Walking on Air

by Christina Jones

  Reuben shrugged. ‘Possibly not. I just think that you’re being a little bit hasty. And it’s your – er – career that I want to talk to you about.’

  Jesus. Billie closed her eyes. Far too many gin and tonics were thundering inside her skull. So he did intend to scupper her plans. The bastard. What the hell was Miranda thinking of, bringing him back here to torment her?

  ‘It’s none of your business.’

  ‘No, but it might be. From what Miranda said over dinner, I thought I might be able to help. You see I’m thinking of expanding. You’d obviously had enough of being a taxi-driver, so I thought I’d give you first refusal of a new job.’

  ‘I’ve got a new job!’ Billie ran her hand through her hair. Miranda was right. It was all tufty and standing on end. And he had to be joking! She’d rather die of starvation than ever work for him again. ‘And you? Expanding? Come off it! You run a two-bit taxi firm with clapped-out Granadas – and you live in a bedsit! Exactly when did you turn into Richard Branson?’

  Reuben smiled. ‘Sarcasm doesn’t suit you, sweetheart. I run my life on a shoestring – unlike some – because I’ve been carefully saving to make further investment in my future. I figure the time is right with Bazooka’s coming on the market –’

  ‘You’re going to buy Bazooka’s? Dear God! What the hell do you know about clubbing? Until tonight you probably hadn’t been near a club since they stopped having comics with flat caps and a magic turn after the bingo!’

  ‘Exactly. Which is why I was hoping you, with your intimate knowledge of the club scene, might be interested in managing it for me.’

  What? Billie closed her eyes, then opened them. He was still there.

  ‘Sleep on it, sweetheart. Give me your answer in the morning.’

  ‘I’ll give you my answer right now. No. No way. No bloody way on earth. OK?’

  Miranda crashed in at that moment with three coffee mugs and a bag of cheese and onion crisps on a tray. ‘I couldn’t remember who said what, so I’ve made us all one.’ She beamed at Billie. ‘See, doll – what did I tell you? Great news, huh? And brilliant for Bazooka’s as well. It’s about time it had a face-lift. And much more fun for you than hanging around in that musty old shed.’

  Reuben was nodding maliciously. Miranda simply looked cross-eyed. Billie itched to slap them both. How dare they interfere in her life? How bloody dare they?

  ‘Actually I couldn’t consider it even if I wanted to. My own business, despite both of you obviously having no faith in me whatsoever, is doing very nicely, thank you. I’ve already got a lot of customers and plenty more on the way.’

  Reuben looked mocking. ‘Really?’ He gave the word about twelve syllables.

  Miranda was less ingenuous. ‘Christ, doll! I thought that plane took up most of your space.’

  Billie gritted her teeth. ‘Only the floor. I signed up two new customers today and I’m starting a new advertising campaign, so sorry, but you see, running a shabby little nightclub for some seedy little get-rich-quick merchant would definitely be second best.’

  Still beaming with triumph she almost missed Reuben’s killer smile.

  ‘What a pity,’ he drawled as he refused Miranda’s coffee and stood up. ‘I automatically thought of you for the club, Billie, sweetheart, because I’m going to completely refurbish it. I thought it would suit you down to the ground. I’m intending to make it a footballing theme club and call it Caught Offside.’

  Chapter Thirteen

  As she unravelled another sausage-shaped curl from its roller, Miranda gazed out of the window. The Spicer Centre’s shops were already revving up for Christmas despite the fact that it was still only the beginning of October. Sadly the weather over the last week hadn’t implied with the seasonal snow scenes and leaping log fire and stripy stocking window displays: it had scorched into a glorious Indian summer.

  She bent forward over the owner of the iron-grey sauces. ‘Go anywhere nice for your holidays, Mrs Bowden?’

  ‘You’ve already asked me that. I said what with our Wilf passing on last year, my heart wasn’t in Skegness.’

  Bugger. ‘Oh, yes. So you did. Sorry. Um – maybe you’ll enjoy Skegness again next year? Have a bit of a laugh over the memories?’

  ‘I doubt it. Not with our Wilf passing away in his deck on the sands right by the ice-cream kiosk and me having only slipped off for a Mivvi.’

