Things had gone reasonably well, considering. There had been that blip at the beginning of the year when the customers had dropped off, but with the longer days and warmer temperatures, every man and his dog, it seemed, had started on rigorous chucking out, and spring-cleaning, and house-moving, and loft-converting, and the shelves of her warehouse were once again happily stacked with attic overspill.
A shadow loomed across her desk, casting a welcome spot of shade. Billie glanced up. Sylvia, looking like a neon barrage balloon, seemed to hover above her, the sun glinting round the edges of the mammoth tankini like an aura, and dancing from the diamanté corners of the Chloe shades.
‘Time for a break, dear?’ Sylv jerked the sombrero up and down, wafting papers from the table. ‘I’ve been experimenting with one or two new cocktails for the show. I thought you could help me have a bit of a tester session.’
Billie peered at the tray of multicoloured drinks in Sylvia’s hands. ‘God, Sylv, I don’t have to try all of them, do I? It’s my turn to do Tesco this afternoon – and Miranda will slaughter me if I arrive home in a taxi with half the shopping forgotten because I’m inebriated. Things are strained enough as they are.’
Sylvia raised her eyebrows above the sunglasses, setting the tray down on the edge of the table. ‘Really, dear? I’m so sorry. I do hate to hear of domestic rifts.’
‘Come off it!’ Billie sat upright and scanned the cocktail glasses searching for something innocuous. ‘You and Douglas are hardly Mr and Mrs Perfect! Ooh – that purple one looks pretty, though. What is it?’
‘It’s a sort of kir.’ Sylvia handed her the glass. ‘Cassis with a touch of lambrusco – or was it Bacardi? Anyway, dear, it’s very mild. Probably tastes like Ribena.’
Billie took a sip and felt her head exploding. ‘Jesus, Sylv! It’s lethal!’
Sylvia looked concerned. ‘Really? A touch too much alcohol, do you think, dear? I’ll have to remember to dilute it a tad more on the day. It’d be disastrous if the kiddies mistook it for a cordial, wouldn’t it?’
Billie, who was pretty sure no one would mistake it for anything other than rocket fuel, continued to splutter incoherently. She was convinced that her teeth had melted. Through watering eyes she watched Sylvia, who with no trace of self-consciousness had eased her bulk onto a corner of the trestle table. The extra large tankini strained at its tangerine seams, but Sylv seemed blissfully unaware of the rolls of fat or the dimpled expanses of cellulite as she leaned across the table and reached for one of the more lurid drinks.
Maybe, Billie thought, that’s what happened when you grew up: you were perfectly at ease with yourself – imperfections and all – because you actually liked yourself as a person. The personal confidence which grew with age made physical perfection totally unimportant. Sylvia was comforting, like Faith, because she was comfortable with herself. Billie wished such confidence could be given to twenty-somethings too.
Sylvia beamed, knocked back half a glass of something green and translucent, and wiped her lips with the back of her hand. ‘Yummy. I adore chartreuse with a dash of single malt, don’t you? Do you think Fred ’n’ Dick would like one?’
‘I’m sure they’d love one,’ Billie said cheerfully, it’ll probably be the most fun they’ve had for years. But don’t dash off yet – it’s far too nice to work. Stay and chat. How are your other plans coming along for the show? Is the treasure hunt developing nicely?’
‘Swimmingly.’ Sylvia had turned her attention to an amber concoction which seemed to have a sort of fume haze hanging over it. ‘I’ve worked out my clues in two stages – one lot for adults and the others for children – just to make it fair, and – oh!’ She cocked the sombrero to one side. ‘Isn’t that your office phone ringing, dear?’
‘Probably.’ Billie stretched languorously in the sunshine.
‘Have you left the answerphone on, then?’
Billie shook her head.
‘You should have brought your mobile out here then, dear, if you don’t mind me saying so. It might be a customer.’
‘That was why I didn’t. I’m chock-a-block in there already, and the paperwork –’ she indicated the collapsing pile in front of her – ‘is taking weeks to sort out, even sticking to Estelle’s instructions. I just had no idea how much – Ah, there! The phone’s stopped ringing!’
