It was seriously time to take stock. Billie sat at her new desk and, still not confident about the computer, reached for a Biro and a notepad. Wimpish, she knew. She’d done computer studies at school, but as the teacher had looked an awful lot like Ruud Gullit she hadn’t concentrated much. And on the Devon Argus, she’d filed her copy on to the regulation AppleMac without having a clue how it worked. She really should have listened . . .
Reduced to basics, she drew up two columns on the first page of the notepad: ‘What I Can Do’ and ‘What I Can Afford’. The second would probably remain blank.
So – what were her skills? Small-time journalist. Driver. She wrote them down. She could cook, but nowhere near as well as her mother, and anyway, Simon Maynard had said no food, so there was no point in writing that down. What else? She chewed the end of the pen. Well, she could play football, but that didn’t seem to have much potential. Oh God . . . she stared at the sadly brief list. Was that really all she had to offer the world?
It looked like it would have to be the driving, then.
The double doors would slide back and were plenty big enough to get vehicles through, and the shed itself could house half a dozen large cars in comfort. So, limousine hire – or executive chauffeuring – was a definite possibility.
OK then, so, what would she need? Well, cars would be a help. Or one at least. Any more than one and she’d need to employ staff – which would mean paying wages . . . So, one car. Which, of course, posed a new problem. She looked despairingly at the ‘What I Can Afford’ column. She couldn’t afford to buy one. There simply wasn’t enough money left. Not even if she traded in the Nova and hocked the Joseph dress – which was the most valuable possession she had – could she even think about buying a respectable Mercedes or a BMW, which was what she was going to need.
Of course, on the other hand, she could tinker with the Nova and offer her services as a taxi at the airport. But Reuben’s Cabs had always had Whiteacres’ franchise – and she somehow couldn’t see being able to fight off Reuben in a takeover battle, even if he’d let her enter the fray. Which of course he wouldn’t, because Reuben held the joker. The truth card.
‘Bloody hell.’ She closed the notepad and slumped forward across the desk. It was at moments like these that she wished she hadn’t been stupid enough to give up smoking. ‘What on earth do other people do?’
Pushing aside the thought that other people, like Sylvia and Zi-Zi’s, probably had really thriving businesses going in their back bedrooms before they even approached leasing agents for massive premises, Billie knew there were two courses of action. One would involve going cap in hand to the bank for a loan, and the other – far less frightening – was literally on her doorstep. She could always visit her as yet unseen neighbours at number five, and pick their brains.
Of course, if this was fiction, her neighbours would all have arrived on her first morning, bearing home-made cakes and jugs of scalding coffee, and offered to roll up their sleeves and help her decorate the shed. In fiction, there would have been half a dozen cheery neighbours with half a dozen brilliant ideas on how she could make her fortune on a shoestring and with no expertise in any field whatsoever. In fiction, she’d be knocking up baskets of dried flowers to sell to the well-heeled in next to no time, or making seashell mirrors, or suddenly discovering that she had hidden talents – and with the help of the neighbours – turn the shed into a theatre and put on shows to save local orphanages from closure . . .
Billie, in the real world, tucked her vest into her jeans and set off to see if she could stave off insolvency.
As there was no bell at number five, she thumped on the door. A plate simply said Guspers. No one answered. The sun was scorching her neck. She thumped again. A sliding peephole opened in the flaking woodwork. A pair of androgynous eyes peered out suspiciously.
‘Hi! I’m Billie Pascoe, and I’ve just moved into number three, and I wondered –’
The eyes disappeared and the peephole slammed shut. Oh, great. So much for the myth of shiny happy people. Billie turned away. Maybe they had good reason for not wanting her interference. Maybe they were a drugs cartel, or money launderers, or makers of pornographic videos . . .
‘Hello, sweet.’ The door opened behind her. The androgynous eyes belonged to a frankly matching face and body. ‘Sorry. Can’t stop right now. We’re in the middle of shooting.’
Billie blinked. Number five housed hit men? Were debts settled and scores evened at point-blank range? Did the airfield perimeter industrial units house Whiteacres’ answer to the Corleones? Surely, it wouldn’t be allowed? On the other hand, Simon Maynard hadn’t mentioned no firearms . . .
