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The national mood in 1986 matched Richard Branson’s ambitions. He wanted to lease another Boeing 747 for a new service to Miami and to launch a myriad of other schemes. The only obstacle was his lack of money. Roger Seelig, his merchant banker and a star in the City, offered the solution.

Margaret Thatcher’s privatisation of state monopolies had encouraged the public to buy shares. Branson was promised by Roger Seelig that the City would provide the millions he desired. ‘You’ve only got to persuade them to trust you and make them understand that Virgin will produce a fortune,’ soothed Seelig. Selling himself and Virgin to the suits in the City, Branson smiled, was not a problem. He was, after all, a man enjoying effortless access to every minister in Whitehall and was fêted by discreet invitations to Downing Street and Chequers. He preferred to ignore the humiliation that year as the failed ‘Minister for Rubbish’ after the launch of UK 2000, a government initiative to encourage the young unemployed. In the war of whispers after the Sun had photographed him holding a broom, even the charitable said, ‘He didn’t enjoy or understand the complexity, pace and politics of charity work.’ The more critical charity workers complained, ‘He was frustrated because there was no immediate return.’ Although still bruised by the ridicule heaped upon him for failing to perform as promised, his credibility as a businessman was so pristine that barbs from a handful of critics ridiculing Thatcher’s favourite with a history of fraud, drugs and rock sleaze were easily ignored.

The critics did not include the bankers and lawyers whom Seelig had invited to Branson’s home. Averting their eyes from discarded food and dishes lying around the living room, the suited professionals were startled by his young son waddling into the room and asking, ‘Daddy where’s my potty?’ Branson’s guests smiled unctuously.

The raw statistics presented by Seelig were encouraging. Virgin’s sales had risen in the twelve months to July 1986 from £119 million to £189 million; its pre-tax profits had risen from £15 million to £19 million; and the company, including the airline, was employing nearly four thousand people. Anyone querying the enhanced profits for 1985 might have noticed that the accounting period had been changed but that was an acceptable legal technique to improve Virgin’s image as Branson was introduced by Seelig to an unusual tribe from the City.

Branson presented himself as the head of a worldwide media empire embracing not only rock music, but also books, films and satellite television. ‘Virgin operates in seventeen countries,’ beamed the thirty-six year old, ‘two-thirds of our income is earned overseas and we’re growing very rapidly. Because of my gut feeling, I’ve set up fifty-five companies and closed down only one.’ Branson knew that his boast was not quite accurate. Many of his small enterprises had collapsed but they were obliterated from the record.

His personal bankers at Samuel Montagu in the City remained enamoured. ‘The sweater’s arrived,’ announced the banker as their client, wearing jeans, sat down with a warm grin. The telephone call for Branson interrupting their meeting was a reminder of their client’s fame. ‘Has it got air conditioning?’ Branson asked. ‘And how many hours has it flown?’ Their client, they realised, was being offered a Boeing 747 by Lord King, the chairman of British Airways. At the end of the meeting, his unconventional farewell was amusing. ‘Bugger, I’ve got no change. Can anyone lend me a pound for the Tube back to Holland Park?’ Four hands dived into their pockets and proffered handfuls of coins. His performance was immaculate. Bankers, like his employees, would resist demanding high fees if they witnessed his personal frugality. None contemplated an alternative scenario: that while Branson was congenitally tight with money, he also enjoyed cultivating anecdotes for insiders to gossip around London. Meticulously, he was creating his own legend.

The result of those meetings was an unusual package to be offered to the City and the public. To retain absolute control, Branson would sell only 34 per cent of Virgin Music and the other directors would keep 11 per cent. He personally retained 55 per cent of the music company. He would not float Virgin Atlantic or the nightclubs. In an internal transaction, Branson would buy Virgin Atlantic from the new, publicly-owned Virgin holding company for £6 million. The division of the empire, suggesting inevitable conflicts when Branson’s energies were focused on building the airline, was spontaneously highlighted by the occupants of the bland City boardrooms which he visited during his choreographed journey to recite the identical story to win the trust of investment managers in the fickle entertainment industry. ‘Not much of a problem,’ he replied unconvincingly.

