Billie had been speechless about Reuben spending the night in the flat when she came back from Devon, and had begged and pleaded with Miranda to keep him out of her way. Miranda, after tucking up Spike with the spare duvet and hustling Reuben through to her bedroom, had suggested that it might be better for everyone concerned if their sleeping arrangements moved to Reuben’s bedsit in future. Reuben had laughed and said fine by him and he’d got no idea that Billie had become so moralistic, and Billie the next day had said thank God for that because if Reuben was in the flat then she definitely wasn’t going to be.
Miranda finished tidying the desk and moved on to the salon. Hard to believe that it was already well into January, Miranda thought, idly lobbing fat foam rollers and little spindly perm curlers into their appropriate baskets. Her life, she felt, was currently passing and changing just as quickly as the seasons.
She gazed out of the window. It had been lovely today. She adored the snow. She wondered how badly the weather was affecting Billie’s business. Not at all, she hoped. Billie needed a boost at the moment. The snow had apparently hampered Jonah Sullivan’s progress with the plane, the new owner of the warehouses hadn’t materialised yet due to a fiscal glitch, and Billie looked frazzled every night.
All work and no play was turning Billie into a right miserable madam, Miranda thought. Maybe she’d tell her about the developments at Caught Offside tonight over a bottle of plonk and the lasagne. Maybe, because Reuben wasn’t going to be around, they could have a girlie night in and laugh like they used to. Miranda sighed. It was no fun at all having girlie chats when the subjects of her current man and sex were taboo, and Billie had neither of either . . .
Reuben was waiting in the foyer of the club. As Bazooka’s, the entrance hall had been black, with zigzags of red and yellow paint splashed across the walls mixed with other more unpleasant stains. Now it was like perfectly mown emerald turf marked out with pristine chalk lines. Miranda, who knew very little about football, and who hadn’t been allowed to see it at all during its transformation, looked around in pure pleasure.
‘Wow, doll! It’s magic!’
The dirty grey carpet had been replaced by Astroturf, the soft lighting came from towering silver floodlight pylons, and the cloakrooms were now called changing rooms, with Home for Ladies and Away for Gents. It was all very impressive.
‘Wait until you see the rest.’ Reuben held out his hand. ‘Billie’ll rue the day she turned down my offer to run this place. It’s going to be a little goldmine.’
Miranda, taking his hand, groaned inwardly. She really wished he hadn’t mentioned Billie, I’m sure it will. And I’m sure Billie might have had second thoughts – especially now her other business is a bit iffy . . . Still, Bugsy Malone will make a really good manager, won’t he?’
‘Bertie,’ Reuben corrected. ‘And yes, I’m convinced that he’ll run the place exactly the way I want it.’
Bertie Malone had been the most anthropoid member of Reuben’s managerial shortlist. Weeks ago, on the interview panel, Miranda had blinked at them, convinced that she’d seen precisely the same line-up on Crimewatch. Bertie Malone, fresh from running a Leeds rave palace and currently into something to do with tribal gatherings, had made Phil Mitchell look like Dale Winton.
‘There!’ Reuben led her into the body of the club. ‘What do you think?’
‘Amazing – even for the biggest footiephobe in the land!’ Miranda swirled round. ‘Oh, it’s brilliant! It’ll appeal to everyone. You’re dead clever when it comes to business, aren’t you?’
Reuben tried to look unassuming, but she could see that he was pleased by her reaction. She let her eyes trawl round the inside of the club.
The footballing theme was everywhere – from the black and white half-ball tables and chairs, to the perfectly marked- out pitch of the dance floor, with more floodlighting and tiers of terraced seats. The bar was a semicircle, and the names of the soccer-linked drinks – including, sadly, the Bobby Charlton Slammer – were constantly scrolling on a miniature scoreboard. The new eaterie, officially called The Penalty Spot now, was decked out like a goalmouth complete with giant nets, and huge glamorous photos of all the star players were light-boxed onto the walls and ceilings.
‘Better than paintings, I thought,’ Reuben followed her gaze. ‘They go out of fashion so quickly, what with the transfer market and injuries, it would have cost a fortune to keep replacing them if they were permanent. Do you like the screens?’
