She gazed at the number which Kitty had scrawled on the back of one of Follicles and Cuticles’ lavender cards. It was Reuben’s bedsit. And gorgeous through Reuben was, what was the point of harbouring desires for him when he so obviously had the hots for her best friend? She’d ring him tonight and he’d only want to talk about Billie and whether Miranda had managed to make her change her mind about Caught Offside.
Sighing at the unfairness of life, Miranda pulled on her mauve overall and walked briskly though the archway into Cuticles. Bugger. Sod. Bugger. Sod. Her footsteps groaned along with her. All she could hope for now was that Mr Greenaway, the lavender oil massage, was totally divine. She deserved that much, surely?
Kitty and Debs were doing very nicely with the facials, and Kitty had been dead right – neither of the men sprawled backwards in the purple leather chairs was anything to write home about. Miranda smiled encouragingly at them.
‘Randa, your body massage has arrived early.’ Pixie, Follicles’ punk trainee, stood on one tartan DMed foot in the archway. ‘Shall I tell him to wait, or do you want him now?’
Miranda closed her eyes for a second. Please, please, please, let this be pure pink and fluffy romantic fiction. Please, please, please let Mr Greenaway be the stranger from Mulligan’s. Please, please, please . . .
‘Randa? You OK?’ Pixie peered through her vivid green fringe.
‘What? Yeah, of course. No – I’ll come through and get him.’
She followed Pixie through the archway. Please, please, please – oh, bugger.
Miranda grinned inanely. ‘Mr Greenaway! Good afternoon. We’re all ready for you. If you’d like to come with me . . .’
Mr Greenaway, fat, florid and fifty plus, was, Miranda noticed, already salivating.
Chapter Fourteen
It was quite a relief, Billie felt, to be able to park the Nova in the darkness, unlock the shed and savour the pleasure of being alone. There were quite a few things that she wanted to mull over, and somehow the privacy of the warehouse late at night was better than the flat, with its distractions of television and food and drink, and Miranda getting ready to go out with Reuben.
Miranda, she knew, thought that Billie had no idea at all about the previous Reuben-outing, and certainly not about this, the second. Billie on the other hand, had sensed the shift in the relationship from the night of the revelations about Caught Offside. Nearly every one of Miranda’s conversations since that evening had had a sprinkling of ‘Reuben says’ or ‘Reuben thinks’. Billie still reckoned that as long as none of Reuben’s words or thoughts involved her and Kieran Squires, then she really didn’t give tuppenny toss.
She edged her way round the wings of the Boeing Stearman and stepped carefully over the attendant paraphernalia, which seemed to stretch further across the floor every day. Anyway, she thought, heading for the office, all Miranda’s subterfuge must mean that she was pretty serious about Reuben Wainwright. Which was a very scary prospect, especially as he now seemed to be the lone contender for Husband Number Two. Billie had given up all hope that last week’s man of Miranda’s dreams from Mulligan’s would ever surface again, and Keith, it seemed, had finally bitten the dust.
Billie unloaded onto her desk the file of paperwork that she’d taken home. Estelle’s words had hit home and she’d cleaned up her businesswoman act since that embarrassing day. She’d organised the computer, answered letters straight away, and asked the other warehousers whenever there were forms to fill in which she didn’t understand. Much as she disliked Estelle, you had to hand it to her, she was red-hot at absolutely everything. And beautiful. And Jonah’s partner. It was decidedly unfair . . .
Despite October’s continued warm spell, it was now bitingly cold in the warehouse and Billie snuffled into a tissue as she zipped around turning on the hot-air blowers. All she needed now was intravenous coffee, and she could spend the night here if necessary. She knew that no one from Sullivanair was due in this evening, so the shed, for once, was all hers. Which was quite a blessing. Watching Estelle’s stunning elegance, not to mention three miles of legs, shimmying around with not a hair out of place while she put bits of plane together with the ease of an astrophysicist tackling an Airfix kit, was daunting enough. The thought of working with the gloriousness of Jonah Sullivan in close proximity was even worse.
