‘I’m fine, I just need to talk to you. And where the hell have you been?’
‘The Maldives! Ace, or what?’ Miranda led her to the seats behind the faux goalpost. ‘It was Reuben’s treat. Straight from the opening night to the airport. Just a minute to go back to flat, grab me passport and me slap bag – and whoosh! Away!’ She looked distinctly soppy. ‘He said we both needed a break, so he’d planned it all. He bought me a whole new wardrobe out there – not that I wore much of it . . . Romantic, eh, doll?’
‘Oh, very. And it didn’t occur to you to let anyone know where you’d gone?’
‘Kitty knew, so Follicles was OK. And Bertie Malone runs things like a boot camp here, but Reuben swore him to secrecy in case anyone took advantage of him being away. I would have told you if you’d been back at the flat but you weren’t.’ She peered at Billie. ‘Why the hell didn’t Kitty tell you, then, doll?’
‘Because Kitty has apparently buggered off with Kieran Squires.’
‘Really? Wow! Shit – then who’s been running Follicles?’
‘Pixie.’
‘Christ! I’ll have to get down there!’ Miranda started tearing off her apron. ‘Oh, so much has happened. And look, your secret’s safe with me, doll – Reuben’s explained it all to me. He understands about what you did . . . Slapping him and that Kieran whatshisname . . . He’s not angry.’
Big of him, Billie thought, under the circumstances. So, Miranda knew about Kieran now, did she? Funnily enough, Billie really didn’t care.
‘We talked about it on the flight out,’ Miranda stretched her feet up onto the back of the seat in front, ‘and decided that you must be exhausted. What with spending all the hours God sends at the warehouse and this wingwalking thing, and then, not liking football. Reuben said it was probably just an aberration. A reaction . . . With you being overtired . . . But even if you’re heading for a nervous breakdown or something, I won’t say anything.’
Billie snorted. So Reuben hadn’t told the truth. Again. He’d merely explained away her retaliation on the grounds of nervous exhaustion. She glanced at Miranda’s now ungloved hands. Oh, hallelujah! No wedding ring!
‘Yes, it must have been something like that. Still, I’m feeling much better now so there’s no need to worry. Look, Miranda, I know about Barnaby asking you to marry him. Are you sure you wouldn’t consider him?’
‘God, doll!’ Miranda rocked in her chair. ‘Six months ago I’d have said yes and please and been hotfooting up to Derbyshire with my tiara in my rucksack! Barnaby’s such a darling, a real sweetie. But as it is . . .’ she shrugged, ‘I couldn’t. I truly love Reuben, you see. After all this time, he really is the only person I feel comfortable with . . . the only person I want to be with. And he’s asked me to move in with him permanently.’
Billie closed her eyes. She felt sick. Miranda – shacking up with Reuben in his awful bachelor bedsit?
Miranda misinterpreted the silence. ‘Look, I know it’ll be difficult for you with the flat and everything; but I’ll keep paying my part of the rent until we can find someone else for you to share with.’ She hugged Billie again. ‘I know how you feel about Reuben, doll, but couldn’t you say you’re pleased for me . . . ?’
Chapter Thirty-eight
Faith gazed around the flat. It certainly wasn’t anything like she’d expected it to be. Arriving yesterday and anticipating urban decay, she’d been very impressed by the large airy rooms, swathes of cream voile draped at the windows to maximise the light, and huge cushiony furniture. Surfaces gleamed, there were flowers, and everywhere was neat and tidy and co-ordinated like a furniture showroom.
Having spent twenty-odd years dunging out Billie’s bedroom at the farm, she was well aware that this show had been orchestrated for her benefit, and was oddly touched. They’d had a lovely time the previous evening, just her and Billie, eating in a really swish Indian restaurant, talking all the time, and then coming back to the flat to share a bottle of wine and continue the gossip. Then, both yawning, they’d eventually tottered off to bed in the early hours.
Faith, who by necessity had always been an early-to-bed, early-to-rise person, found it all wonderfully decadent. And Billie seemed happy, which was great. The opening of the nightclub appeared to have passed without any glitches – which meant either Kieran hadn’t turned up, or Billie hadn’t gone. Faith had rather hogged this part of the conversation, trying to find out if they had actually come face to face, but Billie hadn’t seemed in the least interested in discussing it. Eventually, Faith had fallen into Miranda’s freshly laundered bed and slept soundly, cheerfully assured that her meddling hadn’t caused any problems.
