‘Only in my fevered imagination.’ Sylvia smiled ruefully. ‘But I do so like playing the part. No, my dear, it’s far more mundane. I’m a sorter, packer, and distributor of dreams for the travel industry.’ She looked at the bewilderment on Billie’s face. ‘I send out the brochures to the shops, dear.’
Billie followed Sylvia to a revolving dais in the centre of the room. Stacks of brochures were piled on the floor, and, expertly, Sylvia flipped up half a dozen from each to make a complete set as the rotunda revolved.
‘Simple,’ she said, ‘and deadly dull. So – I spice things up a bit. I’ll never go to any of the places I see in these little beauties –’ she tapped the highly coloured glossy brochures ‘so I made my own resort here. The guys who do the deliveries and collections all think I’m bonkers – but who cares, eh?’
Billie shook her head in admiration. ‘So the brochures come from the printers, and you sort them and bag them into mixed lots and then –’
‘They go off to the travel agents. About ten from each our company in every batch. I even do my own shrink – wrapping. These travel shops don’t have storage facilities or the hundreds of brochures that are issued, so it’s nonstop work for me. All year round. It was a gap in the market, you see. They pensioned me off from the civil service and was out of my mind with boredom. My Douglas told me he’d divorce me if I wasted my endowment – but I thought balls, Douglas, it’s my money. So I approached all the big holiday companies and put myself forward as a brochure co-ordinator – and well, here we are. He’s never forgiven me for being successful. Oh, that sounds like the kettle. Excuse me a sec . . .’
Sylvia’s scheme was so simple – and dead clever. Billie stared at the tropical splendour in admiration. If only she could do something half so inventive. If only she had the nous to tell Reuben that she was definitely leaving the taxis, and plunge Granny Pascoe’s few thousand into a similar plan . . . A plan that would bring independence and some self-respect . . . She sat down next to the waterfall. Could she do something like this? Obviously, yes – as long as she had the premises, the idea, and a ton of courage. Billie knew she didn’t have the first, definitely didn’t have the second, and was feeling rather doubtful about the third.
‘There we are.’ Sylvia handed her a mug and sat beside her. ‘Nothing like a cup of tea, even on the hottest day, is there?’
Sylvia suddenly sounded so much like Billie’s mother that she felt desperately homesick. Next weekend she was going home to Devon for a special family party. She wished fervently that it was now, that she could hijack the Granada and belt off down the A303 and never have to make another decision as long as she lived.
She sipped her tea, trying to wipe out images of the farm, and her parents, and her brothers, and how uncomplicated life had been before she’d attempted to be grown-up. ‘Er and all these warehouses? They’re all owned by small businesses like you, are they?’
‘God, no!’ Sylvia looked shocked. ‘Not owned, dear. Leased. From Maynard and Pollock in Amberley Hill. Five-year leases, with fairly stringent clauses attached, but worth it in the long run. If you had more time I’d introduce you to the others. A nice little crowd we’ve got here now. Chummy, you know?’
Billie could imagine. Chummy had been sadly lacking in her life in the last couple of years. Oh, Miranda had become good friend, and Miranda’s friends had become hers, and most of the taxi-drivers were OK – but she had no sense f belonging to Amberley Hill. No identity. No roots.
‘So,’ Sylvia swallowed her tea with an appreciative murmur, ‘you know all about me. What about you? I mean, you don’t look like a cabby, dear. In those navy trousers and the Aertex shirt you look like a schoolgirl. What made you want to do this for a living?’
Billie stared into her mug, playing for time. The real reason was appalling; the often-repeated fictional version somehow no longer rang true. She shrugged. ‘Oh, you know. It was something I just drifted into . . . It’s not what I really want to do with the rest of my life . . . Actually, I’m just planning a change of direction . . .’
‘Good for you. Any particular direction?’
‘Not really. Maybe running my own car-hire firm or chauffeuring.’
‘Go for it then,’ Sylvia beamed. ‘You’ve got so many advantages, dear. Being young, free and single – oh, I mean, you are single, I suppose?’
‘Very single.’ Billie finished her tea and stood up, smiling at Sylvia. ‘Thanks so much for showing me your unit. I really admire you for doing this – and, you’ll be all right, will you? With your husband and everything?’