Seelig hoped that Branson’s disdain for proper financial accountability and his management by whim would remain as unknown as his unhelpful delight at showing a video of himself free-falling on an unopened parachute towards possible death. Although Branson acknowledged that ‘there was little chance of me coming to grief because of the back-up chute’, his urge to publicise his gamble with death, reckoned Seelig, would hardly inspire fund managers to risk the public’s money in Virgin, even if they saw two instructors clasping Branson as he slid from the plane. Branson’s bravado nevertheless impressed Seelig. The banker was unaware that minutes after landing, Branson had shakily confessed his terror during an interview with Garfield Kennedy, a television documentary producer. On reflection, Kennedy had decided that the evidence of Branson’s emotional collapse was untransmittable, but the producer remained confused. Was Branson’s terror genuine or did he record a performance after Branson had persuaded himself of the danger? A similar uncertainty about Branson struck those seeking clarity about his business.

Branson offered no reassuring concessions. Dressed in a pullover and jeans, on his houseboat with four telephones ringing, he explained to an American journalist, ‘I was never interested in becoming a businessman. I’m good at spotting gaps in the market and filling them.’ A man with a goatee beard writing messages on the back of his hand who exclaimed, ‘I want to build the biggest media company in the world’, while admitting confusion about the technicalities of the accounts of his allegedly $200 million company, was struggling to inspire universal confidence.

Those concerned about any independent scrutiny of the maverick and his compliance with City rules should have been reassured by the appointment as non-executive directors of Sir Philip Harris, a carpet retailer, and Cob Stenham, the former finance director of Unilever who had just been appointed head of Bankers Trust. ‘I am excited at the prospect of working with such an enthusiastic team,’ said Harris who had pledged to spend £250,000 of his own money to invest in Virgin shares. ‘It’s an exciting venture,’ agreed Stenham. ‘I admire what the company has achieved.’ Although both men were renowned as astute, independent operators, gossip in the City suggested other flaws in Branson’s business.

Insiders described a board meeting of Top Nosh, Branson’s sandwich company, where a director with green hair lay prostrate on the floor recovering from the previous night’s excesses, while another director stared blearily into space silently opening and closing his mouth like a fish. Similar injurious reports mentioned Virgin’s abandonment of film production after an expensive failure with 1984; the loss of money from satellite television and Virgin publishing; and the permanent debts from Virgin’s shops despite copying HMV’s successful Megastore in Oxford Street. Only Virgin Music was profitable but any plans for expansion were vague. ‘Does Virgin ever have proper board meetings?’ Branson was asked during his City tour.

Branson was irked. The performance required for the flotation was infuriating. The questions targeted at himself or Simon Draper revealed suspicion about the long-term value of owning the copyright to music and records. He did not care for the ‘clever dick’ who reminded him about the City’s requirement for ‘transparency if you are going to win trust and confidence’. Of course, he withheld some information. His business could only flourish in secrecy. He would not reveal his ambition to buy EMI Music. He would make no concessions to win their trust. Nor would he tolerate the long, technical discussions about taxes and the minutiae of the offer document. Frequently he walked out of meetings with the excuse, ‘I’ve got to make a phone call.’ Draper and Berry could cope. But on one issue he was adamant. ‘I want more money,’ he demanded, gazing at the accounts prepared by Terrence Webber, the auditor. ‘The company’s worth more. I want more money for the shares.’

‘I can’t help you,’ replied Webber. ‘The rules on valuation don’t allow it.’ Their arguments were endless.