However, she thought now, washing up her breakfast things in the kitchen, there were various bits and pieces that she had managed to glean during their mother-and-daughter chat the night before, and the two days before the air show thing – which she wasn’t sure she’d enjoy, but as Billie was involved in some way she’d feigned enthusiasm for it just as she had for numerous school concerts over the years – would give her ample opportunity to iron out the remaining creases in her daughter’s life.
Amberlev Hill was quite charming. Faith decided, with its mellow stone buildings and steep winding roads. Not unlike Brixham, really. The Spicer Centre, however, she thought, she could live without. Still, this was her first port of call, having, as she did, the day free while Billie was at work. Billie had kindly invited her to spend the day at Whiteacres, but Faith had refused the offer saving it would keep until tomorrow and she’d find plenty to do to amuse herself so Billie wasn’t to worry about her at all.
She pushed open the door to Follicles and Cuticles and was immediately assailed by various pungent aromas. The little girls all skipping between the lilac chairs looked like school children in their black outfits, and the music blasting from the radio was a far cry from the soothing burble of BBC Devon that she was used to in Valda’s, where she had her hair done at home.
In Valda’s you got a shampoo and set half-price on a Wednesday, and a chance to catch up with all the gossip. Follicles and Cuticles looked more like a multicoloured operating theatre – and oh, my goodness! Faith peered through the lavender saloon door halfway along – there were men! In towels!
‘Can I help you?’ .An elfin child with neon hair bounced up to the desk. ‘Do you have a ’poinment?’
‘No, I’m afraid I don’t.’ Faith dragged her eyes away from the men in towels being led towards a flat leather table. ‘I – um – wondered if you could squeeze me in sometime today? Just a trim. Is – er – Miranda free?’
“Dunno.’ The elf spun on her chequered DMs and flicked through the appointment book. ‘Well, nah – not really. Mind, she might be. She’s got a body rub what hasn’t turned up. I’ll go an’ check, shall I?’
‘Please.’ Faith was mesmerised and watched the tartan boots stomping away across the pale mauve floor. She really must mention it to Valda when she got back. Valda’s assistant, Daphne – who was sixty-five if she was a day – would look a treat in a pair of those, and the air cushioning would be a real boon for her bunions.
‘Hi.’ A tall skinny woman with Dusty Springfield eves and vivid pink plaits beamed at her. ‘Pixie said you’d like a trim. I’ve had a cancellation, so I could squeeze you in right away. However, if you’d prefer something later in the day, I –’
‘No, no. Thank you. Now would be wonderful. .And – er – are you Miranda?’
The pink plaits nodded. Faith beamed. She hadn’t visualised Miranda looking like this at all. She’d seen her as more blonde and, well, tarty. This woman, with her beautifully tanned sad face and her glorious bone structure, was stunning. Oh, not in the conventional sense, of course, and the false eyelashes and that strange hair colour let the side down a bit, but this was Hampshire, after all.
‘I’m Faith. Faith Pascoe.’
The eyelashes batted for a second, then the pale lips spilt into a grin. ‘No! Billie’s mum? Really? Wow, doll It’s bri
lliant to see you!’
Faith found herself being clasped to a black T-shirted and bra-less bosom. Miranda smelled of almond oil and musk. Faith extricated herself. Possibly not one to pass onto Valda. Daphne was a generous 44D and only ever used Tweed.
‘Come along then, we’ll have to roll out the red carpet a bit, won’t we?’ Miranda led the way through the crowded salon. ‘Only the best’ll do. Billie said you were coming.’ Miranda indicated a chair at the basins and reached for a lilac coverall. ‘You’ve got my room – or what was my room – is it OK?’ She tucked towels round Faith’s neck. ‘Handy that I’d moved out, really. Did Billie tell you?’
My, but the girl could chatter! Faith listened, and made noncommittal noises. She’d been a bit shocked that Miranda did the hair-washing herself. At Valda’s, if Daphne was busy on the desk, Valda’s husband Derek was always on hand to do the shampoo and conditioning. As he usually smelled of sheep-dip, Faith preferred Daphne.