She hadn’t bothered with make-up and her hair had gone all tufty again, and as she passed the darkened windows of the office she almost made herself jump. God – her reflection was pretty scary; the eco-warrior look was set off to perfection by her face being pinched and rheumy-eyed and red-nosed from the cold. It was just as well Jonah wasn’t going to be there. He probably disliked her; she didn’t want him feeling sorry for her as well.
She hadn’t meant to be so dismissive about his plane – or his hobby – on that first day. It had been sheer insecurity in the company of so much brain-boggling beauty. And how the hell was she supposed to have known what the fêted Mr Sullivan looked like, anyway? It was a mistake anyone could have made, wasn’t it?
They’d kind of sorted it out afterwards with much embarrassed laughter on her side and who-cares shrugs on his. Billie hoped she had managed to claw things back on to a business footing because, after all, it was Sullivanair that could make or break her venture, and telling your biggest client he was an anorak was probably not the best way to go.
They’d all carried on unloading the bits of plane and Jonah, immersed in the Boeing, had more or less ignored her for the rest of the afternoon apart from muttering words like tail-fin and ribs when she’d asked what things were. Then eventually, when everything was down the ramps from the container lorry and organised, and everyone was dropping with exhaustion, they had all crowded into the shed and toasted the unpacked plane with a selection of multicoloured drinks from Sylvia’s tropical cocktail bar. Estelle had glued herself to Jonah, and Billie had tried to look very grown up and disinterested.
She poured some coffee and flicked the computer files to ‘Custs Estab’ and ‘Custs Prospect’. Still, her two subsequent meetings with Jonah Sullivan had, she hoped, restored some sort of status quo. They had been brief and decorous and very, very Cool Britannia. Over the past few weeks they’d passed a couple of times in the doorway, both being very English and saying ‘Hello’ and ‘How’s business?’ and making some innocuous remarks about the weather, and then Jonah would beetle into her shed and she’d beetle out of it and into the Nova and that had been the end of that.
The blowers were roaring on full bore now. ‘Custs Estab’ and ‘Custs Prospect’ scrolled down the screen. It was, she decided, tucking her Timberlands under the chair and pulling the sleeves of her brother’s jumper over the tips of her icy fingers, really quite cosy – if just a little spooky. Every so often a plane zoomed overhead, the roar more felt than heard, stirring the ground beneath her feet like a host of Amityville incumbents. She hadn’t realised just how deserted the industrial units were, or how much the iron girders creaked and whispered in the wind that rattled across the airfield. To add to the gothic atmosphere, the breeze blocks all seemed to have developed gaps that emitted keening whistles. And had the doors always made that sort of groaning noise?
It took two cups of coffee for the nerves and three trips across the warehouse to check the doors before she was satisfied. Bloody hell, it was probably the start of obsessive compulsive behaviour syndrome. Everything was so quiet – except of course for the scary noises that weren’t. It took her all her time to persuade herself to stay in the office, pour another coffee, and not skulk about in the shed looking for ghouls in the shadows. Eventually notching up a Richter scale volume for Radio One’s hip-hop dance party, and wishing she hadn’t sat up the night before watching a Wes Craven movie, Billie started to work on ‘Custs Estab’.
More than an hour later, having transferred facts and figures from their scribbled origins on the backs of envelop and Visa receipts to the computer, and feeling as proud as if she’d just performed a s
ingle-handed triple-by-pass operation, she took stock.
She now had Zi-Zi’s, Sylvia, Guspers, Fred ’n’ Dick and Sullivanair as regular customers; the flyers and business cards had brought in about a dozen more clients whose goods – ranging from heavily padlocked suitcases containing God knows what, through cardboard cartons of attic overspill, to an entire houseful of furniture awaiting transit to a retirement home in Swindon – now reposed on and under and around her shelves. She also had done as-and-when deals with several small Whiteacres firms who seemed to prefer the security of her warehouse to their own lock-up premises in what must be the petty crime capital of Southern England.
It all added up to a nice, regular income. Not millionaire- making, or anything exciting like that – and not yet as much as she’d have made on the taxis – but giving room to other people’s property was already showing a profit, and she was getting new enquiries every day. The ‘What I Can Afford’ column, which had been moved daringly, thanks to Estelle, from her notepad to the PC, was now growing. A proper telephone system and a modem were top of the list -Estelle Rainbow’s constant gibes about the lack of e-mail facilities were beginning to strike home – followed by a second-hand van so that she could offer to collect bulkier items, and a fork-lift truck of her own because Fred ’n’ Dick seemed to need theirs most of the time.
