Her customers . . . She felt a buzz of real excitement. This must be exactly how all the early industrial revolution pioneers had felt when an inventive glimmer suddenly ignited into a spark of reality. She stopped and looked back lovingly at number three.
The sun spiralled relentlessly over the sepia tones of Whiteacres and the greyness of the units, the glaring dazzle exaggerating every defect of the warehouse: the grubby windows, the streaky, flaking paintwork, and all the dust and grime which she thought she’d managed to clear. It looked appallingly shabby. She grinned. If she was going to invite potential customers to see the premises, maybe she’d have to arrange the viewing days during stormy weather.
Oh God. She couldn’t put it off any longer. Knocking at number five, she instinctively took a step backwards when the peephole opened.
The same pair of asexual eyes peered at her. ‘Yes? Oh right, yes! It’s you! Lovely to have a chance to get to know you at last! Hang on a mo while I get the doors unstuck. . .’
There was a scuffling and a high-pitched curse, then the door creaked open to allow a six-inch gap of darkness. Billie held her breath as the door juddered, then swung open.
‘There! That’s got the bastard,’ the pale wispy person she’d seen on her first visit said with some pleasure. ‘It can be a right bugger sometimes.’
It was very hot inside. And dark. There were no overhead tights, just dimly glowing red bulbs in wall holders. Billie followed the skinny shadow along a corridor.
‘I’m Mike, love. Director, producer, sandwich maker and general factotum. I know you’re Billie – Sylvia said – pretty name.’ With a lot of huffing and puffing he tugged at a sliding door. ‘We really ought to get these buggers oiled. Ah! There we go, love. It’s a bit cooler in here.’
It was. Thanks to a rank of cold-air blowers the shed was deliciously air-conditioned. It was also brilliantly lit by a dozen huge spotlights dangling from overhead gantries. Billie hardly dared to look at the lighted set. Expecting to see pneumatic peroxide blondes in see-through scarlet, and men looking like Engelbert Humperdinck in wing collars and bulging thongs, she gazed at the scene in front of her in amazement.
Two middle-aged men in sober suits sat sweating under the halogen brightness, holding a sheaf of insurance documents and looking extremely nervous. A harassed sound man was tinkering with a boom microphone while the cameraman, totally ignoring the signs, had obviously taken advantage of the break and sloped off to a darkened corner for a crafty cigarette. It was as far from pornography as you could get and Billie laughed, immediately disguising it is a sneeze.
‘Bless you.’ Mike raised pale eyebrows. ‘Oh, it’s all right, love. You can make a noise. We’re not running.’
‘You make proper films!’ She gazed around at the cameras, the microphones, the lights. ‘I’ll murder Sylvia! She knew!’
‘And you thought we peddled porn,’ Mike chuckled. ‘I know that too! Sylvia said she’d wind you up. She’s a bit of a one for a tease, is our Sylv. Right now, if I explain what we need, maybe you can say whether you can help?’
Guspers, it turned out, made mainly television commercials for small companies. They also did promotional videos. They employed six people and had an editing suite, a cutting room, a make-up area and a greenroom of sorts. They didn’t, it seemed, have enough space to store all their props, backdrops, spare bulbs, rolls of cable, and a host of other vital bits of equipment without which sixty seconds of instructive selling would never flash onto millions of screens each evening.
Billie, being careful not to step on the myriad writhing cables, followed Mike around, said hi to the other employees, who were all eating Pot Noodles in the greenroom, which wasn’t green at all but Billie didn’t like to say anything – and said there was absolutely no worries – she’d be able to solve their storage problem at a stroke.
They then shook hands and Mike said he’d start shifting stuff this afternoon if that was OK. Billie, having explained about the planned leaflet drop, said she should be back by four and she’d look forward to seeing him then.
Standing outside again on the weed-infested concrete, and now knowing what was going on inside each of the units, gave her a sudden rush of belonging. This time the smile came from deep within. For the first time in two years she felt free – and truly happy. Before the bubble burst, she belted back into her warehouse.
Sylvia had worked wonders. There were five hundred A4 flyers in a neat pile on the desk, with a note saying, ‘Hope these are OK. They’ll certainly do the bizz for now. I’m going back to my desert island for a spot of lunch – good luck, dear. See you later. PS – hope you enjoyed your close encounter with the porn merchants!!!’