The slick presentation before flotation day, 13 November 1986, concealed Branson’s impatience and the City’s bewilderment about Virgin’s real value. ‘After the Big Bang,’ raved the advertisements, ‘how about a little pop?’ A pin-striped stockbroker disco-danced around his office with the caption, ‘From the rock market to the stock market’. Virgin’s publicists had persuaded the Sunday Telegraph to praise the new shares as potentially ‘a great success … a pioneering company which looks like carving out a major role in world markets’. In The Observer, Virgin was extolled as ‘one of the most glamorous flotations this year and should be oversubscribed’. Eighty-four thousand people, Virgin’s customers who idolised Branson, had applied to buy shares. Mobbed by his admirers on the City pavement demanding his autograph, Branson acknowledged the defining moment. ‘I’m humbled by the interest,’ he told the invited media through a permanent smile. The flotation had placed him precisely where he most desired: at the centre of attention. He was a star, who would share equal attention at a concert later that week with Peter Gabriel.

The reality, Branson had been told by Seelig, was gloomy. ‘We’re floating at 140 pence per share,’ the deflated banker announced, ‘less than we anticipated.’ Branson was distressed. Too many City investment managers were unimpressed by Branson’s performance and had shied away. Branson had only sold 34 per cent of the company to the public, keeping 55 per cent for himself. Although Virgin was valued at £240 million, and Branson would personally receive £21.1 million to invest in the airline, there was only £32.1 million for the Virgin Group, much less than expected. Branson spouted a smokescreen. ‘We’re pitching the offer low,’ he told interviewers through his fixed smile, ‘to attract a healthy after-market.’ Hours after the first public trading, the share price fell. Instead of the big hit with an avalanche of cash, he was saddled with financial stagnation, City suits, regulations and scrutiny. His cure was to escape. Draper and Berry would manage the music business while he focused upon his airline.

‘What’s the plan?’ he had asked Hugh Band and Chris Moss, the airline’s marketing directors. The two were godsends for Branson, tumbling over with ideas to promote the airline. Their latest idea was amazing. If successful, Virgin would be guaranteed enormous free publicity in Britain and America. ‘Why not try to be the first man to fly across the Atlantic in a hot-air balloon?’ asked Moss.

‘Fucking hell. We’ve got to do it,’ swooned Branson.

The two explained that Per Lindstrand, a thirty-eight-year-old Swedish balloon manufacturer and pilot, was looking for a sponsor for the epic flight. ‘It’s an amazing way to promote the airline,’ said Moss.

A conversation with Lindstrand confirmed the dangers. ‘You’re going to risk your life,’ warned the Swede.

On reflection, Branson realised that he had reached another milestone. The cosy speedboat dash across the Atlantic had reaped a windfall of publicity which in turn had earned millions of pounds for Virgin’s businesses. A record-breaking balloon flight across the Atlantic would elevate him into a unique league. The exposure, he calculated, would produce £25 million in conventional advertising. There were, he told Lindstrand, some conditions before he accepted.

Naturally, there would be no commercial risk, stipulated Branson. Lindstrand would provide the balloon at cost and would not be paid for piloting it across the Atlantic. Branson wanted guarantees that only his bravado and never his terror should be broadcast. Branson would be presented as the captain of the balloon and only he would speak to the media. Lindstrand, the designer, navigator and pilot of the Virgin Atlantic Flyer, was not to talk about the crossing without Branson’s agreement and that would never be offered. The list continued but the Swede was unconcerned. Branson provided the opportunity to satisfy his dream.

Although Branson would take a course in balloon flying, undergo some instruction in using a parachute and be shown how to operate a radio, both accepted that the paymaster was a passenger. His talent was masterminding a showcase performance at Sugarloaf Mountain near Boston.

Few newspapers and television stations resisted Branson’s personal invitation to witness the preparations and take-off, planned for May 1987. His provision of a satellite transmitter to feed pictures and interviews supplied by Virgin’s own television crew encouraged even those hesitant about pleasing a self-publicist to journey to Sugarloaf and report the possibility of a tycoon’s dramatic death.

The countdown began but bad weather delayed the lift-off. Around the clock, Branson, the brave adventurer risking his life for a mention in the Guinness Book of Records, made himself available to journalists and TV crews for endless interviews, even escorting journalists on boating trips to stave off the boredom.

For four weeks Branson waited, managing his business in Britain by telephone until in mid-June an urgent message from London interrupted his frustrating routine. A newspaper had discovered that Virgin was to launch a condom. Despite the denials – ‘Your report is extremely inaccurate and misleading,’ brazenly asserted a Virgin publicist – the story could not be suppressed. With one balloon marooned by the weather, Branson dashed back to London to launch another variety.

