Billie had telephoned Miranda from Devon on Christmas morning, and apologised for being crass about Reuben, and said that falling out over someone as inconsequential as Slimeball Wainwright was sheer madness. Miranda had been a bit starchy to begin with, but had then giggled and said it didn’t matter, and it was the season of goodwill – but as she hadn’t found a good Will or a bad Will she’d have to make do with a wicked Reuben, wouldn’t she? Billie had then been almost swamped by the tidal roar of Miranda’s family in the background, and had strained her ears for Reuben’s drawl but couldn’t hear it, and had prayed that he was spending his usual solitary Christmas in his bedsit and wasn’t sprawled on the flat’s sofa regaling Miranda and her nearest and dearest with lurid tales of Billie and Kieran Squires.
Now, sitting on the bed, desperate to be anywhere other than back in the chaos of the flat, Billie clutched the phone and listened to the squawking voice in frustration.
‘The offices of Maynard and Pollock will be closed for the holidays until January the third. If you wish to leave a message, please give your name and a contact telephone number and we will get back to you when the office reopens. Please speak slowly and clearly after the tone.’
She switched off the phone without leaving a message. Tomorrow was the third, and she’d ring them then. She’d go back to the warehouse in the morning and be brave and telephone to find out whether or not the shed had a future. On the drive back from Devon, the thought of sorting out the warehouse’s ownership with Maynard and Pollock had kept her going. It was something to focus on for the future. Now the delay only made leaving home more poignant.
‘Get a grip,’ she told herself, deciding to do something positive by disgorging her mother’s food parcel in the kitchen. This, at least, was easy. Both the fridge and the freezer were bare. ‘You’re just suffering from green grass syndrome. You’ll feel better tomorrow.’
Tomorrow, she felt, may be a long time coming. It had been a wonderful Christmas. The farmhouse had been filled with her brothers and her sisters-in-law – and, surprise, surprise, Maria, the newest owner of the Mrs Pascoe mantle, was already pregnant – and the children. Billie had enthused over the chubby gorgeousness of Otis and Sapphire, and played rumbustious games with Delphi, Thad, Mungo and Lilac, and had been very glad that they belonged to someone else. Christmas dinner had taken nearly all day, with the whole family informally lounging round the huge dining table, eating and drinking, talking and laughing.
Faith and Stan’s New Year’s Eve party had been a rerun of Ben and Maria’s wedding do in the summer, and Billie had said the same things to the same people, had a lovely time, worn the Joseph dress, and made her New Year wishes out in the yard beneath a frosty sky.
She’d looked up into the twinkling distance, her teeth chattering, her arms wrapped tightly round herself, and extended her summer wish. Now, it wasn’t just for the success of her own warehouse, but for Sylv and Zia and Isla and the others as well. She’d also added a wish for Jonah to wow the Aviation Incs and hang onto the aerodrome, for Claire and Aerobatic Archie to implode, for Miranda to fall in love with anyone other than Reuben, and for Reuben and Kieran Squires to do a Shergar.
Then, as the kitchen door had opened, and the rest of her family had poured outside to make their pledges, she’d added a hasty silent codicil. It was something she’d done in her nightly childhood prayers when she’d asked God to take care of everyone that she loved and liked – then suddenly realising at the age of ten that it might not cover all eventualities – she’d, added, ‘And everyone that likes or loves me that I don’t know about.’ It was the same sort of reasoning that led her to add, ‘And I wish that all the people involved with Whiteacres, now and in the future, will let us all stay and prosper.’ And then she’d grinned at her parents, feeling guilty and rather selfish, as they made their New Year wishes for simple things like family health and happiness.
Stan and her brothers had been really interested and amazed at how well her warehouse was doing; she’d explained about how Estelle had helped her become more organised and how Sylvia had got the publicity started and how everyone helped each other. She’d shrugged off their questions about the takeover, saying that she honestly couldn’t see it making any difference to the warehousers – not when they had five-year leases, and only uncrossed her fingers after she’d said it. They were all fascinated by the stories of Jonah and the Stearman – and shocked into silence when she told them about how she’d tested the Art Scholl rig.
No, she’d assured them, she certainly wasn’t going to have a go at wingwalking – Jonah was advertising for a proper person – but it had been nice to be there at the right time to help him out. Oh, and definitely no, she wouldn’t be taking any more joyrides in the Stearman – that had been a one-off, too.