Surely, though, this pale, wispy person couldn’t be right up there with Desperate Dan Mclver or Nick The Knife Borsino or whatever Quentin Tarantino called them, could it?
‘OK. Fine. Sorry.’ Billie backed away. Best not antagonise them. ‘I’ll – um – come back later when you’ve – er – finished.’
‘Okey-doke. Give us about an hour. We should have got everything wrapped up by then.’
‘Oh, right – super . . . See you later . . .’
Not. Billie was still smiling maniacally as the pale wispy one closed the door. Wrapped up? Christ. What did they do then? Mummify the bodies in black sacks and wait until nightfall for disposal? Oh God – if it wasn’t human disposal, it might possibly be animals . . . She exhaled slowly. Could this be one of those secret Government- funded research places that she and Miranda had campaigned against so vigorously, marching through the Spicer Centre, waving banners, and standing shivering in the sleet outside Woolworths, collecting signatures on petitions?
A rather shabby brown Mini was bouncing across the cracked concrete from the direction of the airfield. Shading her eyes from the sun, Billie watched its erratic progress until it juddered to a halt outside unit two. Tough, she thought, if it was someone delivering or collecting brochures for Sylvia. She walked towards the car, prepared to tell them that Sylvia’s island was deserted at the moment but that she’d be happy to take in any packages.
‘Billie?’ The Mini’s driver hurled open the door. ‘Billie? It is you, dear, isn’t it?’
‘Sylvia!’
Sylvia, still in shorts, shades and T-shirt, extricated herself from the Mini’s tight confines. Her smile was ear to ear as she bounded across the concrete. ‘Billie! What on earth are you doing here?’
It took five minutes of stereo babbling to establish that Billie now leased unit three, and that Sylvia had splashed out the last of her invested pension fund on the Mini – although brown wouldn’t of course have been her first choice for a colour, dear – so drab – so that she could get a wav from Douglas without having to rely on taxis. There was a lot of hugging and exclamations and excitement.
Sylvia, reeking of Ambre Solaire, eventually held Billie at arm’s length and surveyed her delightedly. ‘Oh, this is going to be wonderful! Another chum to add to our little family! So, dear, what brilliant scheme have you come up with, then?’
Billie scuffed the concrete. Even in the towering shadows of the row of warehouses, the humidity was stifling. Sweat was snaking between her breasts. She didn’t want to admit that she didn’t have a clue. Not to Sylvia. ‘Well, um –’
Suddenly, remembering Sylvia’s teetering boxes taking up all the floor space in the tropical paradise, and the tact that she’d been going to offer to take in a brochure delivery, and the lack of space in Zi-Zi’s unit, and all the firms in the overcrowded retail village, not to mention the airport, she took a deep breath. ‘Actually I’m – er – thinking of warehousing.’
Billie clutched at the words as they grew – like the idea – from nowhere. ‘Using my space for other people’s storage –’ She had to bite back the triumphant grin. That really was it. It was exactly what she could do. ‘I’m – um – going to be developing the business locally and – um – before long – er – be rivalling Pickfords . . .’
‘Super!’
Sylvia hugged her. ‘Just what we could do with. I’ll certainly be your first customer, and Zia and Isla – you’ll love them, dear – will be ecstatic. We can make use of your premises and expand our own at the same time! And it’ll be so easy for you, dear! Now, let me pop in and get my rotunda stocked, then I’ll come over to you and we’ll run through a check list, shall we?’
Still beaming from the beautiful simplicity of the scheme, and actually wanting to rush off and start canvassing people, Billie was practically jigging up and down on the spot.
‘Oh, yes please. I suppose I’ll need cards and fivers – and a slogan – and maybe an advert on local radio . . .’
She stopped. There was one problem that could halt this corporate extravaganza dead in its tracks. ‘Sylvia, people at number five . . . are they into something iffy?’
Sylvia, who had bent double inside the Mini to remove a clutch of carrier bags, straightened up. ‘The Gusper boys? Have you seen them?’
