Walking on Air

by Christina Jones

Miranda ran Follicles and Cuticles in Amberley Hill’s Spicer Centre. It had started off as Wendy’s, a wash-and-set hairdressers for ladies of a certain age, but Miranda had developed it into a full-blown beauty salon and aroma therapy parlour in the time that Billie had been sharing her flat.

  ‘No thanks. I’m happy with bimbette blonde.’

  ‘Suit yourself.’ Miranda’s voice was still muffled. ‘Personally, I think you’re completely crazy. You’ve got a nice steady little job – and you’re going to chuck it up for a massive old shed full of nothing! Anyway, why are you so keen to ditch Reuben? He’s a bit of all right.’

  ‘Bloody hell!’ Billie nearly tumbled from the stool ‘Reuben? He looks like a pirate – which is probably being unfair to pirates. And he’s as old as the hills and nasty with it.’

  Miranda wrapped her dripping scarlet hair expertly in a towel. ‘He’s the right side of forty and a dead ringer for Pierce Brosnan. I wouldn’t kick him out from under the duvet.’

  Billie grinned. Miranda, who had married at sixteen and divorced at eighteen, had spent the twelve years since feverishly searching for the Right Man, and had never turned down anything. As long as it shaved and had a pulse, Miranda considered it worth the effort. But Reuben? Holy Moses!

  ‘Yeah, well, apart from getting shot of Slimeball Wainwright, I just want to do something different with my life. I’ve really had enough of ferrying people about and being insulted.’

  ‘Oh, come on,’ Miranda blinked a scarlet rivulet from the corner of her eye. ‘You’ve always said most of your passengers were sweeties. You’re becoming very bitter and twisted. You want to find yourself a man to take your mind off things. It’s bloody murder sharing my house with a nun. That Damon has a lot to answer for.’

  Miranda knew nothing about the Kieran Squires and London segment of Billie’s past. Billie had explained away her sudden appearance in Amberley Mill and her subsequent self-imposed celibacy as having been hurt badly by her boyfriend back home and never trusting another man. Sadly, because of Miranda’s own unfortunate experience of disastrous youthful relationships, she’d become particularly tenacious on the subject. Billie had had to give this mythical teen heart-breaker a name and a personality. Now even she’d begun to believe that Damon from Newton Abbot lad once existed.

  Billie stood up before they could get into some embarrassing conversation about Damon’s sister, whom she’d had to invent as her best friend at school. Miranda could ever understand why Billie didn’t contact Denise and ask her to mediate with her sibling. And it got worse. They lad a dog called Jasper and took their family holidays in Babbacombe.

  Billie could sense trouble looming again. ‘Do you want a drink? I got a stonking tip this morning from a lovely lady called Sylvia who is really responsible for me deciding to rent a warehouse, and I picked up a couple of bottles of plonk on my way home.’

  At the mention of alcohol, Miranda perked up. She nodded, spraying scarlet streaks across the tiles. The bathroom looked like something from Psycho. ‘OK. But we’ll have to make it a quick one or three. Keith’s taking me to Bazooka s tonight.’

  ‘Keith? This would be Keith from the bank? Keith from the insurance office? Keith the postman? Keith who just happened to be delivering the charity envelopes? Keith the geriatric gardener from the old people’s home? Keith the –’

  ‘Keith from the garage. He MOT’d my car, remember? He’s pretty good on rubbing down bodywork. He’s certainly got husband potential. I’ve asked him to stay over next weekend – when we have the booze-up for Kitty’s birthday . . .’ Miranda paused in the bathroom doorway, her face now streaked with crimson. ‘You hadn’t forgotten, had you?’

  Billie pulled a face. Oh God! Next weekend she was going home to Devon. ‘I won’t be here. I’m going to my brother’s wedding reception – remember?’

  Billie’s youngest brother, Ben, and his girlfriend, Maria, had married secretly on some Caribbean island the previous month. Billie’s parents had been determined to give them a proper Pascoe party on their return.

  ‘Oh, bugger, doll! It won’t be the same without you! And Kitty’ll be really mad . . .’

  Billie sighed. ‘I’ll have to apologise to Kitty. And you’ll be so wrapped up in – er – Keith that you won’t even notice I’m missing. I really want to go home, anyway. I’ll have to pick my moment in the festivities to tell Mum and Dad that I’ve spent Granny Pascoe’s money on a warehouse – oh, and that I’ve left my job.’