Faith had asked a lot of strange questions – even more strange than usual. About gangsters and hitmen and people who put on both frighteners and squeezes and about Billie’s all-round safety. Billie had reassured her that Whiteacres was certainly not in the middle of any gangland war and could only conclude that her mother had been reading the Sun again and watching too much late-night telly.
And now, she sighed as she unpeeled herself from the bed and stumbled towards the bathroom, it was all over and she was back in Amberley Hill, and she still felt lonely and homesick.
She actually felt fractionally better after a bath and discovering half a bottle of Australian red in the cupboard and a rerun of Friends on Sky. Following this with a Stilton and chutney doorstep and a seventies sitcom, life, if not immediately rosy, was at least gaining pinkish tinges.
It was nearly midnight when she heard the key turning in the lock.
‘Happy New Year, doll!’ Miranda crashed into the living room, wearing a leopardskin mini skirt and very little else. ‘Why didn’t you say you’d be home during opening hours? We’ve been in Mulligan’s – you could have joined us!’
She enveloped Billie in a CK One and Malibu embrace just as Billie registered the ‘us’. The man – joyfully not Reuben – lurking in the hall’s twilight zone seemed to be dressed entirely in combat fatigues. Maybe they’d been to a fancy dress party? Somehow she doubted it.
Miranda straightened up. ‘Did you have a good one, then? Who did you snog the New Year in with? Not dodgy Damon?’
‘Damon – um – isn’t around any more.’ Billie did lightning calculations. Death or matrimony? She opted for the latter. ‘He married someone from – oh – Venezuela – back in the summer – and – um – emigrated.’
‘The bastard! You poor love! I know just what you’re going through. You’re talking to an expert here. Oh God – how do you feel?’
‘Relieved,’ Billie said with searing honesty, I’ll just have to try and get over him . . . And I really would be happier if we never mentioned him again. So, how was your Christmas?’
‘Up and down. You know. Hey, where are my manners? Say hello to Spike,’ Miranda indicated the man who was now shuffling sheepishly in the doorway, ‘while I go and raid the larder.’ She beamed at Billie. ‘Your mum has sent supplies, hasn’t she?’
‘The usual. She seems to think I haven’t eaten properly for the last two years, so –’
‘Mega!’ Miranda had already disappeared into the kitchen. ‘You two make friends, now.’
Spike hovered a bit more, and Billie reluctantly swung her legs to the floor and cleared empty crisp packets and wine bottles to make a space on the sofa. She warmed towards him. Spike had obviously ousted Reuben and survived not only Christmas but also New Year. This was pretty serious stuff. It almost constituted a steady relationship. There were little yelps of delight emanating from the kitchen as Miranda discovered Faith’s delicacies.
Billie smiled and patted the seat beside her. ‘Come and sit down. Make yourself at home – although you probably already have . . . that is – um – well, you know what Miranda’s like! That is –’
Not saying anything, Spike sat down awkwardly on th
e other end of the sofa. He certainly wasn’t up to Miranda’s usual standards – and they were pretty low. He had very close-cropped red hair and no eyelashes. Billie wondered if Miranda may have experimented on him.
She tried again. ‘Did you enjoy Christmas? Miranda’s parents are a scream, aren’t they? And her Auntie Val can do a super Shirley Bassey when she’s had a sherry. I bet Miranda didn’t do the cooking, though. Was that why you were invited? Are you a bit of a closet Gary Rhodes?’
He shook his head. Christ, this was hard going. She changed tack and threw her arms wide to encompass the living room’s debris. ‘The New Year must have been a bit wild, too. Mine was very staid by comparison. I went home to Devon. Miranda might have mentioned it . . .’
‘Nope.’ He shook his head, his eyes now fixed firmly on the television screen. ‘Is this a Carry On?’
‘What? Oh, no. I think it’s On the Buses. Do you like it?’
‘Ah.’
Bloody hell. Spike must either be a demon in the kitchen or the bedroom or both. Miranda couldn’t have hung on to him for his scintillating chat. Still, if he’d got rid of Reuben Billie thought she’d probably fall in love with him herself. She tried a few more general topics, like the weather and the holiday sporting results. Spike continued to stare at the television and say nothing. The boy was never going to go the full distance on Brain of Britain.