On the transatlantic flight from Boston, Branson explained his latest preoccupation with sex and uttered a doom-laden scare about Aids: ‘Potentially, it’s a catastrophic problem to the younger generation. If nothing is done, we could be talking about hundreds of thousands of people being stricken with the virus over the next fifteen years.’ He proposed a publicity campaign to frighten the British to change their habits. ‘He’s putting something back into society,’ explained his publicists in London summoning a press conference. Branson was associated with a good deed, alleviating the embarrassments of the ‘Minister for Rubbish’ and UK 2000. In mid-Atlantic his alarmism was uncontrolled. ‘Half of America’s population,’ he continued, ‘could die of Aids by 2010. Aids has taken a firm grip on heterosexuals.’ Someone more thoughtful might have been more cautious but Branson was prone to exaggeration: ‘By 2010, one third of the population could be infected with the Aids virus in one form or another.’ Cynics would ascribe Branson’s alarm to his permanent obsession with sex. ‘My principal weakness is women,’ he admitted. ‘I inherited it from my dad.’ Visitors to his office in Holland Park, like the journalist Cherry Hughes, were repeatedly amazed by the ‘over-sexed atmosphere, like a permanent orgy’. The cure was condoms. The brand name, he proposed, was ‘Virgin Jumpers’ to match the colloquialism, ‘Slip a jumper on!’ or ‘Have a jump!’

Durex, the supplier of 98 per cent of Britain’s condoms, had refused to supply Virgin. Instead, Branson had signed a deal with Ansell, one of America’s biggest manufacturers. Ansell had been delighted. Repeatedly, the company had failed to break into the British market and Branson had agreed to underwrite a £5 million launch. Fortunately for the American manufacturer, neither Branson nor John Jackson, his representative, appeared to have properly investigated Ansell’s misfortunes in Britain.

Before Branson landed at Heathrow, outrage had erupted in the centre of London.

‘You won’t guess what’s happening,’ Lawrence Post, Virgin’s company secretary, told Cob Stenham, Virgin’s non-executive director. ‘Richard’s going to give a press conference at Heathrow. To announce Virgin condoms.’

‘What? When?’ asked Stenham.

‘When he lands from America,’ replied Post. ‘Later today.’

‘He can’t do that,’ spluttered Stenham. ‘It hasn’t been agreed by the board. It hasn’t even been considered by the directors.’

Stenham telephoned Philip Harris, Virgin’s second non-executive director. Branson, they agreed, should be intercepted and brought to London before he spoke. Both had become irritated by Branson’s behaviour. Ever since the flotation, he was breezily announcing deals – ‘I’ve bought Storm, the model agency’ – without consulting the other directors, and he rarely attended board meetings.

Only four weeks earlier Lawrence Post had announced, ‘The board meeting is cancelled.’

‘Why? Where’s Richard?’ asked Stenham.

‘He’s gone to America to fly on a balloon,’ replied Post.

‘He’s always buggering off when it matters or calling board meetings at ten o’clock at night,’ complained Stenham.

Branson refused to be pinned down. Complaints that he was an erratic manager, careless with documents and unaccountable with the company’s money, passed over his head. Despite his responsibility for the public’s money, Roger Seelig’s warning that ‘The City doesn’t like your action-man antics’, had been ignored. If his critics complained about a nightmare, he was unconcerned. The publicity at the flotation had been marvellous but he had moved on to the next idea. Unlike Ted Turner or Rupert Murdoch whom he had vowed that year to overtake, he disliked constant involvement in the detailed development and management of his business. He prided himself on being a deal-maker, ‘good at getting things going’, delegating the management and the chaos to Don Cruickshank, the Virgin Group’s managing director. ‘A publicity-seeking deal-junkie,’ was one director’s seething assessment.