‘There . . .’ Miranda was turbanning Faith’s hair in a deep purple towel. ‘Now if you’d like to come over to the mirror, doll . . . I don’t usually do the washing myself, but we’re a bit short-handed since Kitty buggered off. Did Billie tell you about it?’
No, Faith thought afterwards, as her damp perfumed hair was being combed through, Billie didn’t. Well, well, so that’s what happened at the opening night of Caught Offside, then? Kitty and Kieran . . . She wanted to smile with maternal relief, but remembered the photograph of the pneumatic Fenella and the kiddies on Maeve’s mantelshelf, and didn’t like to.
‘You’ve got lovely hair.’ Miranda flicked the comb through, stopping at the ends, snipping each layer exactly level. Valda tended more towards chunks. ‘Thick, like Billie’s. Same colour, too.’ Miranda leaned across Faith’s shoulder. ‘Billie is OK, isn’t she? About me and Reuben?’
Faith blinked. She hadn’t been expecting to get on to Reuben quite so quickly. She’d hoped to insert him just after Miranda had mentioned that she’d left the flat but Miranda hadn’t allowed her to get a word in edgeways. ‘Oh, yes. I think so. I know that she’s very glad that you’ve found someone and are happy – but I gather there’s a little bit of bad feeling somewhere along the line.’
‘God, doll! You don’t know the half of it!’ Miranda paused with the scissors. ‘I’ve been so worried for ages, you know, that Reuben and Billie – well – fancied one another. I just thought that I was playing second fiddle.’
‘Reuben? And Billie?’ Faith met Miranda’s reflected eyes. ‘Oh no, dear. You’ve got nothing to worry about on that score. She detests the man. Ah, well, that is –’
‘Yeah, I know.’ The snipping resumed. ‘You don’t have to spare my feelings. I love Reuben to bits, and Billie’s ace – and I’d really like them to like each other – but, they’ve both told me they don’t, and now, well –’ Miranda heaved her shoulders – ‘Reuben and I are sort of committed so I’ve got to believe them, haven’t I?’
‘Oh, yes, you must believe them,’ Faith said fervently. Look, dear, I really wouldn’t worry about it. I have no idea why Billie dislikes your Reuben so much, but you love him and he loves you, and that’s all that matters, isn’t it?’
Miranda beamed happily. ‘You’re ace, doll, do you know that? My mum wasn’t half so supportive. No, you’re right. I mean, it’d be perfect if everyone liked everyone else, wouldn’t it – but a bit boring. Now, what about your fringe?’
After they’d sorted out the fringe, and had a very surreal conversation about an ex-boyfriend of Billie’s called Damon, and Miranda had blown her dry, and the whole thing had made her look miraculously ten years younger, Faith shrugged off the coverall and hugged Miranda.
‘Thank you, dear. It’s lovely! I’m so glad we’ve had this little chat. You’ve been a good friend to Billie ever since she came here – and you mustn’t let her dislike of Reuben come between you. So, promise me when I’ve gone back home, you’ll pop round and see her? Go out like you used to? She really misses you, you see. It doesn’t matter how much you love a man, dear, you should never give up all your girlfriends for him. You never know when you’ll need them.’
Afterwards, stepping out into the Spicer Centre with her new bouncy hairdo and feeling as glamorous as a television newscaster, Faith was mightily pleased with the way her first encounter had gone. She glanced at her watch. Just time for a bit of shopping for Stan and the grandchildren, maybe a spot of lunch in that nice Irish pub, and then on to her second port of call . . .
It was fairly difficult, Faith felt, being in a taxi office when she didn’t actually want a taxi. The man on the radio contraption didn’t look the sort you could fob off with needing to see the proprietor to organise wedding cars or anything – which had been her first plan. She took a deep breath and went for her second.
‘Excuse me. I’d like to see Mr Wainwright. Is he available?’
It transpired that he wasn’t. Two hundred strings to his bow these days, she was told. Could be bloody anywhere, pardon my French. Try the club. Caught Offside – can’t miss it. Far side of the Spicer Centre. Past Woolies.
Faith found it, after spending far longer than she would have liked being hassled by a lot of people who were protesting about the extension to the Amberley Hill bypass and eventually signing a petition to keep Hampshire rural. Rural! She’d cast a ironic look at the fibre-optic fountain and chrome and glass mall, and wondered if she and the protesters used the same dictionary.