‘And “Ah, there” to you too! Many more of those and you’ll be bankrupt.’ Sylvia was scandalised. ‘You can’t afford to ignore customers, dear. We’re sole traders. We’re supposed to be working flat out seven days a week without a moment to call our own. It’s what we sign up for when we go it alone. Hard slog without any cushions. Now you get in there and do 1471 and tell them you’ll be delighted to accommodate them.’
Pulling a face at Sylvia, Billie hauled herself from the armchair. Of course Sylv was right, Billie knew, it had all just got so chaotic lately. All the other warehousers had someone else to pass pressing tasks on to – even Sylvia got her sister Ethel to do her correspondence and VAT returns. If she could just have someone to help with the basic paperwork – a YTS child or something – which would free her up for collecting stuff in the van, doing the accounts, stacking the shelves, handling the publicity, oh, and practising the wingwalking, of course . . .
Billie shivered in the shed’s gloom. Her vest and denim cut-offs gave little protection against the all-year-round dampness, and skirting the Stearman, she scuttled into the office and punched out 1471. Stung by Sylv’s criticism, she was determined to ring back the customer and offer them storage space in the kitchenette, the office, even the loo, if necessary. By the time the snooty mechanical voice had barked out the digits of the code, Billie knew that her magnanimity wouldn’t be needed. The number was home in Devon.
As she pushed 3 and heard the single ringing tone, she could see the telephone – black Bakelite complete with dial and plaited wire – sitting on the sunwashed hall table alongside discarded envelopes, junk mail, and several back issues of Farmers Weekly. There were dust motes dancing in the open doorway, the yard was just visible, baked into red clay ruts, and Stan’s coat was topping the pile on the overloaded hatstand.
The pang of homesickness was swift and brutal.
‘Hello?’ Faith’s voice suddenly echoed in her ear. ‘Mountbrook Farm.’
‘Mum – it’s me. I did 1471. Is everything all right? I mean, you never call me at work and –’
‘Oh, everything’s fine. Really. I was just – er – being a bit silly. . .’
Billie was concerned. Silly and her mother simply didn’t go together, is it financial, then? Is the farm having problems? Have you lost your market stall?’
‘Goodness me!’ Faith’s tone resumed its usual no-nonsense briskness. ‘Billie, love, I was just being silly, as I said. I was clearing some stuff out of your room and I just thought how long it was since I’d seen you and I wondered – well – if you could have a bit of a break. Come down here for a few days’ holiday? It’s been so long since Christmas.’
Billie groaned. Going home, especially at this time of the year, would be wonderful. It was also, sadly, completely out of the question. ‘Oh, Mum, I’d love to! But I can’t. I’m so busy and I can’t just close the warehouse up! It was different at Christmas, of course, because the estate shut down, but Sylvia’s just reminded me how fragile self-employment is.’ She sighed into the phone. ‘Hey, look, if I can’t get down to you why don’t you come up here? You could stay at the flat because Miranda’s not often there and –’
Faith cut in. ‘Well, yes, I’d love to. But it won’t be much of a break for you, will it?’
‘It’ll be lovely! We can do proper mother and daughter stuff! Oh, Mum, please try. How about coming up when the air pageant’s on? I’m sure you’d enjoy it, and I’m –’ Billie stopped and back-pedalled. She wasn’t sure just how wise it would be to mention about the wingwalking. She’d keep it as a surprise. ‘Think about it, and let me know.’
‘Yes . . . of course
. . . actually, I’m sure I could work something out. Look, love, I don’t want to keep you from your work, so I’ll ring you later. Tonight? At the flat? Unless, of course, you’re going out.’
‘No, not tonight. I’ll be at home being exhausted.’ Faith’s tone changed. Billie sensed her shuffling her feet and pursing her lips, her eyes staring somewhere out across the distant tors. ‘Oh, I wondered if you’d be going to that new nightclub place that you mentioned, the one that Miranda is involved with, I think you said . . .’
‘Caught Offside?’ Billie laughed. ‘It doesn’t open until Saturday. And even when it does, I don’t think I’ll be going.’
‘Really? Oh, that is good news! I mean . . .’