Cruickshank, a critical ingredient for the flotation and Virgin’s first employee to wear a tie, was reminding a maverick marketeer that he could not use the public company’s money for private purposes. But Branson had set his annual salary at £60,000 to justify his staff’s low wages, to minimise his taxes, and to claim expenses from the company. Too often, complained Cruickshank, Branson had issued a company cheque to charge costs incurred on Necker, his private island. ‘But I entertained for Virgin,’ protested Branson, apparently unaware that a public company requires accountability. Cruickshank, he realised, would not accept the legality that Necker was ‘not my personal island but a commercial venture and a successful part of our hotel division’. Sensing that his explanation was rejected, he retreated, ‘It was a mistake. Someone must have used the wrong account.’ No one dared to question how he could afford his lifestyle unless he received money as a beneficiary from the offshore trusts.

Branson’s dislike of ‘the onerous demands’ from the City was undisguised. He rarely visited the company’s headquarters in Ladbroke Grove – to the irritation of rock groups playing in the street outside in the hope of a contract – and he sat sullenly at meetings held in Harris’s home because Virgin did not possess a boardroom. Paying dividends to the new shareholders was hateful. Shareholders’ money, Branson appeared to believe, should be his to use at no cost while he pledged his own shares as collateral to raise loans. But he did keenly understand that Stenham and Harris could prevent Virgin’s name on condoms. ‘Why should a music company go into condoms?’ asked Harris. ‘Are you doing it for money, charity or publicity?’ The answer was incomprehensible. Hours later Branson acted contrite. ‘Course they won’t be called Virgin condoms,’ he promised. Whenever a warning sounded, his performance was honed to perfection. His remorse defused the row.

The tensions at Virgin were unknown in London during his launch of the renamed ‘Mates’. No one questioned the background of the deal which John Jackson, an accountant, had negotiated with Ansell, to buy the condoms for 4 pence to be resold by chemists and other retailers for 12 pence, undercutting Durex by 60 per cent. Branson was unconcerned by the detail of marketing condoms. His pitch was that by cutting prices he would capture half of Britain’s market within the first year – seventy million units – and treble Britain’s use of condoms.

Branson emphasised, in his press conference, his new charity, the Healthcare Foundation, as the fulfilment of a life’s mission. ‘Aids,’ he announced, ‘is fast becoming a heterosexual disease.’ Mates, sold by shops at no profit, would halt ‘a problem which constitutes a crisis of monumental proportions. If it fails, I stand personally to lose many millions of pounds. But it’s a loss I’m prepared to accept because I care for the people who represent our future health, wealth and prosperity.’ No one challenged his sincerity.

As he rushed back to Boston, Branson was content that the public had accepted Virgin as a company crusading for humanity to prevent a plague. The new charity had won invaluable attention for himself. If the Virgin Atlantic Flyer successfully crossed the ocean, the publicity whirlwind was limitless.

The balloon’s take-off on 2 July 1987 was exhilarating. As he sat in the tiny capsule watching Per Lindstrand navigate and pilot a balloon larger than the Albert Hall along its unprecedented thirty-hour journey, Branson had every reason to celebrate his own courage and foresight. The radio reports confirmed that the take-off had been quite spectacular and that the sudden loss of two fuel tanks which risked exploding into a gigantic conflagration had added to the excitement. The bid to establish a record gave his life additional meaning and distinction. ‘How’s the media coverage?’ he asked ground control. ‘Fantastic,’ was the reply. Branson’s eyes tightened, gleaming with satisfaction. Everything was going to plan. His relationship with Lindstrand, a sombre hired hand, was polite and professional. There was limited warmth between them, which was Branson’s preference. Even in this perilous voyage, he could only tolerate a relationship of master and servant, although he took care to conceal that tension from the video camera fitted in the cramped capsule. Regularly, both he and Lindstrand activated the video to record their activities for a television documentary.

One particular touch before the departure appealed to Branson. Ostentatiously he had sat in the hotel cafeteria with two lawyers who had flown up from New York. ‘He’s making his last will,’ whispered Virgin’s publicists. Highlighting the possibility of death was drama. His public gamble against failure would certainly endear him to his many admirers, although in future he would remember, when asked whether he had written a will, to fidget, blush and hesitatingly reply, ‘I really do prefer to keep these things private.’

