Walking on Air

by Christina Jones

  Just in case, Miranda thought sadly, would probably be engraved on her headstone. It was probably why she was still intermittently dating the rather dour Keith from the garage, just in case nothing better turned up. She let the blinds drop and looked around the salon. Everything was neat and tidy, and had been for the last hour. There were only so many times she could straighten magazines, wipe round basins, and rearrange hairbrushes. She caught a glimpse of herself in one of the vaudeville mirrors and groaned. Hell, she looked terrible! The plum and bilberry dye was beginning to fade and there were bags under her eyes. God, were there bags!

  She peered more closely. Surely those weren’t wrinkles? And the start of jowls? Miranda bunched the skin round her chin. She ought to give herself a bit of serious tender loving care, not to mention a facial and a change of make-up. Well, why not? In fact she could probably do with a complete rethink.

  Tall and angular, with the sort of face people would probably refer to as interesting if they referred to it at all, Miranda knew that her eyes were her best feature. If she were her own customer, she’d definitely suggest she should make more of them by ditching the thick black eyeliner and bat-wing false eyelashes and simply highlight them with smoky smudgy emphasis. She swivelled round in front of the mirror. Oh yes, and maybe she should tell herself to stop wearing the freaky hairstyles and the all-black outfits.

  Maybe she should just stop thinking about it and bloody well get on and do it.

  She took a deep breath. Or should she? It didn’t do to be too drastic, she always told her customers that. Change one thing at a time. Perhaps, then, she’d leave the hair for a while. She actually quite liked it. But – as for the rest of it – there was no time like the present. An empty salon, and all the time in the world – not to mention a mouthwatering array of goodies to experiment with. Miranda pulled on a lilac overall and headed through Follicles’ lavender archway for Cuticles’ make-over city.

  ‘Any chance of a haircut?’

  Bugger. Miranda, in the middle of massaging cucumber cream into her throat, peered towards the doorway. Should she say they were shut for the rest of the day? That she was simply stocktaking? She’d never turned away a customer yet, but with a strawberry mask drying fragrantly on her face, her plaits clipped on top of her head like a springer spaniel’s ears at meal times, and all her eye make-up scraped off to give her a blank canvas, she probably looked the epitome of heroin chic.

  ‘Sorry!’ She shouted towards the door as loud as the face pack would allow. ‘I – um – I’m just the cleaner. We’re dosed for lunch. Could you come back in an hour?’

  ‘No you’re not and no I couldn’t, you daft bat.’ Reuben Wainwright loomed in the archway. ‘I’ve got less than half an hour, my hair looks like Worzel Gummidge, my hayfever’s driving me mad, and I want to talk to you.’

  Shit. Shit. Shit. She scrubbed at the face pack, and scraped some of the green slime from her neck. She’d been cutting Reuben’s hair for several months now, and always, always, made sure that she looked perfect. Now he’d seen her at her absolute worst. Sod it.

  ‘OK. Give me a couple of minutes to get this lot off. Take a seat. Anywhere will do.’

  Quickly mascaraing and slapping on some lipstick, and releasing her plaits from their anchorage, she snatched off the overall.

  Reuben Wainwright was, as she’d kept telling Billie, a total dream. OK, he was definitely a laddish bloke of the first water, but she blamed that on the fact that he probably used Loaded and GQ as his bibles. Underneath it all, Miranda was convinced, was a lonely man who threw up antagonism as a defence against being hurt. She recognised the symptoms, and wondered if there had been a Mrs Wainwright in the dim and distant past who had taken the house, the kids, and the hatchback, and left Reuben heartbroken and railing against the rest of the female gender.

  Billie had said, no chance: Reuben was just a pig. Billie, who got on so well with everyone, really seemed to dislike him – and for the life of her Miranda couldn’t understand why. Might it be a case of Billie protesting too much? Was their hidden passion going to be veiled in fights and sniping until they realised that they couldn’t live without each other? Miranda sincerely hoped not.

  Checking that her black T-shirt was firmly anchored into her black jeans and that her hair wasn’t too spiky, she fixed her professional smile and sauntered back into Follicles.