Miranda nodded. She loved all of it. It was hopelessly overdone, of course, but it had to be. The Star Vision screens would show matches all the time, striped scarves were dangling from the ceilings, and even the banquettes had been reupholstered in a selection of Premiership team colours. Reuben had worked very hard to get everything right.
Miranda sighed. ‘I can’t wait to see everyone’s faces when they get inside here! Why do we have to wait so long before you open?’
‘Licensing laws – which means waiting for the appropriate magistrates sitting to grant me the bar licence – not to mention Health and Safety checks, about a million tons of triplicate paperwork, and various visits by the building regulators to check on every inch – and also because I want it to coincide with the end of the football season, remember – after the Cup Final,’ Reuben said. ‘Everyone will be desperate by then – the football fans and the dedicated clubbers. It’ll be like offering iced water in the Sahara. I’ll be sending out a press release to all the newspapers and the television and radio. And invitations to all the football clubs. Managers and players.’
Miranda grinned at him. ‘What? You mean we’re going to have people like Michael Owen and Alan Shearer? Here in Amberley Hill? Wow!’
‘With any luck, most of the top names will accept. And I’ve already got my celebrity player booked to perform the opening ceremony.’
‘God! Not David Ginola? Or David Beckham?’ Miranda almost clapped her hands, then remembered that possibly Reuben wouldn’t be that delighted at this show of adoration. Especially from someone who purported to hate the game.
She could hardly say that the two beautiful Davids could be shelf-stackers for all she cared. ‘I – er – mean, they’re absolutely huge!’
Reuben looked darkly enigmatic for a moment, then smiled. ‘You’ll just have to wait and see on the opening night, won’t you? I think you’ll be pleased, but until then it’s my secret.’
‘If you’d like to wait in the lounge for a moment, madam, and peruse the menu . . . Your first drinks will, of course, be on the house to compensate for the delay. I think we may be able to squeeze you in without too much trouble. Please – take a seat.’
The Dil Raj was packed. It always was. Miranda, who had phoned to reserve a table for two, had been told they were fully booked but she could come along and hope there was a cancellation.
‘Thanks. That’s lovely – ooh, and doubles, doll! Cheers!’ Miranda smiled at the waiter, gratefully accepted two gin and tonics, and joined Billie in the dark green and golden tasselled splendour of the restaurant’s waiting area.
Even though she was still ravenous, Miranda was delighted that the bottle of plonk and defrosted lasagne girlie night in had been jettisoned by Billie who’d, for once, arrived home as high as a kite.
‘We’ll eat out!’ She’d twirled round the flat. ‘To celebrate! Let’s do the whole hog at the Dil Raj! You ring for a table and I’ll just whizz into the shower!’
Billie had whizzed and Miranda had rung, and all the time Billie had been warbling early Madonna hits and like some village idiot. It was only when Billie in the Joseph dress and Miranda in leather and spandex were crammed in the taxi on the way to the Spicer Centre that the reason for Billie’s delirium was revealed.
To be honest, Miranda thought, it didn’t seem that much to get excited about. OK, so Jonah had his appointment with some people at the airport the following morning – and Maynard and Pollock had said it may be another month before the new owner took ov
er the leases. Jonah’s friend Barnaby had apparently got some other plane fully functional, oh, and Billie had spent the afternoon testing the wingwalking rig – again.
Sure, she knew about Billie’s fear of flying – but all she’d done was bumble about, strapped into something motionless a few feet above the ground. Inside the shed. The worst that could have happened to her was falling off. Still, Miranda thought, listening for the umpteenth time to Billie waxing lyrical about the planned air show, and having two planes and how Jonah was going to make everything OK for the future of Whiteacres, and that sitting in the plane – even on the ground – was like nothing anyone had ever experienced since Orville and Wilbur took to the skies, it had certainly done wonders for Billie’s mood.
At least it meant Billie had talked about something other than Reuben, and for that reason alone Miranda would have listened to her reciting the A to Z of aviation history if it meant they could have a night out without arguing.