  Double bugger. Miranda released a further clutch of curls. Roll on this afternoon, when she would be working the men-only bit of Cuticles. She’d got two appointments for facials and one for a stress-blister lavender oil massage.

  As all the appointments had been made over the phone, and all three were new customers, she had no idea what they’d look like and had allocated them randomly between herself, Debs and Kitty. Naturally, she’d warned both of them that if any of the customers had even a hint of David Ginola about them then she got first pick. Boss’s perks.

  She brushed Mrs Bowden’s curls into a smooth helmet and used enough hairspray to destroy the ozone layer. Nearly lunch time. Maybe she’d ring Billie at Whiteacres and see if she wanted to meet up somewhere for a glass of wine and a sandwich. Somehow she doubted if Billie would. Billie had been acting mighty oddly ever since the night that Reuben had come back to the flat.

  Well, OK, Miranda admitted, it probably had been a bit of a shock, but he hadn’t been there to nag Billie into driving a cab or anything, had he? He hadn’t been threatening or bullying, or behaved in any of the other diabolical ways Billie had said he would. He’d simply made her an absolutely brilliant offer and Billie had turned him down.

  Miranda shook her head. Honestly, she really couldn’t see why Billie would want to run a boring damp and dingy warehouse in the middle of nowhere if she had the opportunity to be in charge of Bazooka’s. It would be like partying every night and getting paid for it. Except, of course, it wouldn’t be Bazooka’s any more, would it?

  She took Mrs Bowden’s money. There was no tip.

  Over the meal in the Dil Raj, Reuben had explained that Caught Offside would appeal to everyone: with the decor being in the colours of all the Premiership teams, and signed posters of the latest star players on the walls, and the cocktails were to be named after famous footballers, past and present. Miranda had silent but nonetheless grave doubts about the success of the Bobby Charlton Slammer.

  But Reuben hadn’t finished; apparently he intended to install a Starvision screen to show nonstop matches as a backdrop to the dancing and drinking, and possibly introduce a bistro area which he thought he’d call The Penalty Spot.

  It would certainly be a money-spinner, Miranda had said, and she could see that even if Billie couldn’t. If she hadn’t been doing so well with Follicles and Cuticles then she’d have been first in the queue for the manager’s job without a doubt.

  Billie had told Miranda, pretty huffily, that she was more than welcome to it, and that she’d go and live somewhere else if Miranda ever brought Reuben back to the flat again – and that she would never, ever, set foot in Caught Offside, so there. She had also said that the whole subject – nightclub, Reuben and football – was taboo. Miranda had tried to dig a bit deeper, but Billie had just said that as far as she was concerned there was nothing remotely beautiful about the game – or the men who played it – and that most women were sick to the back teeth with football – and that the only good thing about it was that Reuben would go bust within a year.

  Now Miranda shouted to Kitty that she was off to lunch and not to touch the massage oil until she got back. Oh, and if Billie should ring, to tell her to call on her mobile or meet up in Mulligan’s. Still, she thought, as she pushed her way through the Spicer Centre’s crowds, bringing Billie and Reuben face to face that night had proved one thing: Billie hated football. Whatever else Reuben might have got right, he’d got that very, very wrong indeed. Mind you, the evening had had its advances. Reuben had telephoned occasionally since, and a couple of nights ago they’d met for a drink
in Mulligan’s. It was nothing datey or personal, but – given the fact that Keith’s appearances were becoming even more sporadic than Michael Jackson’s – Miranda had relished every moment.

  Her phone started ringing just past Woolworths, and Miranda joined the crowd of mobile-users huddled beneath the Abbey National’s awning. It was the only place in the whole precinct where you didn’t get feedback.

  ‘Hi.’ Billie’s voice echoed somewhere between that of a girl to Miranda’s right who was having a flaming row with her boyfriend, and a man on her left who was trying to explain unsuccessfully to his bank manager why he was still overdrawn. ‘Where are you?’

  Miranda poked a finger into her free ear. ‘On my way to Mulligan’s, doll. Where are you?’

  ‘At the printers in the High Street. Are you meeting anyone?’

  ‘No, just grabbing a pie and a pint. Why? Do you fancy it?’

  ‘Make it a tuna mayo baguette and a spritzer and I might agree.’