Shut up, Billie, she thought. Just shut up and let the missing link enjoy the programme in silence. Sadly, she wasn’t listening to herself. ‘So, work in the morning, is it? I hate the first day back, don’t you?’
‘Ah.’
Fortunately at that moment, Miranda staggered back into the room weighed down by a tray of goodies. She beamed at them both. ‘Your mum is just so ace, doll! This is better than we had on Christmas Day! I can’t understand why you’re not huge! Oh, are you two having a good chat?’
‘No, but don’t mind me!’ Billie sprang up with feverish delight. I’m heading for bed anyway. I’m completely knackered. I mean if you and – er – Spike want to carry on watching the telly that’s fine by me. Night, then, Randa . . . Spike . . .’
Miranda beamed in a maternal manner. ‘We only met tonight, me and Spike. He’s –’
‘Staying? And we’ll meet in the morning? Of course there’ll be plenty of time to chat then. Night, all . . .’
Oh Jesus, Joseph and Mary, she thought, sprinting out of the room and slamming her bedroom door closed. No matter how desperate she got for a man, she couldn’t – wouldn’t – sink to those levels. What the hell was Miranda thinking of? Still, she reminded herself, Spike had replaced Reuben. One of the New Year wishes had come true. Only another three zillion to go . . .
She was just tugging on her new Winnie-the-Pooh pyjamas – this year’s present from Alex and Katy – when Miranda opened the door.
‘Can I have a quick word, doll?’
‘Yeah, sure.’ Billie fluffed at her hair. She hoped Miranda wasn’t going to ask her the whereabouts of the nail extensions. She didn’t want to think about Jonah or the Stearman. Not tonight. ‘Was it really a nice Christmas?’
‘All rightish, like I said. Actually, it got a bit shitty when I discovered my dad and Auntie Val in the kitchen doing things with pickled eggs on Boxing Day.’
Oh, bugger. ‘Christ – what did you do?’
‘Put them back in the jar and screwed the lid on tight. Just remember not to touch the ones with lipstick stains on. Still, Mum didn’t find out, so that’s all right. And you’re truly not too upset about Damon?’
Billie shook her head. She really didn’t want to get drawn into yet another web of deceit. And Miranda surely couldn’t want to exchange seasonal pleasantries now, could she? Still, maybe if the alternative was a night snuggling with Neanderthal man, maybe she could.
Miranda beamed. ‘Good. Look, I just wanted to explain –’
‘No need. Spike seems like fun, and you’ve never asked my permission about your sleepovers before . . .’
‘What? Oh, yeah, but he isn’t.’
‘What isn’t what?’
‘Spike isn’t a sleepover. I met him in Mulligan’s tonight, like I said. He’s new here. He’s starting work in Amberley Hill tomorrow and I thought I’d introduce him to a few people and –’
‘Oh, right . . . So, why’s he in the living room?’
Miranda sat on the bed and twirled a plait. ‘Because he can’t move into his digs until tomorrow so he’s having the sofa . . . He’s starting work for Reuben as a taxi-driver in the morning.’
Billie closed her eyes. All the visions of Miranda in white, and Spike in a top hat and tails, and her wearing something lilac and flouncy and carrying orange blossom, slowly, sadly, faded. ‘Does that mean that Reuben . . . ?’
‘Is still on the books?’ Miranda’s tone was challenging. ‘Yes. And he’s stayed here all the time you were away. And he’s staying tonight as soon as he’s parked the car somewhere where it’ll still have wheels in the morning.’
So much for New Year wishes, thought Billie. Things could only get better.
Chapter Twenty-five
Three weeks later, as the snow cascaded across the Spicer Centre outside, illuminated by the orange street lamps, Reuben leaned across Follicles and Cuticles’ desk and kissed Miranda. Miranda, in the middle of cashing up, grabbed the opportunity and kissed him back.
‘Don’t look so surprised.’ Reuben straightened up, the businessman in him instinctively gathering the scattered notes and card receipts together on the desk top. He handed them to her. ‘I said I’d see you after work.’
‘Yeah, I know, but I wasn’t expecting the – um – warm greeting.’
‘Why not? We’re a couple now, aren’t we? Isn’t that what couples are supposed to do?’ Reuben looked genuinely puzzled. ‘I know I’m out of practice, and all this has come as a bit of a shock, but –’
‘No, no, it was lovely.’ Miranda smiled encouragingly at him. She didn’t want to offend him. She really liked him. ‘Just – well – it still takes a bit of getting used to, doll, that’s all.’
