‘Sorry to have kept you.’ Kitty trotted up briskly and whisked off the towel. ‘Changing the colour, are we?’
Billie shook her head vehemently. ‘Just a trim.’
Kitty looked puzzled. ‘You sure? I mean if you’re going clubbing tonight, you’ll want to stand out in the crowd, if you get my drift. You know what it’s like on a party night. The competition is shit-hot.’
‘I’m not going clubbing. I’m going home to my parents.’
‘Bloody hell,’ Kitty was stricken. ‘How awful. You poor thing. And at Christmas too. You’ll miss all the fun. All those men out on the pull. It’s the best night of the year.’
‘I know. So Miranda keeps telling me. I’ll just have to live with it. Look, Kitty, if you’re really busy it doesn’t matter about cutting my hair at all. I like it as it is.’
‘Do you? Crikey.’ Kitty’s forehead puckered. ‘It’s a bit outmoded, if you don’t mind me saying so. Like, layered and spiky and that. Very boyish. We’re all going geometric and glam this year. Still,’ she shoved Billie’s arms through a lavender coverall, ‘you’ve always been a bit staid, haven’t you? You didn’t like last year’s Ulrika flicks at all.’
Billie hadn’t. They’d made her look like Mr Pickwick. But staid? Sodding hell.
‘Go for it, then Kitty. Shave the lot off. Dye my scalp magenta. Tattoo heliotrope unicorns dancing on my skull. Pierce my cranium with garnet studs. Leave no trend untried.’
‘Randa!’ Kitty yelled across the salon. ‘When you’ve got a mo! I think we’ve got a problem. . .’
Just over an hour later, Billie peered into the vaudeville mirror. She peered back at herself through swathes of tinsel and three phallic balloons. Kitty had drawn a line at the shaving and dyeing and tattooing and piercing, but the layers were now smooth, and the spiky fringe was a one-sided blonde sweep across very black brows and lashes. The nail extensions were silver, and Miranda had liberally dusted her cheekbones with glitter. Even with her jeans and bulky fleece and Timberland boots it looked pretty stunning.
‘There, doll.’ Miranda surveyed her handiwork with pride. ‘Knock ’em dead on Widdecombe Moor, or what?’
‘It’s great. Really great, thanks. You’ve made me look female.’
‘Not an easy task – not even for someone with my talents.’ Miranda looked at her through the mirror. ‘You OK?’
Billie nodded carefully, not wanting to mess up the hairdo. ‘Fine. Just tired. I’m really looking forward to going home . . . but will you be all right? On your own?’
‘On my own? At Christmas? With the size of my family? You’ve got to be joking!’
‘I didn’t actually mean –’
Miranda’s eyes narrowed. ‘Oh, right. You mean will I be snogging in Christmas under the mistletoe with Reuben? To be honest, doll, I haven’t got a clue. But I very much doubt it. She sighed. ‘I shouldn’t think there was any danger of the flat becoming contaminated in your absence. It’ll probably remain a Wainwright-free zone. Happy?’
Billie winced. ‘Look, you know I don’t mean to put a damper on your love life –’
Miranda exhaled heavily. ‘Jesus. This is supposed to be the season of goodwill. Will you please, just for once, lay off the bloke?’
Billie unfastened the coverall. ‘Okay – but he really isn’t –’
‘I’m a grown-up and I’ll form my own conclusions!’ Miranda snapped angrily. ‘For God’s sake, Billie, let it drop. You’re going away for a week – and what I do in my flat in my time is my affair! OK?’
‘OK . . .’ Billie said quietly. ‘But don’t say you weren’t warned . . .’
It had been, Billie thought, hardly the best way to part company. Miranda had clung on to the Follicles and Cuticles desk and waved away Billie’s offer to pay for the makeover, wished her a very sotto voce happy Christmas, and swept away, her plaits jiggling angrily, to sort out a festive henna tattoo. Billie, feeling awful, had returned to the flat, loaded the Nova with her luggage and presents, and headed for the Amberley Hill bypass.
Two miles along nice open roads packed with normal motorists and she began to feel a bit better. Happy families. Broad daylight. Steel-grey skies. Cold wind. No rain. Several cars had late-purchase fir trees strapped to their roof racks. Miranda, Billie knew, would soon regain her sense of humour, and she’d ring her in the morning to wish her a Happy Christmas and apologise. It was always easier over the phone.