Sylvia stood up, straightened her T-shirt, and shrugged as she followed Billie to the door. ‘God knows, dear. Douglas is a man. Who knows where the hell you stand with men? I’m damn sure I don’t.’
And neither, Billie thought, blinking outside in the searing sunshine, do I.
Chapter Two
Having collected a rather bilious-looking family from Whiteacres Airport and deposited them at the Four Pillars Hotel in Amberley Hill, Billie pulled the Granada back onto the taxi rank outside the Spicer Centre, still unable to shake the ingenuity of Sylvia’s tropical paradise from her mind.
The sun spiralled down across the tops of the grimy advertising hoardings, hitting the ground, sparkling on rainbow pools of oil and glinting from shards of broken glass in the gutter. Billie stared at the beauty springing unbidden from the detritus. That was exactly how it had been at the industrial estate. Huge grey buildings, looking dank and cold and uninviting, and yet hiding all manner of dreams.
Several of Reuben’s drivers, in front of her on the Spicer Centre rank, ambled over and leaned companionably against the Granada in the sun. The talk was idle, like the day. Soporific and sleepy, Amberley Hill dozed in the midday heat. An Elizabethan market town, it had clung on to most of its half-timbered buildings, glorious small churches, and the touristy things like the crumbling Guild Hall. The Spicer Centre, therefore, with its chrome and glass shops, fibre-optic fountains, Mulligan’s Genuine Irish Ale House and Bazooka’s Nite Spot, having been built slap bang in the middle of all this historical splendour, was considered something of a carbuncle by the older residents. Billie, who had never known Amberley Hill any other way, rather liked it.
Only half listening to the salacious gossip going on around her, her head still filled with dreams, Billie leaned back in the sun-hot driving seat and gazed up at the advertising hoardings. Most of them seemed to have buxom women n jacked-up bras. No wonder Reuben Wainwright had picked this spot for his taxis. One of the elevated chests had a ‘For Lease’ notice slapped across the cleavage. Billie grinned, imagining Reuben taking up squatter’s rights.
For lease . . . property. . . Whiteacres . . . industrial units with office space . . . parking . . . contact Maynard and Pollock . . .
Billie frowned. Where had she heard the name before . . . ? Of course! They were the leasing agents for Sylvia’s unit, weren’t they? So were these the same units? The same chummy community that had saved Sylvia from the boorish Douglas and given birth to her Utopia?
She reached for her mobile phone. OK, so it was crazy, but if she didn’t try, she’d never know . . . and of course it was horrifically close to the airfield, but she wasn’t going to be involved with the planes, was she? She could afford to rent a similar building to Sylvia’s with her savings, surely? And then . . . She paused in punching out the number. Ah, yes. First stumbling block. And do what, exactly? Still, there was plenty of time to think about that later. It wasn’t as if she was actually going to lease the unit today, was it? She wasn’t that impulsive. She was only going to look.
The voice that answered at Maynard and Pollock was totally noncommittal. It immediately put her on hold and played Greensleeves’. Billie, trying to keep calm, drummed out the rhythm on the steering wheel.
Greensleeves came to an abrupt halt. ‘Simon Maynard. And how may I be of assistance?’
Pulling shut the door on the gaggle of taxi-drivers, Billie exp
lained about seeing the premises for lease at Whiteacres and asked if she could make an appointment to view.
Simon Maynard only barely kept the boredom out of his voice. ‘I have a window available in my schedule for later this afternoon. Four thirty? Of course the vacant lots have been empty for some time so you may not see the units at their best. Do you want to meet at my office, or shall we touch base at Whiteacres?’
Having agreed on Whiteacres, Billie rolled down her window and smiled at her fellow cabbies. ‘Doesn’t look as though there’s much going on here. I think I’ll pop back to the office and see if Vee needs a hand.’
As a man they unpeeled themselves from the Granada and moved in a clump to the next cab along. Billie, still wearing an ear-to-ear grin of delight because she’d actually done something, switched on the engine and headed for the office.
Reuben Wainwright was knocking back antihistamines and looking suicidal. ‘You habbn’t fidished?’
