highlands. I am sure that you will be most impressed.”

I assure him that I can’t wait to take full advantage of their hospitality, and that my wife has asked me to touch the clouds.

He laughs. “Many people do not realise how high the resort is. You will indeed be able to touch the clouds and take many photographs for your wife.”

I tell him that I have a couple of disposable cameras in reserve for the occasion, an eccentricity of mine.

“We all have them,” says Tuah. “Mine is a collection of original gadgets from the James Bond movies. My personal favourite is the Seiko quartz watch worn by Roger Moore in The Man with the Golden Gun.”

I say that I would love to see it, and Tuah promises to show me when we arrive, as he has it with him at the resort.

I realise that the boy is much calmer. I ask if he is okay and he says, “I think I will go back to my seat now.”

I walk back through with him and am pleasantly surprised to find Olivia in Tuah’s seat, head tipped back, and laughing at something Putera has said to her. Cathie still has her eyes closed. Leann nods at me and sips her champagne. Within minutes of resuming our seats, the young lad is asleep.

A Mercedes Sprinter luxury shuttle is waiting for us on the tarmac when we land at Subang International airport in Malaysia. We have already cleared Customs on board the flight, and it is simply a case of leaving one mode of transport and boarding another while the chauffeur transfers our luggage.

Where the aircraft had been dark mahogany and bold jewel colours, the shuttle is light and sleek, cream leather seating and neutral walls. It is like skipping from night to day within a few steps. The aircon has chilled the interior to a pleasant temperature, which is refreshing after the short flight and champagne, and I feel my thoughts rearranging and settling back to normality the way they always do after a flight.

Bernard’s grandchildren hop aboard the shuttle first and head straight for the row of seats at the rear of the vehicle. The youngest lad is no longer coiled like a spring after his nap and his brother offers him a handheld to play with during the journey. It seems the flight was the adventure for the boy, while the sights of Malaysia hold more appeal for the adults. Leann and I take the seats in front of the boys. Olivia and Putera naturally gravitate to the two seats in front of us.

The streamlined vehicle is designed to accommodate travellers who need to work, providing a gleaming polished table towards the front of the vehicle with two seats either side.

Before we landed, Jim and Tony were discussing their CEO, Keith Barr, and the company’s massive recovery efforts following the global Covid pandemic. We have, it seems, subconsciously allocated the table seats to them and Cathie, who is wide awake and bright-eyed now that her medication has taken effect. She eyes up the seating arrangement and says, “As long as I’m facing forward, I’ll be fine. Thank you all for your patience. I know I have been no company at all.”

“No need to apologise,” says Leann. “We are happy that you are feeling better.” She is being polite as ever; what she really means is that everyone is happy that no brown paper bags were required during the flight.

They take their seats, the IHG guys facing backwards, which leaves Tuah. Indecision plays across his features as he hesitates, a hand on the headrest of the seat beside Cathie. Eventually he must decide that at least one host should be included in the business conversation about to take place around the table, and he slides into the vacant seat next to her.

The dynamics have shifted in this part of the journey. We are divided into two halves: the business half who justify the wasted time spent travelling by bouncing ideas off each other and gleaning information that might prove relevant to their own ventures at some point, and the tourist half who are fascinated by the scenery of this unique country.

One of the IHG guys is explaining to Cathie a little about Keith Barr’s background. Keith was with Bernard at Universal Studios, but I have yet to be introduced to him. “He spent four years as CEO of our Greater China business. He achieved amazing results with growth and sustainability and is now looking to strengthen our ties with Malaysia.”

“Will this be alongside the recovery programme?” asks Cathie.

Tuah joins in with a comment that I don’t quite catch, and I zone out of the conversation; for now, I am enjoying being a tourist.

In front of us, Olivia and Putera are animatedly discussing Ryan Reynolds and Blake Lively. They speak about Gossip Girl, and how Blake Lively could never play a down-and-out character as she simply has too much natural beauty and style to look anything other than stunning. The talk progresses to the movie Deadpool.

Olivia says, “My uncle and his work colleagues have a Deadpool.”

“Deadpool? What is this?” asks Putera.

Leann glances at me and raises her eyebrows. I shake my head. I am as interested as Putera in Olivia’s explanation. “It’s where people place bets on the celebrity or famous figure who they think will be the next to die.”

At Putera’s intake of breath, she adds, “It’s grim, I know.” She is giggling though. It is human nature to find an element of humour in something so macabre.

“They choose a male and a female and put in fifty quid for each name they write on a piece of paper and seal in a jar. I can’t possibly tell you the name of the male celebrity my uncle has because … well because he is basically everyone’s favourite person. The whole world will mourn this man when he goes and my uncle will be counting his winnings.”

A giggle escapes Leann’s lips and Olivia grins at us from over her shoulder and between their seats. “I will have to suggest that to my friends when I return home,” says Leann.

“How about you?” she asks. “Is this something you would consider?”

I tell her that I am disappointed to be travelling with so many twisted and insensitive people, to which they all laugh.

When we have settled back in our seats, Leann says, “I haven’t yet thanked you properly for accepting me into the syndicate. I am honoured to be a part of it. I only hope I can live up to your expectations.”

I tell her that I have no expectations. Leann’s talent is incomparable, and she has been awarded the place on merit and talent. I am merely an author who has struck lucky with my career and am simply trying to give something back. There are many extremely talented authors who never get the break they deserve for one reason or another, especially those from disadvantaged backgrounds. We are both aware that the publishing industry is known for being accessible to those who either have a comfortable middle-to-upper class background or know someone who can carve them an easy way in. If I can help to alter this stuffy outlook in any way, then I will be happy.

Leann nods. “There is a quote by the Dalai Lama: The roots of all goodness lie in the soil of appreciation. I think that applies to you. You are one of those rare people who appreciate all that they have.”

I don’t tell her that this is a state of mind, and one that I did not acquire until I was past my youth and experiencing health problems which prompted me to question my own outlook on life. Enough philosophy for one trip.