  ‘Don’t be silly.’ Miranda wrapped Billie in a vermilion hug. ‘It’s all pie in the sky. Anyway, your parents’ll make you see sense and get your money back.’ She dripped a few more scarlet drops onto Billie’s white uniform shirt. ‘And I’ll bet a million quid that you won’t leave Reuben. He’ll never let you go. You wait and see.’

  Chapter Three

  ‘Dot a bloody chance! Doe way! Over by dead body!’ Reuben Wainwright swivelled in his chair and glared at Billie across a wodge of Kleenex. ‘It’s the height of subber and we’re rud off our feet and –’

  The rest of the invective was lost in a sneeze.

  Billie flinched. ‘But I’ve been telling you for ages that I wanted to leave.’

  Reuben raised black eyebrows above bloodshot eyes. ‘And I’be beed telling you can’t leabe. You owe me, Billie. Big time.’

  ‘Yes I can, and no I don’t.’

  Billie glowered at her employer across the crowded taxi office. As Reuben didn’t have a room of his own, the conversation was being carried out over the crackling of the radio and Veronica’s squawked directions. Several cabbies were savouring a late lunch-time cup of tea and a cigarette, and listening avidly.

  Reuben blew his nose vigorously. ‘Ah, that’s better. I can breathe – not that you care.’ He leaned closer to Billie. ‘Are you having bother with the punters? Trying it on, are they? I told you to let me know if they gave you a hard time.’

  ‘They don’t.’ Well, they didn’t. Not really. The more laddish of her passengers seemed to find having a diminutive blonde driving their taxi something of a challenge, but it was nothing she couldn’t handle. She’d coped with drunks every weekend for two years, and once she’d had a couple Kama Sutra’ing all the way to Bognor. Then there had been that woman in the final stages of labour whose body-pierced birth partner had tried to Feng Shui the Granada in between the roars of agony. But she’d always coped. ‘That’s not why I’m going. And you can’t stop me – I just have to hand in my notice. I don’t owe you anything. Not any more.’

  Reuben started swivelling again. Maybe, Billie thought, it helped to clear his nasal passages. His eyebrows arched even more dramatically. ‘Short memory, sweetheart. And, just supposing you did leave here, just what exactly do you intend to do?’

  ‘I’ve already done it,’ Billie said triumphantly. ‘I’ve taken a lease on a warehouse because I want to be my own boss. I want –’

  ‘A warehouse? Your own boss?’ Reuben’s eyebrows disappeared. ‘With your track record? God Almighty! You can’t just set up in business, you know. And,’ he swivelled towards her again, ‘people check things. You start up in business, and there’ll be all sorts of investigations into your past.’

  ‘So?’ Billie hoped that the bravado in her voice was also evident on her face. Somehow she doubted it. ‘I haven’t got anything to hide.’

  ‘Stone me! Do you want me to tell them why exactly you’ve been working for me? How you came to be a cab-driver?’

  Trickles of age-old fear spiked down her spine. ‘That was ages ago. Anyway, who are these people? I’ve signed the lease, paid my money, and I pick up the keys to the unit next week. I certainly won’t need a reference from you, so I don’t think anyone will be bothering you with questions about me.’

  ‘Oh, don’t you? You’d better hope not, because I’ve got a very long memory, sweetheart.’

  Billie glared at the dark features. She’d never liked Reuben; now she almost hated him. He couldn’t hold that over her, could he?
It had been foolish, yes, but not illegal.

  ‘So, you’re on the run again . . .’ Reuben twirled a ballpoint between his fingers and laughed nastily. ‘You were running away from London when we met, weren’t you? Listen, babe, I could have made a fortune out of that story. I could have retired on the profits from the tabloids. But did I? No. Out of the kindness of my heart, I gave you a job, set you on your feet, and kept my mouth shut. No, like I said, you owe me one.’

  But she didn’t. She’d worked off her debt a thousandfold. And it was ancient history now, anyway. Surely, there wasn’t a newspaper in the land that would be remotely interested.

  OK, Kieran Squires was still famous: he still played in the Premiership, he appeared on television sports quizzes, and had even had a short run of adverts for toothpaste, but he and Fenella and the children were rarely featured in Hello! these days.