Eventually pushing her way into Caught Offside’s deserted lobby, she blinked in the gloom. Never having been a devotee of nightclubs, to Faith this was unfamiliar territory. Still, she thought, after the Putney Football Village, this one should really be a piece of cake. She tiptoed through the turnstiles and into the club proper.
It was very murky, but quite, she had to admit, impressive. It certainly looked like a football stadium – and a very rich one at that. Man U at least. She sucked in her breath. If Reuben Wainwright was behind this little venture, then he was no mug. Strange then, she thought, heading for the halfway line, that such an astute businessman should leave his premises wide open to the street and apparently unattended.
‘Excuse me!’ An imperious voice rang from the upper terraces. ‘May I help you?’
‘Yes, you may.’ Faith shielded her eyes with her hand and peered into the tiers of seats. Three men, one looking like a thug from EastEnders, one rather weedy and innocuous, and the other – good heavens – very James Bond, were having a discussion on the top row. ‘I’m looking for Reuben Wainwright.’
There was a chuckle. ‘And you’ve found him. Excuse me a moment.’
The three men shook hands and stood up, and the James Bond one vaulted neatly to the floor. Faith raised her eyebrows. Reuben Wainwright, she’d thought – probably because Billie had said he looked like a pirate and – would be old and grey and stubbly, possibly with squinty eyes and no teeth. This man, tall, dark, sun tanned, extremely handsome, and dressed in a very expensive suit, couldn’t possibly be . . .
‘I’m Reuben Wainwright.’ He extended a hand. ‘Sorry to have kept you waiting. My manager and I were just engaging a new security firm. Oh – damn.’ He sneezed violently and delved into his pocket for a small white box. Beaming at Faith, he popped a couple of pills into his mouth. ‘Please excuse me. Hayfever. Miranda’s just put me onto this homeopathic remedy – and so far, so good. Now, how can I help?’
Faith was nonplussed. And, to tell the truth, a little overawed, Kieran Squires had been handsome – but far too young for her. This man, smiling so kindly at her, was a different matter all together. No wonder Miranda was crazy about him. ‘Er – I needed to talk to you. About my daughter.’
She sensed, rather than heard, his slight intake of breath. There was an infinitesimal pause. ‘Your daughter?’
‘Billie Pascoe.’
Reuben’s dark eyes flickered for a moment, then he smiled. Slowly. ‘Billie? You’re Billie’s mother? Never! You don’t look old enou
gh.’
Faith was about to snort disdainfully at the ancient line, then stopped and wondered if perhaps, in this light, and with Miranda’s magical hairdo, she in fact didn’t. ‘Thank you, but I can assure you I am. And a grandmother six times over.’ Damn – why had she said that?
‘So I believe from Billie. She didn’t tell me you were beautiful, too. Please, come and have a drink . . .’
Faith followed him to the bar, deciding to have just a small orange juice. She’d had half a pint of Guinness with her bacon and cabbage in Mulligan’s at lunchtime and was still feeling light-headed.
‘I’d advise steering away from the Bobby Charlton Slammer,’ Reuben slid behind the bar, ‘but otherwise the choice is yours. Oh, just orange juice? Not a G and T devotee like Billie, then?’
‘Well, yes. But not halfway through the afternoon. No, no ice, thank you.’
Drinks sorted, Reuben sat beside her on one of the tall stools. ‘Now, how can I help you with Billie? She’s not in any trouble, is she?’
For the first time since she’d embarked on her undercover investigations, Faith felt guilty. She’d expected Reuben to be a fire-breathing monster, a man who would eff and blind and be totally obnoxious.
She sipped the orange juice. ‘No, no trouble. In fact, there’s nothing wrong, to be honest. Oh, just put it down to a mother’s natural curiosity. After all, you employed Billie for more than two years and I’ve heard so much about you. I just wanted to meet you in the flesh.’
She flinched. Flesh perhaps wasn’t the best word to have chosen. Reuben, however, was nodding as though her maternal concern was the most natural thing in the world.
‘Understandable. Now you tell me what you know about my – um – relationship with Billie, and I’ll try and fill in the gaps, and then you won’t have any worries, will you?’
Walking on Air Page 41