Billie shook her head, trying not to beam. ‘Just having a breather. The rank’s full. You look terrible, by the way, and the pollen count forecast is way up. Why don’t you go home?’
‘And hab you lot skive the middit my back’s turd? Dot a bloody chance.’
Veronica herumphed loudly over her radio. Billie perched on the edge of Reuben’s desk. ‘Reuben, can we talk? Well, can I talk and can you listen without shouting? You know I said a couple of weeks ago that I wanted to leave, well –’
‘You’re dot leabing.’ Reuben wiped his nose and his eyes. ‘If you dink you’re leabing you’re mad. What do you dink you’re going to do?’ He sneezed violently. ‘Oh, bugger. Cad we talk about dis later? Wed I feel better?’
‘Sure.’ Billie felt almost sorry for him. After all, unpleasant or not, he lived alone in a rather dismal bedsit. It was pretty sad to think that, when he felt ill, Reuben could find more comfort at work than in staying at home. ‘But I am going to leave, and,’ she leaned perilously close to him, considering the power of his sneezes, ‘there’s nothing you can do to make me change my mind.’
‘We’ll see about dat.’ Reuben snuffled. ‘Dote count your chickens – or your centre forwards.’
Billie wineed. Still, later this afternoon she’d know whether or not Whiteacres was an option. And if it was, then she’d be able to tell Reuben that his hold over her was finished.
Until she pulled onto the cracked concrete for the second time that day, and parked behind the burned-out hatchbacks, Billie had hoped that she’d be able to have a quick word with Sylvia, but the desert island unit’s double doors were closed. Maybe her Douglas had arrived, beating his manly chest, and carried Sylvia, kicking and screaming, back to suburbia. Billie sincerely hoped not.
Simon Maynard was waiting for her and looked even more depressing than his warehouses. Also bunged up with the seasonal malaise, he was tall and thin and his glasses were lopsided.
‘Going like hot cakes, these premises,’ Simon Maynard said, wrestling with the keys at number three, immediately contradicting what he’d said earlier about the units being empty for a while. ‘Very popular venue, of course. And ideal for export. Are you intending to export?’
Billie presumed he meant via the airstrip. Did the planes really make huge cargo runs to Düsseldorf and Bruges, then? They looked as though they’d be lucky to get to Southampton.
‘Er, no . . . well, not immediately . . . In fact, this is just a first step. I mean, I’m not seriously intending to sign up for one of these today or anything. I just wanted to have a look.’
Simon had managed to get the key to turn and was ineffectually tugging at the door. Billie, feeling sorry for him, helped. It scraped open suddenly, catapulting them both inside.
‘Christ!’ Billie clapped her hands to her nose in the 3 darkness. ‘What’s that smell?’
‘I can’t smell anything.’ Simon Maynard fumbled for the light switches. ‘But then I have got a touch of hayfever.’ The lights all faltered into candleglow brightness. Simon looked hopefully at her. ‘There! Now what do you think?’
Billie’s first thought was that Granny Pascoe would be hovering overhead urging her only granddaughter to take the money and run to the nearest car dealership and buy herself something sporty, or have a good holiday, or update her wardrobe, or all three.
She gazed around the acres of cold, damp space with a sinking heart. Girders soared away into the dark unknown and despite the heat of the day a piercing wind whistled through the gaps in the door frame. ‘Um – well – it’s difficult to say – but, oh God. Could we just find out what the smell is, please?’
Simon referred to his clipboard. ‘You’ve got full services. Still all connected. A kitchenette and lavatorial facilities. It may be something from there . . .’
Great, Billie, thought, snuggling deeper into her uniform Aertex shirt. The thought of staying at Reuben’s seemed really quite attractive. She trotted behind Simon’s gaunt figure in the shadowy light. She kept bumping into things and somewhere she could hear water dripping.
‘The facilities –’ Simon threw open a peeling cream door and stood back to let her through in what Billie considered to be an act of total cowardice.
Kitchenette and lavatorial facilities really should have Maynard and Pollock sued under the Trade Descriptions Act, she thought, as the bile rose in her throat. There were probably rats. No, on second thoughts, any self-respecting rat would have deserted this particular sinking vessel many moons ago.