‘Ladies?’ The waiter appeared again. ‘If you don’t object to being seated in the smoking area, then we have a free table.’
‘Smoking’s brilliant.’ Miranda leaped to her feet before Billie could mutter anything about preferring to wait for nonsmoking if nobody minded. ‘I always say there’s nothing like a Marlboro Light after a Raj Thali, don’t you?’
Clutching their gin and tonics, and menus, they followed their immaculately dressed waiter through the throng, the chatter and clatter and the tang of a thousand spices making Miranda almost drool with anticipation.
‘A nice little corner table.’ The waiter pulled out their chairs. ‘I’ll bring poppadoms and chutneys while you make your choices . . . and more drinks?’
‘Oh, yes please,’ Billie smiled dazzingly at him. ‘Could we have a bottle of Moet?’
‘Certainly, madam. A celebration?’
‘The biggest.’ Billie beamed a bit more.
‘There now,’ Miranda said a bit doubtfully as the waiter wafted away, ‘I bet he thinks we’re lesbians celebrating our engagement or something.’
‘Of course he doesn’t. And, anyway, what if he does? I just want to celebrate feeling happy and confident about the future, and I always think – Oh my God!’
‘What?’ Miranda paused in lighting her cigarette. ‘What’s up?’
Billie nodded towards the nonsmoking area. ‘Over there! The table by the banana plant! It’s Jonah and Barnaby!’
‘Where? Show me!’ Miranda wriggled round as much as the leather and spandex would allow. ‘You’ll have to introduce me, doll. Didn’t you know they were coming here, then?’
Billie shook her head. ‘I knew they were going out to congratulate each other on the rebuilding of the Slingsby – and to give Jonah Dutch courage for tomorrow’s meeting with the Incs. I had no idea where to. What a coincidence.’
‘Are they on their own?’
‘Yeah, as far as I can see . . .’ Billie leaned recklessly from her chair. ‘Yes – not a trace of Claire or Estelle! Goody!’
Miranda smiled. The bit about Claire and Estelle had rather spoiled the ending to Billie’s account back in the summer when the Boeing thing had flown for the first time. Miranda had held out great hopes of a romance for Billie with this Jonah bloke – but a man with a not-so-ex-wife and a gorgeous girlfriend both very much on the scene was truly not up for grabs.
Despite following Billie’s example and leaning, Miranda still couldn’t see anyone. People moving to and from tables kept getting in the way, and then the waiter interrupted the craning and peering to deliver the champagne and chutneys and a tower block of poppadoms, and Billie ordered the Raj Thali, the full banquet, twice.
‘Where are they?’ Miranda said irritably. ‘I can see about twenty tables by banana plants and oh – holy shit!’
Billie paused in mid-crunch. A lot of mango fell from the poppadom onto her side plate. ‘What’s the matter? Christ- it’s not Reuben, is it?’
‘It’s Mr Molten-Lava – and Joe!’
‘Bloody hell!’ Billie scooped up her chutney again, washing it down with a swig of Moet. ‘Heck of a night for men, then. Two each! I can’t wait to see this vision of testosterone on legs. So – where are they?’
‘Over there!’ Miranda waved her cigarette wildly. ‘The table over there. Look! By the banana pi . . .’
She trailed away. Billie pushed her plate aside. They looked at each other. Oh God – surely not?
‘But Mr Molten-Lava called him Joe. I thought it was short for Joseph . . . And the parcel was addressed to Mrs Bellamy.’
‘Barnaby calls him Jo. J. O. Short for Jonah. And where was the parcel addressed to?’
‘I don’t know. Some island . . .’
‘Not the Isle of Wight?’
‘Yeah, I think so. Why?’
‘Jonah’s family live there. I’ll bet you a million pounds that Mrs Bellamy is one of his sisters.’
Miranda closed her eyes. That was it, then. Joseph Bellamy, Mr Dreamboat Potential Husband Number Two, was not only Jonah Sullivan, he was well and truly spoken for. Still, she supposed it solved one dilemma – the Reuben one. She opened her eyes again. Billie was waving at the table by the banana plant with a poppadom. There were spatters of chutney on the tablecloth.’