  ‘Sorry about that. I thought I’d just try out some of the new products.’ She tucked a towel round Reuben’s shoulders, trying not to take too long, trying not to touch his skin. ‘I never like to use anything on my clients that I wouldn’t use on myself.’

  Reuben eyed Miranda’s green neck suspiciously through the mirror. ‘You look like you’ve escaped from Sellafield. And before you ask, no I don’t want any of that poncy stuff – no shampoo, no conditioner, no nothing. Just a trim, OK?’

  Miranda spritzed Reuben’s hair from the squeezy water bottle and flicked a comb through it. Blue-black and glossy, it fell into perfect layers. It was the sort of hair that you could roll naked in. Lifting each section with the comb, and concentrating on snipping the ends level, she smiled at him in the mirror. ‘Been on your holidays yet?’

  ‘I don’t take holidays. You?’

  ‘Much the same.’ She tried again. ‘You must be busy at the moment. The taxis, I mean. All these hot days and sultry nights. Everyone wanting to go out and get drunk.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  Hell, this was more difficult than usual. Working in silence for a while, she flicked Reuben’s hair back from his forehead, hotly aware that most of her was pressed against him. She stepped back a fraction but the heat was still there. ‘Er – doing anything special at the weekend?’

  ‘Trying to shake off this sodding hayfever.’

  Miranda snipped and clipped. ‘Have you tried aromatherapy? We do a really good infusion of –’

  ‘I’ll stick with antihistamines and inhalers and the doors and windows tightly closed, thanks.’

  ‘Whatever. Still, you’ll be able to watch the telly with your feet up, won’t you? Plenty of sport on over the weekend. Football and that.’ She stood back and lifted the layers. They melted coldly through her fingers like liquid. She swallowed. ‘Er, do you like football?’

  Reuben shifted a bit in his chair. ‘Yeah. But not as much as Billie does.’

  ‘Billie? No, you’ve got that wrong. Billie hates football. Apparently she had to play it all the time with her brothers when she was a kid. She walks out of the room when it’s on. There? OK?’

  ‘Fine. Thanks.’ Reuben stared at her through the mirror.

  ‘Funny, that. I could have sworn Billie was a football fan. You should ask her . . . Still, she’s good at keeping secrets, isn’t she?’

  ‘Do you want me to blow it dry?’

  Reuben shook his head. ‘No. It’s not wet. Don’t muck it about. And don’t change the subject.’

  ‘I wasn’t. I just thought that if you weren’t feeling too good then it mightn’t be a great idea to go out with damp hair.’

  ‘You sound like my bloody mother! So how’s Billie doing? Did she say I didn’t want to accept her resignation?’

  Flicking at Reuben’s shoulders with the clothes brush, Miranda bit her lip. Clever. That’s what he wanted to talk about. Billie leaving. She’d known he wouldn’t let her go easily. She’d warned Billie. Tricky one. What should she say here, then? Just how much had Billie told Reuben about her new business? Miranda decided to opt for caution.

  ‘She hasn’t said very much, honestly. I think she’s very happy at Whiteacres – and that it’s all working out well. . .’

  Reuben stood up. He was taller than she, and didn’t move away. ‘She hasn’t confided in you?’

  ‘About what? The business? Nothing much to confide, as far as I can see. She’s warehousing and it’s working out nicely – although it’s early days, of course. I suppose as long as she didn’t set up a taxi firm in opposition to you, you don’t have to worry.�
�

  She moved away first. If Reuben thought he was using his height to intimidate her, then he was very much mistaken. The sensations his closeness aroused were miles away from fear.

  ‘Oh, I’m not. I don’t have to worry about anything.’ Reuben pulled his wallet from his back pocket. ‘Billie’s the one who should be worrying. She’s taking a hell of a risk.’

  ‘Why on earth should she worry?’ Miranda again opted for prudence as she punched the cost of the trim into the till and took Reuben’s Visa card. ‘She seems to have stumbled on a lucrative idea that’s taking shape nicely, and she’s certainly happier than she’s been for years–’ She bit her lip. Sod it. Possibly not the brightest remark to have made under the circumstances. ‘That is –’

  ‘I’m sure she is. But I still think she’ll find that leaving me was a huge mistake.’ Reuben smiled, taking the edge from the words. ‘She’s a good little driver, but she’s got an awful lot to learn about business. It’s not an easy ride.’