Billie laughed and ran her fingers over the brightly coloured illustrated flyers.
‘Pascoe’s Warehousing. Safe and Secure Storage. Reasonable Rates.’ She’d run out of alliteration then and tried waxing lyrical. ‘Items large or small? We’ll take them all!’ OK, so that might not be exactly true, but she had tons of space and would try not to have to turn anyone away at least to start with. The flyers added the Whiteacre address and her mobile phone number and she reckoned that if she could shift all the leaflets, and if even twenty people replied, then she’d be more than satisfied.
Humping the flyers into the back of the Nova, she paused outside Sylvia’s door. Steel band music was limboing from beneath the shutters and Billie could visualise Sylvia, probably wearing a sarong, sitting under the infrared lamp, lunching on pineapple and mango and sticking voodoo pins in a little wax effigy of her Douglas. She grinned. She wouldn’t disturb her now – but later she’d buy her the biggest box of chocolates in the world to say thank you.
She leaped into the Nova and almost leaped out again. If the temperature was going to remain in the eighties she’d really have to remember to park her car in the shade. Getting in again, this time more gingerly, she turned the key in the ignition and headed away from the warehouses on her first business trip.
It was four thirty by the time she returned. Her feet were screaming from tramping up and down various paths and driveways, and her knuckles were raw after having been trapped by various aggressive letter boxes. Billie now felt total solidarity with postmen. Still, she’d shifted almost all the flyers. Targeting every little trading estate within a five-mile radius, plus the Whiteacres Retail Village, and making a last haphazard dash round the housing estate too, she felt she’d covered a fairly wide field. The last half a dozen or so leaflets she’d pushed into several likely-looking reception areas on the airfield.
Mike and the Guspers crew were waiting for her and made an immediate start on stacking their surplus gear.
‘You’re OK for insurance, aren’t you?’ Mike paused in the middle of off-loading what looked like battered leatherette hat boxes. ‘Only some of this stuff is irreplaceable. We’ve got our own insurance, of course, but we’ll need to know if you’re covered.’
Billie, making a frantic mental note to contact Maynard and Pollock first thing in the morning, nodded confidently. She certainly had insurance cover for the premises – but she couldn’t remember anything about stock. And would there be extremely hefty premiums to pay to safeguard other people’s property? Oh God, maybe running a warehouse wasn’t going to be as easy-peasy as she’d thought.
What on earth would happen of a fire swept through the shed overnight? Sylvia’s brochures wouldn’t be too much of a problem, she supposed. After all, they could simply be reprinted; but the stuff from the film company was probably unique – and Zi-Zi’s clothes certainly would be.
She shuddered, thinking of Zia and Isla’s rage if anything should happen to their costumes. She’d definitely get insurance sorted out tomorrow. And security. Relying on an elderly mortise lock and sticky hinges probably wasn’t the best form of protection she could offer potential clients. There would no doubt be further pitfalls along the way – hazards she hadn’t even contemplated yet. But somehow, it didn’t feel daunting. It was a challe
nge, like the computer: something to get organised so that the business would run efficiently. Maybe, by the end of August when she’d collected her first payments from her neighbours, she might even be able to afford headed notepaper and a proper telephone system.
‘Your phone’s ringing,’ Mike said, shouldering past her with rolls of cable.
Spooky! He must read minds. ‘Can’t be. I haven’t got a phone. Oh, you mean the mobile . . .’
Where had she left it? Hell – how bloody inefficient. It might be a customer. Mind you, it was more likely to be Miranda organising her social life, or her mother with news of the arrival one of her sisters-in-law’s impending babies. Still, you never knew . . .
She rushed into the office. The phone was still chirping away, and Billie had to hurl aside the remaining flyers and various piles of paper before she discovered it.
‘Hello . . . Hello . . .’ Nothing. Just silence. But the crackle indicated that the caller was still there. ‘Hello – Miranda? Mum?’
‘Oh, excuse me,’ the voice was female, husky, and definitely didn’t belong to Miranda or Faith. ‘I think I may have got a wrong number. This is obviously a personal line. I was trying to contact Pascoe’s Warehousing.’