  ‘OK. Done. See you there in a bit.’

  Brilliant! Billie sounded right on form again. Maybe she’d forgiven Miranda for the Reuben incident after all. Miranda snapped off her mobile and bounced towards the pub, feeling a lot more spry.

  Mulligan’s was crowded with its usual midday office- escapees and Miranda had to fight her way to the bar. Eventually being served, she looked around hopelessly for somewhere to sit. Not a chance; there wasn’t even enough space to put her plate and glass of lager down on the edge of someone else’s table, let alone Billie’s wine and roll.

  Balancing one on top of the other, she sidled her way towards the wall. It would mean craning her neck towards the door so that she’d spot Billie, but at least if she could lean on something solid she may well be able to eat and drink without spilling everything.

  Lodging both glasses precariously on the dado rail, and trying to steady the baguette on top of her own chicken korma and chip butty, Miranda looked around for signs of someone leaving a table. Everyone looked entrenched for the duration. Rosemary Clooney and Val Doonican always replaced The Corrs during Mulligan’s lunch-time sessions, and the gentle crooning and the doors thrown open to the unseasonable warmth were obviously infinitely preferable to returning to stuffy offices and shops.

  ‘Excuse me. Would you like a seat?’

  Miranda cricked her neck back from staring at the door and blinked down at the table beside her. ‘Sorry? Are you talking to me?’

  The elder of the two men at the corner table nodded. ‘We’re just going. Let me help you.’

  He was probably the same age as her father, handsome, expensively Aquascutum-shirted, with well-cut dark hair going grey at the temples, and nice hands. He stood up and off-loaded the glasses from the dado rail. He then took the plates from her and set them on the table. He was charming, urbane and courteous. Miranda ignored him completely. His companion, the man still sitting at the table, was simply sex on a stick.

  Miranda stood transfixed, then belatedly remembered her manners. ‘Er – thanks . . . Oh, I mean, thank you. Really. It’s very kind’

  No problem. You’re more than welcome.’

  Her knight in shining pale blue herringbone was beaming, but she couldn’t concentrate. Not when the younger man had stood up, displaying a lot of long leg in denim, and smiled at her. He was sensationally, wondrously, glorious. Definitely just the most beautiful man she had ever seen. And he was about to walk out of Mulligan’s and her life for ever. Miranda nearly cried with the unfairness of it all.

  All those nights doing herself up and strutting it about on dance floors and only meeting people like Keith, and now looking scruffy and frazzled and totally moronic, she’d met Him. The man of her dreams. The only man who could possibly be in the running for Husband Number Two. Well, the only man who came anywhere near holding a candle to Reuben – and as Reuben was in love with Billie, whether he admitted it or not, that put him way off limits.

  Both men were turning away, still smiling. Oh God. She had to do something. Chucking her handbag across the two chairs so that no one else would leap into them, she hurtled her way through the crowd. She caught up with them just as they reached the door.

  ‘Excuse me, look, I know this probably sounds daft but I’d like to say thank vou.’ She pushed two of her Follicles and Cuticles cards into their hands. ‘I run the salon. If you ever need a haircut or, well, anything, I’d be more than happy to . . . to . . .’

  They took the cards, both smiled, albeit rather distantly, and left.

  Shit. Miranda trailed back to the table. No doubt they’d get outside and dump the cards in the nearest bin. How sad had that looked? Shit again. She sat down in Mr Wonderful s seat. It was still warm. It was most disconcerting.

  The remains of the men’s lunch was still on the table. Pasta and red wine, and egg and chips and a glass of lager. Miranda prayed the pasta and red had belonged to Mr Funky Hunky. She was still gazing at the plates, completely moonstruck, when Billie arrived.

  ‘Brilliant – you managed to get a seat. I thought we’d have to stand. I’m starving,’ Billie wriggled into her chair and took a bite out of the baguette at the same time.

  ‘I’ve been busy all morning getting things organised. I’ve collected leaflets and business cards from the printers and I’ve been to the library and got The Idiot’s Guide to Office Management – never again will that bloody Estelle Rainbow make me feel like my IQ’s in minus figures – and – what the hell is wrong with you?’

  Miranda picked up a flaccid chip. ‘I’m in love. Honest. I’ve just met the man I want to spend the rest of my life with.’