Slowing behind a queue of happy last-minute shoppers all returning from the Whiteacre Retail Village, she’d reduced the car’s speed from sixty to forty in thirty seconds. The trail of lorries following her immediately let rip with a trumpet voluntary of air horns. She ignored them, and indicated to leave on the airport slip road. She needed to check that the warehouse was secure before she left.
Sad fairy lights twinkled in garish profusion round the entrance to the trading estate and a car radio was trilling ‘Away in a Manger’. Everything was normal. The airport was again ringed by floodlights. Billie tried not to look. Why didn’t the damn traffic get a move on? She switched on her own radio. Wizzard were wishing it could be Christmas every day. She switched it off again and bumped the Nova across the speed humps.
The other sheds were all securely locked. Fred ’n’ Dick and Guspers had been closed all week, deciding that replacement windows and corporate videos were possibly not going to be at the top of anyone’s Christmas list. Zia and Isla had high-tailed off to their parents’ mock Tudors in Surrey’s stockbroker belt, and Sylvia, after prolonged and angry discussions with Douglas, had vetoed returning home and had booked herself into a health farm until after the New Year.
It was all very cold and bleak and deserted. The grey of the units melted into the pewter sky, and the wind rattling through the airstrip’s frost-bleached grass gave a mournful whippoorwill wail. Parking the Nova beside the shells of the burned-out hatchbacks which Sylvia had draped with holly and ivy in case they felt left out, Billie turned the key in the door of her unit.
It was already unlocked and she catapulted in across the floor.
‘Christ!’ Jonah’s voice echoed from somewhere above her. ‘You made me jump! I thought it was a burglar!’ Billie, dusting down her knees, stared up at him. ‘And you scared me half to death, too. I didn’t see your car. What the hell are you doing?’
‘I walked over from the airport and I’m fixing the rig,’ Jonah leaped down from the Stearman’s wing, brushing grime from his faded Levis and rugby shirt. ‘And you’re just in time.’
‘For what?’ Billie blinked. ‘And why are you here, anyway? Aren’t you going anywhere for Christmas?’
‘Just my flat. I’ve got charter flights booked all next week.’ Jonah pushed his hair from his eyes. ‘You look nice . . .’
Billie, who’d completely forgotten the makeover, shrugged off the compliment. ‘Oh – cheers – I suppose it makes a change from the bag-lady look.’
‘Well, yeah – but I actually quite liked it. It seems funny, seeing you look sort of – um – well . . .’
‘Sort of what?’
‘Partyish, I suppose. I really like the sparkly face.’ Jonah grinned. ‘Is this what you look like when you go out?’
‘God, no! When I go out I even wear lipstick with my dungarees.’
‘Smart move,’ Jonah nodded. ‘You’re not dashing off anywhere just yet, are you?’
‘Devon. Home. For Christmas.’ Billie stared suspiciously at the rig which was now bolted to the Stearman’s upper wing and looking more sinister than ever. ‘Why?’
‘Because I need someone to test whether I’ve fitted this properly.
‘Ask Estelle. Or Barnaby.’
‘Estelle’s in Austria and Barnaby’s in the stately home. It won’t take a minute. All you need to do is sit in the plane, like did before. We’re not going anywhere.’
Billie sighed. ‘And if I agree? You promise we won’t move? And it doesn’t mean I’ve changed my mind about the wingwalking thing, because I hav
en’t and I never will, OK?’
‘OK. Scouts’ honour. You have the word of a founder member of the Ventnor Sparrowhawks that I will not let you fall, start up the plane, or expect this to be the beginning of anything that you don’t want it to be.’
‘Oh, well, in that case how can I refuse?’ Billie hauled herself on to the Stearman’s wing, praying that the nail extensions would stand the strain.
‘Brilliant.’ Jonah leaned into the cockpit. ‘Now fasten all the straps on your harness. Like you did before – when we flew.’
‘Why?’ Billie fumbled with the meshed nylon webbing that stretched over her shoulders and between her legs and clipped together at the waist. ‘We’re only sitting in the shed – you said so. I promise I won’t fall out.’