  ‘Hiya, Billie.’ Veronica suddenly removed her headset and looked up from her microphone. ‘I didn’t know you were here. Ooh, your hair looks nice. You been to Follicles?’

  ‘Follicles! Bollocks!’ Reuben swivelled wildly, obviously angry at the diversion. ‘Your daft mate with the pink hair been at you, has she?’

  Billie nodded. ‘Miranda thinks very highly of you, too. In fact, she quite fancies you.’

  ‘Sad cow,’ Veronica muttered under her breath before reclamping her earphones.

  Reuben chuckled. ‘Yeah, well she’s got a fairish pair of pins on her. No knockers to speak of, though. And she’s a bit of an old slapper, by all accounts.’

  Jesus. Billie glared at him. ‘She is not. She’s just exercising her right to sexual freedom.’

  ‘Which you’d know all about . . .’ Reuben rocked backwards and forwards, his eyes travelling up and down her body. ‘Still, I’ll say one thing, Kieran certainly had good taste.’

  ‘Shut up!’ Billie nodded towards Veronica, who had stopped directing four cabs through the Amberley Hill town centre snarl-up, pushed back the headset once more, and was listening with interest. ‘You promised!’

  Reuben tilted his chair back. ‘So I did. But I also remember some promises from you too. And jacking in the job wasn’t one of them.’

  ‘I never promised I’d stay for ever. I was very grateful. I still am. I just want to move on.’

  Her fellow cabbies were sitting back, watching the exchange with unashamed amusement. This clearly was a far more entertaining lunch-time diversion than the Sun crossword. Billie knew that rumours had been rife when she’d arrived. The drivers had all thought she was Reuben’s bit of totty. A year and a half later and it was very apparent that she wasn’t, but they were still all convinced that Reuben, King of the Misogynists, had the hots for her.

  Billie, fortunately, knew differently. Or maybe it wasn’t so fortunate. Wouldn’t it have been preferable to have Reuben Wainwright loving her truly, madly, deeply, rather than the unpleasant reality? Just how long did he think he could carry on with the emotional blackmail? She stood up and moved across to Veronica’s desk. ‘Do you want me to do the shoppers this afternoon, Vee? I don’t mind tootling about in the centre or popping out to Whiteacres even. It would free up some of the guys for the longer runs. After all, I’m finishing at five today.’

  ‘Ta. Nice one.’ Veronica didn’t bother to remove her cigarette from the corner of her mouth. ‘If you’ve finished bawling Reuben out, you could start at the Spicer Centre and pick up on the rank, an’ then call in later.’

  ‘Fine.’ Billie looked back at Reuben. He was blowing his nose and she dived in while he was off guard. ‘OK, then – I’m going back to work now, and I don’t care what you say – you’ll have my notice in writing on your desk first thing in the morning, and I’ll be out of here by the end of the month.’

  It was gratifying that she slammed the door to a rousing round of applause from her fellow drivers.

  Two hours later, Billie pulled up outside her unit. Her unit . . . She smiled, acknowledging that she already thought of it as hers. Switching off the Granada’s radio and hoping that Vee wouldn’t have an apoplexy trying to contact her, she leaned back against the sticky seat and gazed at the breeze-block mountain shimmering in the scorching sun. It was all hers – almost – and this time, whatever happened, she’d succeed or fail alone. This time, if it all went pear-shaped, there’d be no one to blame but herself.

  Sylvia’s doors were again closed, with a huge neon notice pinned to them and a message scrawled in marker pen saying, ‘Run away to sea! Back in the morning! Any deliveries – drop at unit one!’ Billie laughed. At least the grim-sounding Douglas hadn’t dampened her sense of humour. She was really looking forward to having Sylvia as a neighbour. She couldn’t wait to see Sylvia’s face when she realised who’d taken unit three.

  Through the windscreen, Billie watched a tiny speck in the deep blue sky grow larger and larger as it approached the crisscross of runways. That was something else she’d have to cope with. She’d never make a go of the business – whatever it turned out to be – if she had a panic attack every time she heard the whine of something airborne hammering overhead.

  She continued to watch the plane as it circled for landing. As it came closer, she could just see the pilot and his passenger looking cramped inside the transparent body, and gave an involuntary shudder. A private plane, she guessed, belonging to the Aeroclub, whose logo was dotted about Whiteacres with jaunty 1920s-type pictures of brightly coloured machines doing nose dives through fluffy white clouds. She followed it with her eye as it circled over one of airport’s buildings and disappeared from view.