Miranda sighed. ‘But I kept going on about Mr Molton-Kusak. Didn’t you know it was Barnaby’s surname?’
‘Nope. I’ve only ever known him as Barnaby. Molton-Kusak! Posh, or what? Oh, great! I think they’ve seen us! But not so great – they’ve got a table for four. Do you think they are waiting for Claire and Estelle?’
‘I really don’t care.’ Miranda dragged relentlessly on the cigarette and downed half a flute of champagne. ‘And please, please, doll – if they come over or anything – don’t breathe a word about me – well – um – fancying Joe – er – Jonah, will you?’
‘God, no, of course not. I just think it’s really funny that you’ve seen Barnaby without his clothes on.’
Miranda winced. Small world. Bloody coincidence. Fickle fate. Whatever you wanted to call it, it seemed to have made Billie very happy. And her? She examined her feelings briefly: she was OK. She’d never expected anything to come from Mr D-D-G anyway. He’d been a fantasy, like all the others. Reuben was the real thing. If Billie was cheerful about seeing them then maybe she’d got her eye on Mr Molten-Lava – which would be lovely. Miranda sighed. She’d sort of got Reuben, and Billie might have Barnaby. Not too bad, really . . .
Billie was still munching her way through the tower block. She leaned across the table. ‘Miranda? Are you all right? I mean, I’m so sorry about your Joe being Jonah. I know how much –’
Miranda crumbled a poppadom. ‘I’m fine, doll. Just fine. It was only a silly game anyway.’
‘Madam,’ the waiter pushing a hostess trolley of immense proportions, loaded with steaming dishes and hot plates, paused beside her, ‘the gentlemen over there are asking if you’d care to join them.’
Miranda exchanged glances with Billie, who was nodding. The waiter caught the nod. ‘Just a word in that case, madam. The gentlemen’s table – it is nonsmoking – so if you wouldn’t mind extinguishing your cigarette . . . And if you do decide to go, can we do it now before I serve?’
‘Yes, yes, of course.’ Miranda ground out the cigarette in the ashtray. ‘Yes, let’s do it. Billie?’
But Billie had already gone, clutching the bottle of Moet. The waiter grinned at Miranda. ‘Your friend – she’s in high spirits, tonight? You ladies in love?’
‘Not as far as I know,’ Miranda muttered. ‘And before you say anything, even if we are, it’s definitely not with each other.’
It took about five minutes to get organised. By the time the double banquet was distributed amidst the dishes on Jonah and Barnaby’s already loaded table, and the Moet had been decanted four times and another two bottles ordered, and Jonah was teasing Billie about being in a dress, and everyone had introduced themselves, and Jonah had exclaimed twenty times about it being
a bloody small world and thanks again for posting his parcel, Miranda’s pulse had begun to calm down.
God, but Jonah Sullivan was to die for. Heaping prawn bhoona onto a mountain of pilau rice, Miranda, however, ignored him and smiled across at Barnaby. ‘Strange coincidence, you and – um – Jonah knowing Billie, and us all meeting like this.’
‘Very.’ Barnaby saluted her with his glass. ‘In fact I had been intending to contact you and invite you out for a meal, in any case. It was very ungallant of me to cancel my appointments with you. I must say you are excellent at your job.’
‘Thank you very much. And the cancellations were no problem.’ Embarrassed, Miranda swallowed a huge delicious mouthful and had to wait for ages before it went down. ‘And I do understand how busy you are – especially now that I know you’re the Barnaby that Billie’s always talking about. And – um – we haven’t interrupted anything, have we? The table for four . . . ?’
Barnaby shook his head, elegantly scooping up palak bhajee with his keema naan. ‘No, Jo booked for Pam and Vinny – they work for Sullivanair – as well. But Vinny apparently had a previous hot date and Pam’s got an unexpected in-law invasion.’
Jonah and Billie were hooting with laughter over something. Miranda tried to listen. It seemed to involve a lot of technical words like shit-scared and nose-dive.
Walking on Air Page 27