‘There is a bit of a whiff,’ Simon acknowledged, pulling a handkerchief from the recesses of his Daks and wrapping it protectively round the lower part of his face. ‘Nothing that a good clean-up couldn’t cure though, I’m sure. Our other lessees have worked wonders. Now, would you like to see the office?’
The office looked as though it had been recently hit by a Scud missile.
‘Plenty of room for all your hardware,’ Simon said briskly. ‘Be lovely after a lick of paint. Now are there any questions?’
Can I go home, please? was top of the list. Billie shivered. Still, being reasonable, this had to be it at its absolute worst, didn’t it? She rattled off the few things she’d decided she ought to ask. Simon Maynard had obviously been asked them all before by the way he churned out the answers. Just the sneezing and nose-blowing added variation.
A five-year lease, non-negotiable. No livestock, no cooking, no subletting. OK, so far? Billie nodded. He continued with no HGV vehicles without prior permission from the airfield authority, no high-frequency radio ditto, no fumes, gases or noxious substances. Still, OK? Billie nodded dutifully for the second time.
She cleared her throat. ‘And the money?’
Simon Maynard muttered into the hanky. Billie, sure she hadn’t heard him right, asked again. She had. God Almighty! Still, the alternative was staying as a taxi-driver. There was no contest. And Sylvia had turned her place into a little goldmine – and the other units probably housed competitors to Richard Branson – and it would mean she was her own boss . . . Oh, God . . . Should she . . . ? Was she brave enough . . . ? She’d been impetuous before and it had ended in disaster . . .
‘Um – could I leave it for a couple of days? Think it over . . . speak to someone?’
Simon Maynard sneezed explosively. ‘Not if you want to secure this unit, no. I’ve got someone else interested saw it this morning – and, of course, you won’t find anything of this size for miles around for anywhere near the same price.’
Billie closed her eyes. Then she opened them. ‘OK . . .’
Simon paused in blowing his nose and straightened his glasses. ‘Is that an affirmative to purchase the lease?’
Slowly, Billie nodded. For the third time that afternoon. Like a traitor’s kiss.
‘Lovely.’ Simon practically broke into a canter as he headed towards the door. ‘I’m sure you won’t regret it. Shall we go back to the office and finalise things?’
Billie looked doubtfully around the rancid mausoleum and agreed.
‘Yo
u’ve done what?’ Miranda, Billie’s flatmate, peered at her though a veil of pungent scented steam. ‘What the hell possessed you?’
‘Reuben being a git and the fact that I’m nearly twenty seven.’ Billie perched on the bathroom stool. ‘And I don’t want to be a wage slave any more.’
‘You know Reuben will go ballistic when you tell him.’ Miranda, head down in the wash basin, made a sort of superior snorting noise. ‘And I don’t blame him. You must be barking. I’m all for striking out on your own, doll, but you have to think about income and expenditure and stuff. You have to have a business plan. You can’t just lease millions of square feet of empty space without plans.’
‘I can and I have. I’ve written the cheque and I take over at the end of the month.’
Miranda’s voice was still censorious, if a little echoey. ‘Christ! But I thought you liked being a taxi-driver.’
‘I did.’ Well, she had. When Reuben had offered her the lifeline she’d clutched it with both hands. But she’d stopped drowning in guilt a long time ago. ‘I don’t any more. It’s just time to move on. Don’t worry, I won’t miss out on paying the rent.’
‘That’s not my main concern,’ Miranda muttered. ‘I mean, doll, what exactly are you going to do with this unit now that you’ve got it?’
Billie shrugged. ‘I’m not exactly sure . . . But I’ve got a whole three weeks to come up with an idea. I’ve only got to give Reuben seven days’ notice, but I’ll stay until the end of the month anyway.’ She watched Miranda ooze red slime through the length of her hair, and thought it might be politic to change the subject. ‘What on earth are you doing?’
‘Dyeing organically. Plum and bilberry. It’s new. I thought I’d better try it out on myself before I depilate the customers. I could give you a freebie if you came to the salon.’
Walking on Air Page 2