‘Sorry. This is my mobile – I’m afraid . . . What?’ Oh, bugger . . . ‘Actually, yes, this is Pascoe’s Warehousing. I’m – er – still waiting to have my BT line connected. Can I help you?’
The husky voice hesitated a bit, sounding almost as if, after that introduction, it very much doubted it. ‘Well, I hope so. Someone from your company left a flyer this afternoon. We may be interested . . . I wondered if I could come and see the premises. If they’re suitable it may be just what we’re looking for. What time do you close?’
‘Never,’ Billie said faintly. ‘I mean, well, if you want to see them today I’ll be here until – oh, seven at least.’
‘Christ,’ the husky voice sighed, ‘I’ll be halfway down a bottle of Chardonnay by then. I could be with you in fifteen minutes.’
‘Fifteen minutes would be great. I’ll look forward to seeing you.’
Billie switched off the phone and collapsed into her chair. A customer! Well, almost. Just like that. And within a couple of hours of delivering the leaflets!
Seventeen and a half minutes later and no one had arrived. Guspers had finished unloading their stock, a hastily hand written invoice had been signed, and Billie, having walked round the shed – which looked far more impressive now that some of the emptiness was occupied – felt very let down.
What was it her mother used to say? Everything worth having is worth waiting for? The best things are left unhurried? Fine, if you’re six and three-quarters and longing to be seven and there’s all the time in the world – not so hot if you’re twenty-six and a half and trying to justify your existence.
The buzzer on the double doors suddenly wheezed into life.
‘Calm down,’ Billie told herself, scrubbing away at any stray mascara smudges beneath her eyes and pushing her hair into its layers as she rushed across the shed. ‘It’s bound to be Mike or someone else from Guspers with a piece of equipment they’ve forgotten, or Sylvia, or Zia and Isla just popping in for a chat . . .’
‘Pascoe’s?’ The husky voice echoed from the other side of the door. ‘Either I’m blind or someone has stolen your nameplate.’
What nameplate? She’d have to get a nameplate. ‘It’s – um – being refurbished. You’re at the right place. Just coming. Won’t keep you – it’s – just – a – bit – stuck – ah!’ Billie tugged the door open and froze.
The owner of the husky voice looked like a living, breathing Barbie doll.
‘So sorry I’m late.’ She didn’t sound it. ‘I had an awful job finding you. The numbers aren’t very clear, are they? I got someone with bad teeth doing double glazing first.’
Billie snapped her mouth shut. She eased it open again, hopefully into a smile. ‘You must have started at the wrong end of the row. Please, come in.’
She couldn’t help staring: the woman had a waist-length waterfall of silver-blonde hair, catwalk make-up, and an impossible figure encased in a black leather jump suit. Billie, in jeans, canvas boots, and one of her brother’s tatty Steve Tyler vests nicked after the wedding party, wanted to scuttle away into a dim corner.
Instead, she threw her arms open wide in an expansive gesture, praying that it didn’t make her look too much like Julie Andrews cresting that bloody mountain. ‘Well, here we are! I’ve only just started, but as you can see I’ve already got customers. I haven’t actually got my rates printed yet, but I can offer weekly or monthly. Or I can work out daily if you’d prefer. And we’ll have plenty of shelf space round here and –’
‘Do you have fork-lift trucks?’ The blonde woman tossed back her hair. Her expression remained impassive. The make-up was very thick. ‘And qualified warehouse personnel? And twenty-four-hour access?’
‘Er – no.’
She pouted and thrust out a leather-encased hip. ‘What about bonding?’
‘Oh, yes. No problem. I mean it was a bit strange at first – I’ve only just moved in – but everyone is really friendly and –’
‘Security bonding.’
Jesus. Not having a clue, Billie added it to her mental list for Maynard and Pollock and crossed her fingers. ‘Oh, yes. Of course. And – er – I’m sure the rest won’t be too much of a problem. I mean the fork-lift and everything. Fred ’n’ Dick – I think you met Fred, you said? – well they’ve got one, and we’ll all muck in to carry things and if you want access at strange times I only live in Amberley Hill and –’
‘I want space.’ The woman started jack-booting up and down the shed, muttering measurements under her breath. Then she turned and repeated the operation widthways. Eventually she stopped and nodded. ‘Your space is fine. I want first refusal on all of this.’