  Bless him! Miranda thought, handing him his receipt. Billie had got him all wrong. He wasn’t going to make things difficult for her at all. It was just that he was concerned about her future welfare.

  She stopped and frowned. Oh, sod it. That must definitely mean that Reuben fancied Billie, mustn’t it?

  Reuben pocketed the receipt and reached for his jacket. ‘To be honest, although you’ve been sharing a flat with her for the last two years, it strikes me that you don’t know much about Billie at all. Exactly how much do you know about her past? Has she ever told you just why she came to Amberley Hill in the first place and why she was working for me?’

  Miranda beamed. The broken romance with Damon was much safer ground.

  ‘Oh yes, of course she has! She was escaping from Devon because her ex-boyfriend, Damon, had dumped her. She wanted to make a fresh start and she thought that driving a cab was a really good way to get to know people in a new town and . . .’

  Now what had she said? Reuben’s eyes were crinkled with laughter. He was practically chewing his lips to prevent the merriment escaping.

  ‘I’ve got to give her a gold star for imagination.’ Still laughing, he headed for the door. ‘And you deserve ten out of ten for gullibility, sweetheart.

  ‘Oh, get away, doll! You mean Billie’s got a secret past? Never!’

  ‘Ask her.’

  ‘Yeah, I might just do that.’

  Miranda wanted to laugh out loud. Billie? With skeletons? Well, there might be something a bit iffy about Damon, of course, but who these days didn’t have past relationships they’d rather not talk about?

  It had taken Miranda a very long time to recover from tar husband, Noel’s, duplicity in running off as he had, only a year into their marriage, with her elder sister, Lexie. The cure for the heartbreak – far too much to drink and far too many men – had become something of a habit. With rock-bottom self-esteem, before Billie came along, Miranda knew that she’d pressed the self-destruct button. It had been an excruciatingly lonely time. And if Billie, like she had, had tried to assuage the loneliness and a broken heart with dozens of wine glasses and numerous strange bedrooms, why the hell should it bother anyone else, least of all Reuben?

  Reuben suddenly sneezed violently. Miranda handed him a tissue from the box on the desk. ‘You want to get yourself home to bed, doll.’

  ‘Is that an offer?’

  Laughing, she shook her head. ‘I’ll be sweating it out on Bazooka’s dance floor tonight – like mostly every other night.’

  ‘Enjoy clubbing, do you?’

  To be honest, the nightly fiasco of wearing something new, and dolling herself up to the nines, and pretending to be having a ball, was becoming a chore rather than a pleasure. All she really wanted to do after a shattering day at work was curl up on the sofa with the telly, a takeaway, and the man of her dreams.

  ‘It’s OK. Better than being alone . . .’

  Reuben nodded sympathetically. ‘Tell me about it. Maybe you and me and Billie should get together and form some sort of sad saps’ club, huh? Oh, well – I’d better get back to the joys of keeping the shoppers and boozers of the town mobile. See you – oh, and be sure to give Billie my love, won’t you?’

  Miranda watched Reuben’s departing back view as he strode jauntily out into the Spicer Centre. He was lonely. She knew it! And gorgeous. And he very obviously had the hots for Billie.

  Slowly, she began to wipe round the basin and sweep up the blue-black shiny snippets of Reuben’s hair on the floor. She bent down and picked up a handful. The strands were cool, like silk. Unable to help it, she twisted them into a knot and slipped it into the pocket of her jeans.

  AUTUMN

  Chapter Nine

  Miranda peered at the pan bubbling on top of the stove. ‘This doesn’t look quite right, does it? D’you think there’s too much paprika? Oh, sorry, doll, what were you saying?’

  Billie, who hadn’t slept much, was practically bursting out of her Eeyore pyjamas with impatience. ‘Haven’t you been listening at all? You know this Boeing thing’s arriving from Southampton docks this morning!’

  After weeks of argy-bargying with Maynard and Pollock, and meaningful discussions over the phone – e-mail hadn’t yet materialised – with Estelle at Sullivanair, Billie had leased nearly all of her floor space.