After twenty-nine hours in the air, the balloon hovered to land in Donegal, the first landfall on the west coast of Ireland. A succession of exposed video tapes had been individually placed in sealed plastic bags inside a red Virgin flight bag lying on the floor. A new cassette was recording as Lindstrand prepared the unprecedented manoeuvre required to jettison the fuel tanks and land the biggest balloon ever flown. Branson sat passively, not expecting the sudden gust of wind which flung the balloon to the ground, pulled it across a field before thrusting it up into the atmosphere. This was the beginning of genuine danger. The balloon’s cables were twisted, its fuel tanks were lost and Lindstrand was battling to bring his cavorting, twisting craft under control. As the Swede coolly drew on every ounce of strength and years of accumulated expertise, Branson exploded in terror. ‘We’re going to die,’ he screamed. ‘We’re going to fucking die.’ Pulling cables, firing the propane burner and trying to navigate, Lindstrand shouted back, ‘Control yourself! We will die if you don’t stop.’ But Branson had lost his self-control. At the critical moment, the daredevil was terrified. Frenzied, tears rolled down a face contorted by anxiety. Lindstrand’s choice was stark. Either he could hold on to the controls and allow Branson to rant, or he could take his hands off the levers and knock Branson unconscious. But the craft suddenly stabilised and Branson calmed. Lindstrand smiled. ‘That’ll look good,’ he nodded. Branson followed Lindstrand’s eye. His outburst had been recorded on the video. Branson’s face froze. His tantrum could be witnessed by the whole world. With ferocious energy, he ripped the cassette from the machine. Oblivious to the continuing peril, he stamped frenziedly on the plastic box, pulling out the tape to destroy the evidence.

Glancing up from the mangled tape on the floor, Branson saw Lindstrand. During those moments, the Swede had battled to steer the balloon downwards towards a beach. At the last moment, the craft hit the sea and skimmed across the choppy surface, violently tumbling its two passengers. ‘Get out,’ shouted Lindstrand. The pilot heaved himself through the hatch and plunged into the waves. Branson hesitated and drew back, paralysed by fear. Seconds later the balloon soared upwards. The chance of escape had disappeared. His only reassurance was the sight of seventeen helicopters clinging behind him, led by Garfield Kennedy, the television documentary producer. But once the balloon passed through the clouds, he could only hope that the flotilla would remain somewhere near. Heading north across the Irish Sea, Branson’s options had deteriorated. He could either hope to land in Scotland or parachute into the watery wilderness. For a trainee prevented by Lindstrand from touching the controls during the flight, the predicament was horrendous, especially after he mistakenly assumed that none of the seven radios or the emergency locator transmitter was working. He believed he was almost certainly doomed and scribbled a farewell note to Joan and his children. Leaving the note in the capsule, he planned to parachute into the sea, and opened the door. Quickly, he abandoned the idea and for nearly thirty minutes struggled to close the door. Exhausted, he peered out and saw a Royal Navy helicopter and a destroyer, alerted while on an exercise. Manoeuvring the balloon downwards, he hauled himself up through the small hatch at the top of the capsule and plunged into the sea. He was soon rescued. One hour later, Lindstrand, suffering from hypothermia, was also pulled to safety.

During the helicopter ride to Kilmarnock in Scotland, Branson’s sense of priorities was restored. He had successfully won the world record. The publicity prize was secure. Quickly, he persuaded a member of the crew to lend him an alluring red jump suit. As he stepped from the plane on to the tarmac, a waiting crowd rushed to hail the hero. Behind, huddled and shivering in a grey blanket, hobbled Lindstrand.

The headlines surpassed Branson’s dreams. A wave of accolades verging on worship overwhelmed Lindstrand’s courageous passenger. In countless British and American newspapers and television interviews, Branson spoke through his smiles with seeming modesty mentioning, ‘How I flew the Atlantic.’ The pilot was forbidden by their contract to interrupt. ‘The publicity would have cost £45 million,’ Branson later laughed. ‘Even the cover of Newsweek!’ The epic trip had crowned a superstar. Those allowed close were, in an almost religious manner, awed.