‘I just want to see how easy it is for you – er – I mean someone – to get from the cockpit on to the wing and then fasten yourself – um – themselves in the harness on the rig. Don’t argue with me. This is an experiment and you’re the guinea pig and guinea pigs don’t have a say –’
‘I think you’ll find they do, now, actually.’ Billie tightened the straps. ‘I think people like the BUAV have made it compulsory – and about time, too. Anyway –’
‘Billie, shut up. And that’s great – you’ve really got to grips with the straps. Now undo them again and pull yourself up using those handholds on the wing above you.’
‘Uh?’ Billie paused in unbuckling and stared upwards. The wing was about five feet above her head. ‘I can’t reach that!’
‘Course you can.’ Jonah leaned a bit closer. ‘Look – stand on the seat, reach and grab . . .’
Billie did. It made every muscle shriek. It felt as though her arms were being pulled from their sockets as she stood on tiptoe on the edge of the seat. ‘Now what then?’ she panted. ‘When do you bring me the thing to stand on so that I can get into the rig-thing?’
Jonah laughed. ‘Still word perfect in the technical jargon, I hear.’
She wanted to slap him but didn’t dare let go. She was also pretty sure he was getting an excellent view of her midriff as the jeans and fleece had long since parted company.
‘I feel like I’m on the rack! Jonah! God – you don’t mean I have to pull myself up there? You do, don’t you? God – I hate you!’
Taking a deep breath she pulled and heaved and swung her legs upwards at the same time. After a lot of scrabbling, she was kneeling on the Stearman’s wing. Outstretching her arms to gain equilibrium, she tentatively stood upright. It was probably the most inelegant manoeuvre ever attempted in a confined space. It was also totally disorientating. Billie swayed alarmingly, still trying to keep her balance.
‘Edge towards the rig, and watch where you tread.’ Jonah’s voice carried up to her. ‘You’re doing great, Billie. Just great. Take it slowly. I’ll catch you if you fall.’
Ever mindful of not putting her Timberlands anywhere near the linen-clad part of the wings, and remembering only to step on the ribs, she wobbled unsteadily towards the rig. While it had looked like an instrument of torture on the ground, it now looked wonderful and secure, bolted as it was foursquare and welcoming in the centre of the Stearman’s upper wing.
‘Bingo!’ She reached it, and grabbed at it and hung on for dear life. If Jonah hadn’t been lurking twenty feet beneath her she’d have probably kissed it. ‘OK, then – I’ve reached it. Can I get down now, please?’
Jonah had walked to the nose end of the plane. Looking down, she could just see his head on a level with the propeller. He was grinning from ear to ear. ‘You have got no idea how good this looks . . . Oh, what? No, not yet – if you don’t mind. You’re still OK? Not giddy or anything? Right – there’s a harness on the rig. Just fasten it like you did the cockpit one – so that you’re actually standing on the wing. There’s a little seat bit and –
‘OK, OK,’ Billie muttered, her fingers all thumbs as she fastened the straps. Bugger. Two of the nail extensions flew off into the gloomy recesses of the shed. This obviously wasn’t a game for people with talons. Probably, she thought, easing herself into the rig, one of the reasons why Estelle couldn’t have done this. She allowed herself a smug smile. It was really nice to know that there was something the perfect Estelle Rainbow couldn’t achieve.
‘Oh, wow!’ She straightened up, leaning back against the framework. She’d done it! She was standing upright, steadily, on top of the Stearman. The view, however, was far from breathtaking. The steel girders of her shed crisscrossed away into cobwebby darkness. The wind rattled icily through the breeze blocks, and the unit’s strange smell of decay had settled at this higher level with a vengeance.
‘How does it feel?’ Jonah craned his neck. ‘Secure? Comfy?’
‘Fine,’ Billie said, wriggling a bit. ‘Really safe, actually and – oh, bugger-shit!’ The tiny ledge seat suddenly swivelled away from her, tossing her sideways. She grabbed frantically for the harness and pulled herself upright. ‘Jesus, Jonah! What the hell was that?’
‘Oh, that’s meant to happen. Although preferably when you want it to. The rig pivots. It’s for the acrobatic displays.’
Billie, whose heart was still thundering, swallowed. ‘What? What acrobatic displays?’
‘You know – handstands, horizontal manoeuvres, dancing . . .’
‘Get real!’ She peered down. Jonah had disappeared beneath the wing and was no longer in sight. ‘Hey you’re not leaving me up here, are you? What happens if I suddenly need to go to the loo? Or come over all funny?’
‘I’m not and you won’t.’