She printed off a copy of ‘What I Can Afford’ and placed it proudly on top of her Pascoe’s Warehousing leaflets. So, what if it wasn’t a glamorous business? It was hers and it was working. The only flies in the ointment were the persistent letters from Maynard and Pollock reminding her tat it looked increasingly as if there was going to be a buy-out. Tomorrow she’d ring Simon Maynard and find out exactly what was happening.
A plane whooshed in overhead, flying low as it came in to land, the drone of the engines as it headed for the runway reverberating against the doors. Billie glanced at the clock. God – it was nearly eleven. High time for sensible businesswomen to be heading for the delights of Horlicks and a soporific dollop of The Late Book. Billie stood up, stretched, poured another cup of coffee, and, filled with caffeine bravado, skittered out into the shed. With the worst of the groans and creaks being drowned out by the heavy rapping of Radio One’s special tribute to Fizz Flanagan and the Jamaican All-stars, and the air blowers having reached meltdown, it was almost pleasant.
Clutching her coffee, she tiptoed round the outer limits of the Stearman. In the dim light it resembled a huge moth, captured in flight and pinned powerlessly by its tail against its concrete background. The two pairs of massive parallel wings were outstretched, the transverse wires taut between them like sutured arteries, the exposed bodywork looking like the cross-section of a helpless laboratory specimen.
Billie perched on one of the painting trestles. It was a kind plane, she decided. Robust and cheerful. Its two fixed legs with their fat-tyred wheels were like little chunky limbs in ankle boots – spats, Jonah had called them – reaching for the floor. The open cockpit, with the deep leather seats, one behind the other, looked as though the Stearman could withstand any onslaught and still envelope you with a hug. She decided that it wasn’t the sort of plane you could be frightened of – not even if you were the biggest aerophobe in the world. It sort of looked as though it would always take care of you in a rather bossy and jaunty way. A bit like her mother, really.
Jonah, Barnaby, Estelle and their unseen helpers had worked miracles, not only in putting all the pieces together, but also in the painting. The main bodywork and wings were now silver, but not just any old bog-standard aeroplane silver. This silver was iridescent, like a dragonfly’s wings on a scorching day, with vivid zigzag tongues of purple and green licking from every angle. Sullivanair was inscribed in massive curlicued amethyst and emerald letters along the whole of the bodywork on both sides, and also on the top and bottom of each of the wings. She presumed that when the plane was flying – if it ever did, of course – the tricolour decoration would be visible from any position. Even upside down.
Billie was just wondering whether the caffeine kick had given her enough of a high to risk scrambling up on to the stepladder and peering into the Stearman’s interior, when the doors reverberated. The wind must be getting up. The metallic rattle shuddered again across the concrete floor, through the breeze blocks, and up into the rafters. Fizz Flanagan was rapping with feeling from the radio, but even the joyous West Indian beat couldn’t compete with the double doors’ timpani.
Billie slid from the trestle and, picking her way round the Boeing’s spare boxes and crates and wiring looms, crept across the shed. She’d used the Yale lock, but not the bolts, so she knew it wasn’t anyone from Sullivanair deciding to burn the midnight oil, because they’d be able to let themselves in. It might just be the airfield security men, checking that she wasn’t being burgled by the yoof of Whiteacres. It might even be the yoof of Whiteacres themselves, eager to indulge in the ever-popular local pastime of petty pilfering. But it was, she decided, far more likely to be something straight out of Wes Craven, intent on decapitation . . .
‘Yes . . . ?’
‘Billie? It’s me, dear. Sylvia. Open the door, there’s a love.’
Billie did. Sylvia, muffled in a duffel coat and headscarf, was crying. Without a word of explanation, she hurtled past Billie and the Boeing and into the office. Billie closed the doors, switched off Fizz Flanagan, sighed, and headed for the kettle.
‘It’s my Douglas,’ Sylvia sniffed once she’d got her gloved hands wrapped round the mug of black coffee. ‘We’ve had a row.’
