‘You’re mad,’ scowled Simon Draper who, supported by Ken Berry, was appalled by the idea. Branson grinned. His cousin could not grasp the joy for a restless gambler to shift gear. Majestic resolution shone from his face. ‘You’re a megalomaniac, Richard,’ continued Draper. ‘What I’m telling you is that you go ahead with this over my dead body.’ Branson had never welcomed criticism. He was accountable to no one, even to the architect of his musical fortunes. His relationship with Draper was suddenly and permanently fractured. After fifteen years of fluctuating business experience with only one major success, Branson was certain that he could overturn the old adage that the best way to become a millionaire was to be a billionaire and start an airline.
A mere four months later, on 29 February 1984, Branson and Fields posed in public to launch their airline. Dressed in First World War flying gear – a leather helmet and goggles – to encourage the newspaper editors to publish a picture, Branson, the new people’s champion, listed the benefits Virgin would provide for thousands of Britons to fly cheaply to New York. No journalist, Branson knew, would question his sincerity. Glossing over weak finances was concomitant with exaggerations about the cheapest fares and minimising Virgin Atlantic’s provision of the same cramped seats and unreliable service as People Express.
The photographs showed Fields, the airline’s joint owner, smiling. Disguised was Fields’s frustration that Branson had still not signed a contract or released his promised £3 million to finance the airline. Branson’s concealment of the disagreement in front of the journalists gave him as much pleasure as dressing up. Disguises of all kinds appealed to him.
In the helter-skelter activity to create an airline within four months, Branson had nonchalantly forgotten what he owed to Fields. It was not only the idea of the airline: before their introduction, the American had started negotiations with Boeing to lease a second-hand 747 on condition that it could be returned at no cost after one year; Fields had identified the prematurely retired British Airways and British Caledonian flying crews prepared to work at low salaries; and Fields had recruited the former Laker executives who would hire and train the cabin, ticketing and service staff. Inevitably, the new airline was a clone, an inheritance from all the existing carriers.
Taking over the negotiations, Branson assumed the credit for Fields’s achievements and added two new ideas. ‘I know what I don’t like about flying,’ he said. ‘The boredom and not enough leg room.’ The new airline should offer something different. Business class passengers would be given extra space and also individual hand-held video screens with the choice of dozens of films.
‘Let’s announce a £30 million advertising campaign,’ he suggested.
‘But we haven’t got £30 million,’ stuttered the new marketing manager.
‘Course not,’ replied Branson, ‘but we’ll announce it, get the newspaper coverage and won’t do anything more.’
‘Richard’s embellishments’ were introduced to men previously accustomed to routine corporate life. One observed: ‘It seems that he likes multiplying everything by ten.’
Amid the furore and hype, only Randolph Fields stood isolated from the euphoria. The American suspected that Branson was a dream thief. Even after their press conference announcing the creation of the airline, Branson delayed signing an agreement binding the two men as partners.
Branson’s delay was deliberate. The partnership with Fields was of little interest unless concluded on Branson’s terms. Contrary to their original agreement of equality, Branson wanted a majority share and control of the airline. Since Virgin Atlantic could only be launched with his £3 million, Branson began squeezing Fields to surrender. Branson’s favoured method was to procrastinate until the plum fell for as little money as possible. If Fields lacked the cool courage and bargaining strength to outface his demands, that was the American’s misfortune. If Fields departed, Branson would feel no loss.
Branson was, however, vulnerable. Unprofitable film investments had suddenly plunged Virgin into another cash crisis. The company’s overdraft was bumping close to £3 million. He had concealed the crisis from Fields by flaunting the profits Virgin had earned from the success of Boy George’s song, ‘Do You Really Want to Hurt Me?’, and more importantly from the Civil Aviation Authority. ‘I decided not to mention [to the CAA],’ he would confess about Virgin’s application for the original licence, ‘that we were having to pay out large sums of money to continue making 1984’, a disastrous feature film. Unfortunately for Branson, Fields held a trump card. Without an agreement and Virgin’s deposit of £3 million, the CAA would not issue a licence for the airline to fly. Branson lacked any flexibility to manoeuvre. He signed the contract, deposited the money and invited Fields to the houseboat to celebrate with a glass of cheap, warm white wine.
In Branson’s world, signed contracts were only valid if they could be enforced. Whenever necessary and legally possible, he would doggedly renegotiate the contractual terms to tilt the balance in his favour. On the eve of the airline’s launch, he knew that Fields was powerless to enforce the contract they had just signed. Many of the airline’s staff had refused to work with the excitable lawyer and by then Virgin Atlantic Airways was wholly associated with Branson. His threat to Fields was pure theatre: ‘My bankers won’t let me do it. Unless we control the company, we’ll have to walk away from this deal.’ Blaming bankers, like blaming lawyers, was a familiar ploy. ‘I’m having none of this,’ fumed Fields and he stormed off the boat.
Branson contacted the CAA. If he quickly reapplied for a new licence without Fields, he inquired, could it be approved? The reply was discouraging. A new application, he was told, would require months to be processed. His stratagem failed. Within the hour, Branson had telephoned Fields and withdrawn his threat.
The next morning Branson started again. His aggression was as persistent as his pursuit of publicity. The agreed terms, Branson told Fields, made him ‘feel very uncomfortable’. He wanted revisions.
Branson’s style was difficult to deflect. The even-tempered upper-class voice was full of imploring reasonableness. The pullover and houseboat shrieked modesty. Gradually, even the irascible Fields was disarmed. After four days of haggling, Fields’s wariness had become weariness. Finally, he surrendered to attrition. Exhausted, he persuaded himself that Branson was the sort of man he could trust. Under the new deal, Branson would own 75 per cent and Fields 25 per cent of their company. Fields consoled himself that his interests remained firmly protected in the small print. Branson also congratulated himself on winning control thanks to the contract’s same small print. ‘He’s on his way,’ he gurgled about his partner.
On 22 June 1984, 34,000 feet above the Atlantic Richard Branson had every reason to congratulate himself. To the sound of Madonna’s hit, ‘Like a Virgin’, he was wearing a steward’s hat and pouring eight hundred bottles of champagne into the glasses of four hundred guests celebrating the launch of Virgin Atlantic Airlines. The party was more than memorable, it was unique. The sight of the famous dancing in the aisles and the pouting, red-suited Virgin hostesses offering food prepared by Maxims was a triumph of Branson’s presentational skills. His tenacity had transformed a rejected proposal by a young American lawyer into a major media event. When his boisterous guests returned to London after another party at Newark Airport, the capital buzzed that flying Branson was fun. No one could recall the austere Scottish gals of British Caledonian or the prim matrons of British Airways running out of champagne during a riotous party over the Atlantic. Virgin, a name until then only known to record buyers, had become a recognisable brand basking