And she didn’t. Ten minutes later, Billie was actually enjoying herself. She’d practised waving to the nonexistent crowd, and had even been brave enough to try a little swivel of the rig. She’d also stood on one leg and pirouetted prettily. Piece of cake, this wingwalking. She was feeling pretty damned pleased with herself.
‘Still all right?’ Jonah shouted up. ‘OK then – that’s really wonderful. You’re a complete star. You can get down now. Do you need any help?’
Billie, unbuckling herself, shook her head. Perversely, she didn’t want Jonah to help her. She had to do it on her own. Holding on to the rig, casting a glance over her shoulder, she slithered from the harness, scrambled and slipped across the wing, and stepped backwards into the cockpit. She sat down with a thump. Her fleece was up round her ears and all the remaining nails had dropped off.
Jonah was grinning broadly, incredible. ‘Thanks so much. You’re a natural.’
She shrugged. ‘Piece of cake. Nothing to it. I could do it standing on my head as long as the plane was stationary and someone put a safety net under me. Actually, once I got over being petrified, I enjoyed it. It must be ace to do it for real.’
‘Is that an offer?’
‘No, it bloody isn’t.’ Billie stood up and hooked her leg over the side of the cockpit. ‘Stardom has its limits and I think I’ve just reached mine. You’ll have to advertise for a professional idiot in the flying mags or something if you’re still determined to put on this show thing next summer.’
‘Air pageant, and yes, I was thinking along the same lines.’ Jonah sighed. ‘Well, that’s always depending on whether or not Claire and Antony Archibald are really going to take us over. I’ve got a meeting with the Whiteacres Aviation Incs in January. No doubt I’ll know more then.’
Billie paused on the edge of the cockpit. ‘Why don’t you just ask Claire? You’re still – er – friendly, aren’t you?’
‘Sort of, but asking Claire is one thing. Getting a straight answer is another.’
Billie pulled a face. She had had the same problem with Reuben. ‘I know the feeling. Look, I’ll ring Maynard and Pollock as soon as I get back from Devon and see what I can find out, but if I don’t get a move on now I won’t even get to Devon at all.’
She stepped onto the wing and jumped down, swaying a bit on the solid ground. Jonah reached out to steady her, then seemed to realise that she didn’t need his help and backed awa
y.
Billie headed for the door, then stopped and smiled at him. ‘Well, it wasn’t exactly what I’d planned to do on Christmas Eve, but I’m glad it helped.’
‘It helped a lot. More than you’ll ever know.’
‘Oh, right . . . Good . . . Well, I’d better make tracks for Devon. Er – Happy Christmas . . .’
‘You too. Thanks again and have a great time.’ Jonah looked at her. ‘See you next year, then?’
‘What? Oh yes, of course.’
She thumped into the Nova, still feeling on top of the world, and switched on the radio. She held her breath, making a pact with the devil. If it was a carol or Chris Rea ‘Driving Home for Christmas’ or bloody Slade, then the New Year would bring only new horrors. If it was something unseasonal and inspirational then all her dreams would come true.
She thought she heard Jonah laughing from inside the warehouse. He might have been coughing. It was growing bitterly cold. She turned up the radio’s volume. Oh, joy! The Young Rascals were Groovin’ complete with birdsong and summer imagery. Yes! Billie punched the air in delight and found first gear. It was all going to be OK. This was going to be the best Christmas ever – she just knew it.
By the time she’d manoeuvred round all of Whiteacres’ obstacles, and hit the southbound carriageway of the bypass the radio was offering ‘Mistletoe and Wine’. Billie, still kite-high from her achievement, and positive that the future was going to be rosy, turned up the volume even further and sang along.
Chapter Twenty-four
Billie stared at her unpacked luggage, at the carrier bags full of Christmas presents from her family, and at the cool box which Faith had filled with good home cooking, and wanted to cry.
She felt desperately homesick. Miranda was out, there was nothing half decent on the television, and sleet was spitting despondently against the windows. The kitchen had disappeared under a week’s worth of washing-up and the living room still bore unpleasant evidence of Miranda’s New Year celebrations.
Billie had always felt a sense of anticlimax after Christmas, but this year it was a million times worse. She missed the bustle of the farmhouse and the warmth of her parents and the camaraderie of her brothers with painful intensity. She’d been back in Amberley Hill for less than an hour and she wanted to go home.
Walking on Air Page 25