‘Briefly.’
‘And you don’t approve?’
‘Not if they’re doing what I think they are.’
Sylvia shook her head. ‘Then that might cause a few stumbling blocks. Look, dear, let me get myself sorted, and I’ll come in and tell you all about them.’
Chapter Seven
Billie’s peculiar feeling of unreality stayed with her as she wandered back into the unit. She had an instant business – well, almost. She’d discovered, albeit accidentally, her own niche, her own gap in the market. Maybe it wasn’t exactly what she would have chosen; there wasn’t much excitement or glamour in running a storage warehouse, after all, but who cared?
Her feet echoed empty drumbeats on the floor as she crossed the vastness. But at least warehousing was something, and it was something positive, and it could possibly lead to something else. And, more importantly, it was all hers. She drifted into the office and sat behind her desk. The business would flounder or flourish because of her. She would never be beholden to Reuben again.
Although the computer was switched off, Billie ran her fingers over the keyboard. It gave her a feeling of continuity. Of achieve. She was sitting, behind her own desk, at her own computer, in her own office, at the inception of her own business. Pascoe’s Warehousing . . . Wow – Pascoe’s Warehousing . . . She played with the dead keys a bit more, feeling increasingly like the businesswoman of the year.
So, to business. Well, Sylvia would be a certain customer, and Zia and Isla were definite probables, which meant she could kick off the venture with the excess holiday brochures, and the boxes of eighties and nineties fashion. Naturally, she’d give Sylvia and Zi-Zi’s special rates, and also Fred ’n’ Dick at number one, who might want somewhere to store surplus sheets of glass. And there were bound to be other avenues just waiting to be explored . . .
She hadn’t had a clue how much she should charge for storage, but decided to phone other warehousing companies that afternoon, pretending to be a potential customer, and ask for their literature. As soon as it arrived she would undercut them all. So far so good.
Next step . . . ? Billie pulled a face – oh God, it had to be done – and surely the best time was now while the confidence was still bubbling? With only a moment’s hesitation, she switched on the computer, and slowly opened the Instructions For Idiots handbook.
By the time she heard Sylvia click-clacking across the concrete floor, Billie had plucked up enough courage to produce an optimistic twenty files on the computer, one for each would-be customer, with a column for the goods they were depositing, where in the warehouse they were to be kept, and the rate she would be charging them. Of course, the blank columns could be filled in later when she’d worked out all the details.
Not wanting Sylvia to know what a techno-novice she was, she hid the handbook and reluctantly closed the files, totally convinced that if she ever tried to open them again they’d be gone. Then, holding her breath, just to check, she moved the mouse tentatively and clicked again on the appropriate icons. There was a lot of whirring and a few bleeps and then . . . Hallelujah! There they were! Magically, the files appeared exactly where she’d hoped they would be.
‘Oooh! Paint! What a pong! Lingers like blazes on a hot day, doesn’t it?’ Sylvia bustled through to the office, carrying a tray of tall glasses overbrimming with pink liquid, lime segments and ice cubes. ‘Lovely colours, though, dear. I do like the patriotic kitchen. I had a little squint on my way through . . . Now, I’ll take eight shelves to start with. How much are you going to charge?’
‘Er – I actually don’t know.’ Billie sat back from the computer, ‘It was something I was just thinking about. Do you want to hold off on a decision to use me until I’ve worked things through?’
‘No, I do not!’ Sylvia set down the tray with a clatter. I’m just desperate to get rid of my overspill and take on more work. And I’m sure Zia and Isla will feel the same.’ She pulled up the second chair. ‘You just name a price and I’ll cough up and then we can straighten things out at the end of the month. Now, I took the liberty of ringing the Gusper boys from my place, and they’d love to see you at lunch time. They could be really good customers, dear.’
Billie sucked in her breath. ‘Not if they want me to store murdered animals.’
‘What?’