Billie grinned into the phone. Faith had never approved of nightclubs. There’d been hell to pay when her parents had dragged her out of one of Torbay’s finest in the early hours at the age of fifteen. ‘Things are pretty iffy between me and Miranda right now, so I honestly can’t see us socialising much. Anyway, I’m feeling far too knackered to dance until dawn. Must be old age.’
They talked a bit longer, briefly catching up on family gossip, then with a promise to speak again that evening about Faith’s proposed visit, they said goodbye.
Billie wandered back into the searing sunshine. Sylvia had plonked herself in the wonky armchair, and with the sombrero tipped over her eyes and her head resting on the quarterly return, was snoring softly. Half the cocktail glasses were empty. Grinning, Billie backtracked into the warehouse and started clearing some shelf space for the next lot of ‘Custs Prospect’.
Tesco was bliss. Air conditioning chilled the very soul and, flinging things into the trolley, Billie relished the icy blast on her bare and very grubby legs. She’d spent the afternoon clearing a whole area of shelving, had run off some new flyers on the computer, and totted up the month’s takings before visiting the bank. All she needed to do now was stick to the shopping list, mollify Miranda, go home and have a long, cool bath.
She’d reached the most boring aisle – washing powder, kitchen cleaner, and bleach– and was just allowing herself a minute’s Jonah-time. She did it occasionally; managing to forget all the nasty warts and all stuff that she knew to be the truth from Estelle, and dreaming about him piloting the Stearman in his faded Levis and baggy rugby shirt, or piloting the Shorts in that pulse-racing navy and gold-braided uniform. She resurfaced and sighed at the foolishness. Jonah Sullivan, gorgeous, funny, friendly, was no different to any other man.
No, she shook her head. That wasn’t true. He was different. He was a pilot, and brave – she knew from Barnaby what he’d done in the Gulf – and beautiful . . . oh, and firmly attached to Claire and more loosely attached to Estelle.
‘Bugger! Sod! Damn!’
‘I beg your pardon?’ The woman in front of her, reaching for the money-off Tesco washing powder, straightened up. ‘That’s no sort of language to be using in here. Oh hiya, Billie!’
‘Vee!’ Billie beamed at Veronica, Reuben’s Cabs’ radio operator. ‘It’s great to see you. Sorry about the swearing. I hadn’t realised I’d said it out loud.’
‘Oh, don’t mind me.’ Veronica, looking dishevelled, put the washing powder into her basket. Billie couldn’t help noticing that all the items were budget ones. ‘It just reminded me of the taxi-drivers and I’d promised myself I’d have a day free of brooding, that’s all. So, how are things going?’
‘Brilliantly, thanks. What about you?’
Veronica shifted her discount basket to the other arm. ‘Crap, to be honest.’
Billie pulled a sympathetic face. ‘Yeah, I suppose they would be. I don’t know how you’ve stuck working for Reuben all these years.’
Vee’s face crumpled. ‘You haven’t heard, then? I’m not working for Reuben’s Cabs any longer. The bastard sacked me. No warning, no notice, and, with no union, no bloody chance of fighting it. And at my age, finding another job’s practically impossible.’
‘God, Vee, I’m so sorry. No, I had no idea. What on earth did he do that for?’
‘Christ knows.’ Veronica puffed out her cheeks. ‘He just stormed in one morning and said I was surplus to requirements. Said he was down-sizing. Down-sizing my arse! If you ask me, the man’s gone power crazy. Buying up businesses left right and centre. Acting like bloody Hitler. He’s totally off his trolley these days – even more than he was before. You’re well out of it, Billie, duck. Well out of it. Reuben Wainwright is psychopathic!’
Chapter Thirty-three
Chumbawumba had just been sent off by Fat Les, and the DJ was warming up Oasis as half-time substitutes. With the football anthems going down an ear-splitting treat, Caught Offside was packed to the rafters.
Miranda glanced at the orbital wall clock ticking away the seconds in neon orange segments. Half-eleven. Another thirty minutes to go before Reuben hauled on his surprise guest for the official opening. Miranda still hadn’t got a clue who he was: the posters advertising Caught Offside’s opening had just promised a ‘soccer mega-star’, and no matter how much she’d pestered, Reuben had been uncharacteristically coy about the whole matter.