Abandoned on the capsule was the evidence on the videos of his terror. Strangely, when the capsule was recovered later that day, none of the video cassettes was found. ‘Where are they?’ asked Lindstrand. ‘I left them on the capsule,’ replied Branson. ‘The cassettes were the only items missing,’ replied Lindstrand suspecting that Branson had jettisoned the tapes into the sea to destroy the evidence of his terror. After all, even his farewell letter to his wife was found. Two years later the letter was auctioned by a charity for £2,500. Even his most private emotions were available for publicity.

The hero wanted to rejoice. At his parents’ house in Shamley Green, Branson hosted a party to thank all those who had worked for more than one year preparing the balloon crossing. Standing near the swimming pool, Branson talked animatedly with his father Ted, glancing regularly at the garden door. Suddenly, to a burst of music, it was thrown open. Eve Branson, his sixty-three-year-old mother shrieked her arrival. Dressed as Michael Jackson, the singer, his mother’s face was painted black, she wore a black suit and white gloves, and stood with her arms outstretched beckoning applause. Instead there was an awkward titter. ‘Oh my God,’ murmured the crowd.

The moment passed and Branson prepared himself for his speech and the presentations. Four golden medallions hanging from gold necklaces had been specially manufactured for four women who had worked exhaustively throughout the year. Among the four who had been told in advance they would receive the necklaces was Ali Yates, Branson’s project co-ordinator. She had not taken one day’s holiday for eighteen months. Her unselfish loyalty, working eighteen hours a day without any extra pay, had damaged her health. Despite her devotion, she had recently sensed Branson’s inexplicable hostility. One week earlier, at another party, he had ordered her to hand over a special Virgin Atlantic jacket made only for the balloon team to Joan Thirkettle, the ITN journalist. In Sugarloaf Mountain, Thirkettle, an attractive, serious woman, had edged unusually close to Branson, especially after preparing his obituary in case the balloon expedition failed. At their hotel, Yates had one evening watched Thirkettle walk naked out of Branson’s bedroom, clutching her clothes. ‘I’ve just had a sauna,’ Thirkettle unconvincingly explained. A special relationship, Yates assumed, existed between Branson and Thirkettle. That evening at the party, Yates looked uneasily at the woman journalist. She resented losing her jacket and wondered why Branson did not fulfil his promise to find a replacement. Her thoughts were interrupted by Branson’s opening remarks and then his words of appreciation to ‘the four women without whom our success would not have been possible. We’ve had special presents made for them. Step forward, Laurie, Lisa, Fiona …’ Yates knew she was the fourth but was thunderstruck. Branson did not say, ‘Ali’ but instead gushed, ‘Joan Thirkettle’. Yates stood paralysed. ‘I feel gutted,’ she whispered to her neighbour. ‘That was meant for me. He’s betrayed me.’

Branson ignored Yates as she left the party close to tears. Later, revealing that exhaustion from work had brought her close to a breakdown, she received a telephone call from Branson’s office. ‘Richard’s paid for a two-week holiday for you in Greece,’ said a secretary speaking on behalf of Britain’s ninth wealthiest man. Yates was grateful until she arrived in the Mediterranean. The accommodation was uncomfortably cheap and her ticket, she discovered on her return home, was a standby. Barred entry to her flight, she slept overnight on an airport chair.

Branson knew Ali Yates would never complain. He credited her silence to loyalty and gratitude. His caprice was never questioned by the beneficiaries of his generous hospitality. Celebrity and success had hardened his attitudes, especially towards a handful of disenchanted admirers. There appeared no reason for him to doubt the public’s adulation. His tiny airline, thanks to the boat race and the spectacular balloon flight, was also acclaimed. Wherever he travelled, he was greeted as a hero. Only a negligible minority carped that Branson, like his balloon, was an overblown container of hot air. To Branson’s misfortune, the dissidents included some powerful voices in the City.