‘Not if they’re into anything to do with vivisection or –’
‘Dear God!’ Sylvia hooted with laughter. ‘If they were, dear, do you think they’d still be living and breathing? I’d have killed them – not to mention Zia and Isla, who are vegans and who’d have none of that sort of thing! Goodness me! Whatever gave you that idea? No, the Guspers are sweeties!’ Sylvia handed Billie one of the tall glasses. ‘Real loves. Frantically busy, of course, which is why we never see much of them, but super people.’
‘But what do they actually do in there?’ Billie asked, savouring what she thought was possibly a strawberry daiquiri, and feeling mightily relieved. ‘Is it something to do with films?’
“Spot on!’ Sylvia chortled.
‘Not mucky vids?’
“That’s what I love about you young people! You act like you’ve invented sex – behave as if there’s nothing that will shock you – then you turn into Marv Whitehouse at the drop of a double entendre.’
‘Not at all. I just don’t want to be stocking someone else’s hard-core pornography and be raided by the vice squad before I’ve even got started, that’s all.’
Sylvia chuckled. ‘Understandable – but business is business. You can’t really afford to be choosy – or prudish.’
‘No, I realise that. But there’s a lot of difference between entertaining smut and downright exploitation. I’d never condone anything that degraded women.
Sylvia chuckled again. ‘I’m sure you wouldn’t, dear, and neither would I, so stop looking so outraged. I’ve just found that as one grows older, one’s mind becomes broader in direct proportion to one’s waistline. Despite my Douglas getting a tad po-faced, I’m not averse to a bit of late-night raunch on Channel 4 – and if the boys at Guspers are into titillation, then it’s fine by me.’
Billie shut up then. She felt vaguely uncomfortable, discussing things like this with Sylvia anyway. It was like talking about sex with her mother. Completely unthinkable. She smiled. Miranda discussed sex with her mum all the time. Billie had been shocked rigid when she’d first moved into the flat to find them poring over a ‘you too can have twelve orgasms a night article in Cosmo. Faith never took anything more outrageous than the Farmers Weekly.
Sylvia rattled her ice cubes. ‘So, dear, to get up and running you need to let people know that you’re here and what you do. Advertising is a must. You’ll need business cards, of course – there are some nice little winters in Amberley Hill who can sort them out for you – and leaflets. . .’
‘Can I get those done at the same time? Will they take ages?’
‘Well, not really, but if you want to have an early blitz why don’t we knock up some flimsies on your PC, d
ear? You could have them printed in half an hour and be distributing them straight after lunch. Striking while the iron’s hot, so to speak. . .’
‘Er . . .’ Billie spent a lot of time twizzling her drink, ‘actually, I’m not too sure how the computer works on – an – that sort of thing . . .’
‘Good Lord – piece of cake.’ Sylvia drained her glass. Tell you what, you scribble down what you want to say, and I’ll play about with the layout and artwork and stuff while you’re seeing the Gusper boys. OK?’
‘More than OK . . . Billie looked at her with admiration. You’re so surprising – I mean, I didn’t think –’
‘That someone of my advanced years would be au fait with the World Wide Web? Well, to be honest, dear, I only started taking computer studies at evening class because it totally pissed Douglas off. He’s such a Luddite that he wears wellington boots and Marigolds to change a lightbulb. Now, you write down what you want to say and leave the rest to me . . .’
Half an hour later, Billie looked at her watch. Five to one. Lunch time in anyone’s language. Time to visit the porn merchants. Leaving Sylvia skimming merrily across the keyboard, she walked outside into the stifling July heat.
She didn’t care how prudish she appeared to Sylvia, she bought as she hurried across the broken concrete, she really didn’t want to do business with the Guspers if they were into sleaze. She didn’t want to offer a home to reels of grainy grime – but she was also well aware that to turn them down completely would be folly at this early stage in her career. Maybe she could just offer them shelf space for their dirty raincoats?
Several medium-sized planes were revving up on the airfield’s concrete strip, taxiing towards their takeoff slots, and a couple of smaller ones were beetling about, zigzagging across the grass. Billie watched them for a moment. What the heck: she might as well drop some of Sylvia’s leaflets off at the airport too. There must be companies inside the perimeter fence who might make use of storage space. Being an aerophobe really shouldn’t make her picky about her potential customers.
Walking on Air Page 7