Still, she’d spotted half of the Liverpool team, most of Arsenal, some knock-outs from Man U and Putney, and the entire rich, glamorous and cerebral Chelsea squad, as well as various players from most of the other football clubs in the country. Flashbulbs were popping like jumping jacks on November the fifth, and gorgeous men were wall to wall. She could almost swear she’d just seen Vinnie Jones doing the salsa with Gary Lineker. It couldn’t, as far as she was concerned, get much better than this.
Sashaying between the dancing, singing, waving crowd, she pushed her way to the bar for another bottle of water. The bar and waiting staff of both genders had been selected for their youthful, leggy appearance, and were clad in brief skin-tight satin shorts and skimpy football shirts. They reminded Miranda of the photos of the pulse-racing 1980s footballers, when players like Glenn Hoddle took to the pitch wearing less material than you’d find in the average hankie.
Bertie Malone, the nightclub’s manager, was dressed in referee black, and presiding over his domain with all the tender loving care of a Rottweiler. Miranda leaned on the bar and sighed happily. It was going to be a sensational success. All of Amberley Hill was out in party mode: Debs, Kitty, Sally, Anna, and even Pixie had been some of the first through the turnstiles at the ten o’clock opening. She hadn’t seen Billie yet, but as she’d promised to be along – in the Joseph dress – before midnight, Miranda knew she’d be there. Billie never let anyone down.
Mind you, Billie had been acting strangely for weeks: up in the air one minute, pirouetting about and practising dancing on the sideboard, and then completely down in the dumps the next. And in the last few days she’d been muttering dark incantations against Reuben again. Miranda remained mystified.
Oh, she knew there had been some further problems with Jonah and Estelle and his ex-wife, but as there was no definite sex involved, only alleged, as far as she could see, Miranda hadn’t really listened.
No, it was definitely Reuben that was causing Billie’s blood pressure to rise at the moment. Miranda had been surprised that she’d even agreed to come tonight. But she’d been adamant that she’d be here.
‘Too right,’ Billie had said, standing on one leg beside the fruit bowl, a tin of baked beans in each hand as she waved her arms above her head, and almost toppling over the television. ‘I wouldn’t miss it for the world. Me and Mr Wainwright have one or two things to sort out. A couple of scores to settle . . .’
Miranda hadn’t asked any further questions, and prayed again that it wasn’t going to be the Mills and Boon ending she so dreaded. She really couldn’t face being brave and magnanimous, and watch them fall panting into each other’s arms. So, erring on the side of caution, she’d steered clear of all taboo subjects, and chatted about the wingwalking – which in her opinion was about as safe as bungee jumping without the bungee, and which she couldn’t understand for
the life of her why Billie was doing.
None of the reasons Billie had given made any sense, so Miranda had eventually left well alone and turned her attentions to Reuben, who hadn’t seemed to need her ministrations either. He’d remained calm and confident all week. She’d honestly expected him to be like a hen on pins leading up to the opening, but he’d shown no sign of nerves, and had even been extra attentive. She’d wondered if it was because she’d had a couple of meals at the Dil Raj recently with Barnaby, but somehow doubted it. Reuben knew all about them, and had said that she should definitely encourage Barnaby as he sounded like the sort of bloke he himself might be able to use in future projects.
The meals had been fun, and she’d learned a lot that she didn’t want to know about Jonah and Claire and the voluptuous Estelle. She’d also heard about the proposed airshow a million times, and Billie’s brave wingwalking offer. Barnaby, like Jonah, seemed to live and breathe aeroplanes. Still, however boring she found the subject matter, he’d put a lot of his friends her way, and the male massage and facial side of Follicles and Cuticles was doing extremely well.
And Barnaby was a real gentleman. It was wonderful to be treated as though she were fragile and girlie. He even liked her pink plaits. Miranda sighed and gulped at her water. It was always the same: men were truly like buses – you could wait for ages without a glimmer of one on the horizon and then – whoosh! – two came along at once.
‘OK?’ Reuben pushed in alongside Miranda at the bar.
‘Brilliant, thanks,’ she shouted in his ear. ‘You must be so pleased, doll. It’s going to be massive!’
Walking on Air Page 35