‘And for me. I always thought you were a complete headcase.’
‘And I thought you were the scum of the earth.
‘Made for each other, then,’ Reuben said cheerfully. ‘So? Are you ready?’
‘Almost. Where are we going?’ Miranda shoved the last few coins into the till. She hoped they were eating out. Having worked through the lunch hour, she was absolutely starving.
‘The club. I want to show you the finished article. The painters cleared out half an hour ago, and I’m really chuffed with it.’
‘Already? But it isn’t opening for months yet, is it?’
‘Not until the end of the football season, no. But the designers are the best in the business. I got them cheap because it’s fairly slack during the winter. There’s still tons to do – but it’s really beginning to take shape now. Caught Offside will make Amberley Hill the talk of the clubbing world.’
Miranda smiled at his enthusiasm. He was so different these days. So open. She wished Billie could understand. ‘Great – and then can we go and eat? On me.’
‘Love to,’ Reuben said, ‘but I’m afraid I can’t. I’ve got an evening session with the accountants. Would tomorrow do instead?’
Miranda’s stomach rumbled. She’d have to defrost a lasagne. ‘OK. Tomorrow will be fine, but you can pay for making me wait . . . Look – I’ll be about another ten minutes here. You go on over to the club and I’ll catch you up.’
The last customer of the day had buttoned herself into her coat only minutes before Reuben’s arrival, given Miranda a five-pound tip, and disappeared into the thinning throng slipping and sliding in the Spicer Centre. Kitty, Debs and Pixie had left Follicles and Cuticles half an hour previously because the roads were treacherous, and there was just the usual last-minute sweeping up and straightening to be done.
Reuben glanced around the empty salon. ‘OK. Don’t be long, though.
I can’t wait for you to see the finished product.’ He kissed her again as he left, lightly this time, and waved as he closed the door.
Miranda watched him as he crossed the Spicer Centre, the snowflakes settling on his dark hair. He still turned heads. Maybe as Billie always said, the Devil would turn heads in Amberley Hill too. But Reuben was no devil. Reuben was her lover. Which was a bit of a bugger, really. Oh, not that he wasn’t lovely – he’d been a revelation in bed. Miranda had been all geared up for a laddish, one-sided, utterly forgettable wham-bang-thank-you-ma’am experience; but it hadn’t been like that at all. Reuben had been a tender, sensitive and generous lover. Probably, she had to admit, the best she’d ever had. And that was the problem.
She still fancied the mysterious Drop-Dead Gorgeous Joseph Bellamy like mad. Or at least, she thought she did. Not that she’d seen him again since the meeting before Christmas in the post office; Mr Molton-Kusak hadn’t been back for any further massage either as he’d cancelled the three appointments he’d made owing to pressure of business elsewhere in the country, so she hadn’t been able to follow up her double-date plan. And now she never would.
Even if they did meet again, Miranda knew she simply couldn’t do it. Joseph was obviously married – and anyway she was sleeping with Reuben. She had never been unfaithful to anyone – Noel’s infidelity had ensured that she’d never inflict that sort of humiliation on anyone else – and each of her many subsequent men since the disintegration of her marriage had been in series, not parallel.
And anyway, if she knew – really knew – that she and Reuben had any sort of future together, then she’d be able to relegate the delicious-but-married Joseph to her top ten fantasy lovers along with Paul Nicholls, Will Smith, Sean Bean and Jeremy Paxman. But close as she was growing to Reuben, there was still a little niggling doubt in the back of her mind. Billie must hate him for a good reason, other than just because he had been her boss and that was mandatory. She’d been asking Billie why for as long as she’d known her. And Billie had always given the same answer: because he’s just not a nice person. Some are. Some aren’t. Reuben isn’t. Okay? And Miranda, as always, translated that as unrequited mutual lust. Reuben was still fixated on Billie, she was sure of it! Not that he mentioned her very often, and Billie was so wrapped up in the goings-on at Whiteacres that she’d barely got time to breathe, let alone slag off Reuben, but until Miranda found out exactly what it was that each truly felt about the other, and more importantly why, then her relationship with him would have no chance.
Walking on Air Page 26