Billie murmured placatingly and started stacking various bits of paper on her desk just to give her something to do. She’d continued to think that Sylvia’s Douglas sounded like a bit of a prat, giving his wife no encouragement at all with her business. ‘Oh dear. I’m sorry. Anything to do with – um – work?’
‘Everything to do with work.’ Sylvia snuffled a bit more. ‘He’s told me to give it up. Told me, mark you. He says it’s imperative now it looks as though we’re going to be taken over. He says everyone else’s wife is happy to stay at home and watch daytime telly and do gardening and make cakes at the weekend. He says I’m too old to be dressing in shorts and thinking I’m a proper person.’
‘Bastard,’ Billie said, hugging Sylvia against her. ‘He’s just jealous, Sylv. That’s all. He probably reckoned that once you both retired he’d have his days on the golf course or whatever and you’d be waiting at home ready to hang on his every word. It’s just masculine pride, nothing more sinister. Tell him to get stuffed.’
Wasn’t it a rather strange time, though, Billie thought, for them to have a falling-out? It wasn’t as though the topic was a new one. Sylvia was still sobbing, although more gently now, shredding tissues with her mittens.
Billie moved to arm’s length and tried an encouraging smile. ‘So? What brought this to a head, then? I mean, it’s getting on for midnight and –’
Sylvia wriggled herself free, dashing away the tears with her fists and looking like a rather plump orange mouse. ‘Yes, and he – the old sod – had been out for the evening with some of his Rotarian chums. I was in bed with the new Barbara Taylor Bradford, and he comes swanning in all full of brandy and says that we’re off to cruise the Caribbean – for three months!’
Call me pedantic, Billie thought, but it isn’t the sort of suggestion that would lead most people to running away in tears in the middle of the night. ‘But, surely, that’s lovely. You’ve always wanted to see all those places on your posters, haven’t you? And you always said you’d never had the time to travel and –’
‘He’s only agreed to go because it’s with his bloody chums! He never wanted to go just with me!’ Sylvia wailed. ‘He knows that if I go, then I’ll have to give up the business! He just kept saying it makes sense now – especially if someone’s buying up the units. He says I can probably sell my lease at a profit – and that I’ll have a lovely time on the yacht with Daphne and Cicely and Margaret!
And I bloody won’t, Billie! I bloody damn well won’t!’
Billie exhaled. ‘No, I can see that you probably wouldn’t, under the circumstances. So – um – what are you intending to do? I mean, short term? Tonight?’
‘I don’t know. . . Sylvia grabbed at another tissue. ‘I only popped in because I saw your Nova outside and your lights on in here and I thought you’d understand. I thought you’d know what to do . . .’
Billie understood only too well. ‘Oh, that’s easy-peasy. If it was me, I’d make him sweat. I’d hole up in my shed and let him worry his guts out all night and . . .’ She stopped. Shut up, Billie, she thought quickly. Just shut up. There’s a lot of difference between you in your twenties, free and single, and Sylvia who’s possibly well into her sixties and –
‘You mean I should move into my unit? Like I was pretending to do the day we met?’ Sylvia smiled damply and clapped her mittens. ‘Oh, yes! Oh, you’re such a diamond, Billie! Of course – it’s got everything I need for survival. I could sneak home and pack a few extra bits and pieces, clothes and what-have-you, tomorrow and –’
Jesus! ‘Well, no, I’m not sure . . . I wasn’t saying you should leave Douglas now. I mean, I was just saying what I would do. But my circumstances are very different from yours. Look, I’m going to talk to Maynard and Pollock about the leases tomorrow. Maybe you should go home and sort things out with Douglas until we know what’s happening.’
Sylvia looked horrified. ‘Go home? Go back and admit defeat? Not a damned chance! No, you’re right! I’m going to take your advice and leave him!’
Billie whimpered.
Sylvia was well into her stride. ‘This place has been my salvation, and I’m buggered if I’m going to chuck it up just to have drinkies on board some tax-evasion yacht with the Tory ladies of Amberley Hill! I will not hurl away my independence for girlie gossips about William and Ffion and the price of Harvey Nicks’ knickers! I bloody won’t!’
Walking on Air Page 15