  ‘And it’ll be there for ages – well, a month at least while they renovate and paint it, and maybe longer if they can’t find anywhere else to keep it – which will keep me solvent, and –’ She stopped and squinted at Miranda. ‘What exactly are you doing?’

  ‘I’m making a sort of goulash. Lovely colour, isn’t it? I wonder if I could dye my hair with paprika . . . ? Oh, sorry, yeah, that’s great, but isn’t a jumbo jet going to be a bit of a squeeze in your shed?’

  ‘According to Estelle Rainbow, who’s the only contact I’ve got, it’s in bits. They’re going to build it up inside, so hopefully they’ll be able to get it out again, and then – Goulash? Why the hell are you cooking goulash at seven o’clock on a Saturday morning?’

  ‘Yeah, well, I sort of thought with both of us working all day and you saying you didn’t think you’d be home from Whiteacres until late and – um . . .’ Miranda stopped and blew her fringe away from her eyes. ‘Actually, doll, I’ve invited Keith to dinner.’

  ‘I thought you and Keith were on the skids?’

  Miranda sighed. ‘I think we are. I just thought I’d give it one last go. You know, the way to a man’s heart and all that. . .’

  Billie, who hadn’t thought about anything but her warehouse for ages, forgot all her impatience and hugged Miranda through the goulash haze. ‘I’m so sorry. Still, cheer up. Even if Keith isn’t the one, you’re bound to meet the right man – probably when you least expect it.’

  Miranda hugged her back, then wriggled free and sprinkled more paprika into the already terracotta-coloured saucepan. ‘Yeah, maybe I will. Maybe I already have – who knows? Hey, what do you reckon would happen if I added some saffron to jazz it up a bit? D’you reckon it’d look too much like an abscess?’

  Billie shuddered at the image and, with a final horrified look at the suppurating saucepan, back-tracked to her bedroom. She was just closing the door when Miranda’s voice echoed through from the kitchen.

  ‘Oh, yeah. Tell me to mind my own business, doll – but why, when Sullivanair has already got planes at the airfield, do they want your shed for this one? They must have hangars everywhere.’

  Pretending not to hear, Billie slammed the bedroom door. It was actually something she’d asked several times.

  Estelle Rainbow had been very vague and said that their current hangarage and service contract with the airfield didn’t cover the Boeing. Billie sincerely hoped it wasn’t some sort of aeronautical tax fiddle. She had a feeling that Maynard and Pollock may just turn nasty at the idea.

  Sylvia, Zia and Isla, Fred ’n’ Dick, and most of Guspers were milling around outside the units as Billie parked the Nova. She
smiled to herself. The other residents of the Whiteacres units had rapidly become her friends. United by their odd ball splurge into self-employment, they were a little community set aside from the rest of the world. For Billie, parking the car on the cracked and dirty concrete each morning was almost as good as coming home.

  They’d all been delighted for her when she’d told them about the Sullivanair deal – with the exception of Zia, who’d worried about explosions and fumes, but she’d eventually won him over – and it was really sweet of them to turn out at the weekend to help with the unloading. Especially when it was so cold. September had roared in with wicked north winds ripping the leaves from the trees and rattling through Whiteacres’ spiky grass in bleached blond waves.

  She’d buy all the warehousers a huge drink later to say thank you. Of course, it would probably have to be on tick in Mulligan’s, but who cared? If this went well, Sullivanair Nay put other work her way, or spread the word through the aviation industry. She might even be able to afford to lease the unoccupied not-quite-up-to-scratch unit at the end of the row and expand . . .

  Sylvia, who was paying lip service to the unexpected autumnal chill by wearing a duffel coat over her Bermudas, was standing a little way apart from the rest of the crowd. Billie hurried towards her. ‘Hi. I didn’t expect to see you here – thanks so much. It’s really exciting, isn’t it? No one’s arrived from Sullivanair yet, have they? I was petrified that I’d be late and miss the arrival and – goodness, Sylv, what’s up?’

  ‘Bloody everything, dear.’ Sylvia heaved a huge sigh. ‘Absolutely bloody everything. My Douglas is going to kill me.’

  Panic started to punch its way under Billie’s ribs, each punch cancelling out a bit of happiness. Had there been a fire? She glanced quickly at the breeze-block terrace. The units looked OK. A break-in, then? Vandalism?