  Apart from Keith, the whole Arsenal football squad, that dodgy Italian you picked up at the cinema, and Reuben Wainwright, you mean?’ Billie choked on her baguette. ‘Tell me something new.’

  ‘No, seriously. This is different. He was here – at this table. He was totally fabulous. And now he’s gone – and I look such a freak, I’m not surprised. Oh, bugger it! Why couldn’t I have had one pair of false eyelashes at least!’

  Miranda still bitterly regretted toning down her eye make-up. She’d abandoned the vermilion lipstick too, and her hair, now the colour of desiccated sloes, needed washing and so consequently was scraped back in an elastic band. She looked like she’d just been exhumed. No wonder Mr Drop-Dead Gorgeous had done a bunk.

  Billie licked mayonnaise from the corner of her mouth. You’ll probably see him in here again. Or in the club. Unless, of course, he was just passing through on business.’

  ‘Don’t! I couldn’t bear it!’

  ‘Why didn’t you sit with him, then? Plonk yourself down and start chatting him up? You usually do.’

  ‘He was with someone. Another man. Older.’

  Billie swigged at the spritzer. ‘Could be gay, then.’

  ‘Bugger off!’ Miranda howled. ‘I really, really hate you sometimes, doll, do you know that?’

  Miranda decided to err on the side of caution and not mention to Billie that she’d handed the Follicles card to a complete stranger. Billie would misinterpret it entirely as some sort of pick-up attempt, and nothing at all to do with promoting the salon’s business. Miranda didn’t feel she was prepared for that much censure.

  She got it anyway. Billie launched into her usual routine of: seriously though, you go about things all the wrong way, and you shouldn’t judge a book by its cover, and maybe, even if he is local and straight and available, which is pretty unlikely, granted, then probably he’s a complete nerd – or boring or arrogant or vicious or . . .

  ‘Shut up.’ Miranda drained her lager glass. ‘I don’t want to hear all that. I hear it from inside my head all the time. I want you to say, this is it. He’s the one for you, Miranda. It was kismet, fate, preordained, sent by the gods. . .’

  ‘Crap,’ Billie said cheerfully, dabbing up the last flakes of tuna. ‘He’s more than likely a gay anorak on his way through Amberley Hill to sell fishing tackle in Birmingham. Anyway, I thought you were devoted to Reuben
. You still sleep with a lock of his hair under your pillow.’

  Miranda was sorry for giving Billie this information one night after too many glasses of red. ‘I know – and I am. But he’s obviously devoted to you. And I thought you weren’t ever going to mention him again.’

  ‘I’m not and – for the millionth time – he is not after me!’

  Miranda sighed, chewed the chicken korma and chip sandwich, and only half listened, her mind full of long lean thighs, floppy dark hair, and a smile that would win gold in the Olympic Turn-On event.

  How could she possibly explain to Billie that the man in the leather jacket had had the same devastatingly arousing effect on her as Reuben, or even a Leonardo diCaprio video after two bottles of wine? It sounded a bit tacky, even to her.

  Lunch over, the girls parted in the sunshine outside Mulligan’s. Billie was shooting off back to her dismal dungeon, apparently to canvass more customers. All Miranda had to look forward to were two facials and a massage.

  She pinged her way into Follicles and Cuticles. The pile of gowns was depleted and all the basins were occupied. There was a satisfying hum of conversation above the burr of the radio, and Kitty was on the telephone saying she was terribly sorry but there were no free appointments for three days. Business was picking up nicely. It was a pity, Miranda thought, her love life couldn’t do the same.

  ‘Mr Franklin and Mr Duxbury have arrived for their facials. Debs is doing their hot towels,’ Kitty said, putting the phone down. ‘Neither of them look in the slightest scrummy, so we’ve left you the oiler because he isn’t due for another half-hour. OK?’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘Oh, and there was a telephone call for you. Personal. Wants you to ring him tonight. Said it was important. Didn’t leave a name. He said you’d know who he was. I wrote the number down here somewhere . . .’

  As Kitty scrabbled through the heap of cards and Post-it notes on the desk, Miranda bit back her smile of delight. It had to be Him! See, Billie was wrong. It had been fate after all.