Billie, still slightly overcome by the marching, reeled. ‘What? You want to – um – rent the floor . . .? All of it?’
‘Yes.’ She smiled then, her fuchsia Ups peeling away from perfect porcelain teeth. ‘Well, my boss does. He’s tied up at the moment but, of course, he trusts my judgement implicitly. I’m here in my capacity as his personal assistant.’
Billie felt there was a smidgen too much emphasis on the personal.
‘Here.’ She fished inside a breast pocket of the jump suit and handed Billie a card. ‘I’ll go back and tell him this looks OK. You work out some monthly rates on square meterage and e-mail me in the morning. The address and phone numbers are all on the card. Hold the space for me until then – OK?’
‘OK.’ Billie decided now was not the best time to mention she’d never actually got as far as e-mail. ‘And what exactly will you be wanting to store, Ms – um . . . ?’ She looked down at the card and almost hooted with laughter, only just managing to turn it into another useful sneeze at the last moment. Estelle Rainbow! Never on your life! She quickly bit her lip. ‘Er, Ms – um – Rainbow?’
‘What do you think?’ Estelle Rainbow tapped the card dismissively with a long fuchsia talon. ‘I would have thought it was abundantly clear from the card.’
Billie, who hadn’t got past the outlandish name, skimmed through the rest. ‘Estelle Rainbow. Sullivanair. Whiteacres Airport.’
Sullivanair? Holy shit!
Estelle, fluttering flirty eyelashes and dropping her voice even lower, made the huskiness hugely sexy. ‘I’m Mr Sullivan’s secretary and PA.’ She caressed the Mr Sullivan with her tongue. ‘And what Mr Sullivan wants is somewhere to store a plane.’
Chapter Eight
Life, Miranda reckoned, fell into two parts: the expectation and the reality. And so far the reality had truly kicked the expectation in the teeth. She wished that she could just have something in her days – and nights – that would make her leap out of bed in the morning, like Billie did, singing along to the Breakfast Show and actually looking forward to the new day.
She had Follicles and Cuticle
s, of course, which was doing very nicely, and the expansion of the unisex side of the salon into beauty therapies for men had gone incredibly well. But there was still something missing. A huge chunk of nothingness in her life. Miranda sighed heavily. She was very nearly thirty. She wanted a secure, stable relationship. She wanted a baby. Miranda, the good-time girl, felt it was time to settle down.
It was something she’d have to keep well hidden beneath her trendy fcuk pull-on.
Still, even if work and her social life were a bit downbeat, at least it wasn’t all gloom in the flat. Billie was positively blooming; zinging with energy, constantly waxing lyrical over her damned warehouse, and now getting ecstatic about the arrival of a plane!
Miranda, alone in Follicles and Cuticles, shook her head as she peered through the lavender slat blinds at the bustling Spicer Centre. Billie and planes simply didn’t go together. Billie and planes were like . . . well, pilchards and custard. Mind you, she didn’t begrudge Billie her happiness. Far from it. After her awful experience with the dodgy Damon from Newton Abbot, Billie really deserved a break. It just seemed strange that she should find it in a breeze-block shed and with something aeronautical . . .
Looking on the bright side, at least Billie’s infatuation with Whiteacres meant that she’d be staying on in Amberley Hill. Miranda wasn’t sure she could stand it if Billie suddenly upped sticks and went back to the bosom of her family. Billie coming to live in Amberley Hill had been the best thing that ever happened to her. Billie moving into the flat had probably saved her from sliding down a very slippery slope.
Watching the crowds sluggishly toil through the August heat in the precinct, Miranda wondered if any of them would have enough energy left to hurl themselves through Follicles and Cuticles’ lilac doors for an impromptu cut and blow-dry. Throughout the scorching summer she’d closed the salon at lunchtimes to allow Kitty, Pixie and the other girls the chance to sit in the municipal park and bare as much is possible. She always stayed in herself, just in case.
Walking on Air Page 8