  The name Sullivanair was emblazoned in huge silver, purple and emerald-green lettering across two of the largest hangars in the distance, the word quivering in the heat. Billie, who had always flown on holiday with British Airways, had never heard of Sullivanair. Not that she’d expected to, of course – for years she’d thought Virgin Atlantic was Richard Branson’s answer to the Stax label.

  Still, perhaps next week, when she came back from Devon, she’d start her aeroplane therapy. She might even walk across to the airport and actually touch a plane. At the end of the month she’d be able to collect the keys and unlock her own door. She unpeeled the Aertex shirt from the leatherette seat. She’d have to think about getting business cards printed, and headed notepaper. Then she’d be free of Reuben for ever . . .

  The night when they’d met would burn for ever in her memory. It had been four months into her relationship with Kieran Squires, just before Christmas, she had been hopelessly in love with Kieran’s looks and his gentleness and his total lack of arrogance, despite his status. God – she shivered – it was all so horribly, embarrassingly real again.

  They’d come giggling out of that country club, she and Kieran, slightly squiffy and very happy, and decided that neither of them was remotely fit to drive. It had been cold, with the wind howling down from the north, threatening snow, and they’d snuggled together and she’d thought about how lovely it would be to sleep with him later, curled against his muscular strength, listening to the gale outside in the darkness.

  ‘We’ll get a taxi back to London,’ Kieran had said. ‘I can get someone to collect my car in the morning. Let’s not go back to your flat. We’ll go to a hotel, shall we?’

  And she, foolishly besotted, had shivered in her little strappy dress and her stupid spindly sandals and said what a great idea that was. She’d never been to Kieran’s home – but that was because he was famous and he said that his manager said the paparazzi would pounce on them, so they always stayed at the flat he’d found for her, or in hotels. She’d so quickly got used to Kieran’s wealth; hotel rooms and car-collectors were available at the drop of a hat to people in Kieran’s position, after all.

  She’d giggled – God help her – that her bag and her jacket were still in his car, and Kieran had said leave them, they could be sorted out in the morning too. They’d got his plastic and their love to keep them warm . . . She groaned at the memory. He’d actually sa
id that, and then she’d thought it was so sweet . . .

  So Kieran had dashed back into the club and phoned for a cab picked at random from a selection of cards on the wall, and they’d waited, shivering and laughing, until the illuminated roof light that heralded Reuben’s Cabs glimmered through the darkness. She’d been pleased to see the taxi – delighted – had leaped in to the back seat, Kieran close beside her, and carelessly told the dark, saturnine driver that they wanted to go all the way to London.

  It had all turned sour then. The driver, looking in his rear-view mirror, had said yes, he supposed they did, and had driven off very slowly . . . and he’d kept looking. And – Billie shook her head – she and Kieran were messing around in the back seat and her dress was all rucked up and she thought the driver was a bit of a peeping tom . . . and she’d glared at him. Then he’d stopped the cab, leaving the engine running, and she’d seen the Amberley Hill signs in the distance and thought he was going to mug them.

  But of course, he hadn’t. He’d just turned round, dismissing her with a pitying stare, and then calmly told Kieran that he’d be better off getting home to his wife and children.

  God! The horror shot through her again. The shame. She’d wanted to laugh – Kieran wasn’t married! Children? God, no! Kieran had sworn to her that he didn’t even have time for regular girlfriends, what with the training schedules and the matches and everything . . . and she’d been so stupidly delighted that he saw her as often as he could. She’d even felt privileged. And now he was faffing and prevaricating and trying to bluff his way out of answering what the taxi-driver had just said . . .

  Billie shook her head at her own naivety. She’d believed Kieran was single because he’d told her so. She had only asked once, although he told her often.

  She’d turned on him in the taxi, demanding that he tell her the truth, praying that he wouldn’t . . . And then the taxi-driver – bloody Reuben – had said that every football fan in the country knew about Fenella, Kieran’s Page Three wife, but Billie hadn’t . . . She’d sat there in that stupid skinny dress, looking and feeling like a cheap tart – and hurting. She still felt the hurt. She’d loved him and trusted him. There was a wealth of difference between having an affair with a married man when you knew, and being hopelessly in love with a man who had sworn he was single . . .