Feeling rather smug, she’d sat back in the wonky armchair and sipped her coffee, and watched the rain mist across the airfield. Sylvia’s arrival, complete with dripping pakamac and squelchy jelly shoes, had damped the euphoria in more ways than one.
‘Can’t stop, dear. Worst day of the month, eh?’
Billie, wondering if maybe Sylvia was on HRT and therefore still experiencing the joys of the menstrual cycle, had nodded in feminine solidarity. ‘Poor you – I do sympathise. Can’t you go and put your feet up with a cup of hot chocolate and a couple of paracetamol?’
Sylvia had looked bewildered. ‘Well, yes, I could – but I don’t see how that would help, dear, honestly. The damn things have got to be filled in for Simon Maynard to collect at five o’clock prompt. Zia had his done by first light and Fred ’n’ Dick always get their wives to do theirs. I’m not sure how the Gusper boys manage . . .’
Billie, sitting upright and putting down her coffee mug, had realised she’d been on completely the wrong track. ‘Er, sorry, Sylv – what are we talking about here?’
‘Maynard and Pollock’s quarterly returns. You sign for the damn things with the lease and like VAT you always put them off until the last minute, don’t you?’
Not having a clue, Billie had nodded, panic shivering through her veins. What quarterly returns? Which of the brown envelopes stacked in her pending tray contained the sinister paperwork? Oh God! How would she ever make a go of this business when she didn’t have a clue about being an entrepreneur? Why hadn’t she listened in her business studies classes? Why hadn’t she opened her bloody post? She spent nearly all day, every day, just trying to get to grips with the computer. The post didn’t get a look in.
Sylvia had oozed damply towards the door again. ‘I’ll leave you to it, then, dear. Just needed a breath of air to clear away the cobwebs. The plane’s coming along nicely, isn’t it?’
Billie, still staring at the pile of envelopes and wishing Sylvia would go away so that she could rip them open in private and have a good cry over the contents, had nodded wildly. ‘It seems to change every morning – although God knows what they’re going to do with it when it’s finished. It’ll never get off the ground.’
‘Maybe it won’t matter,’ Sylvia had said morosely. Maybe we’ll have been bought out and evicted long before then.’
With that happy thought hanging over her, Billie had waited until she’d heard the plastic shoes squirting across the broken concrete outside, and had feverishly tom open the first envelope.
Four hours later, with Maynard and Pollock’s quarterly return still only half done, Billie had screamed in frustration and hurled yet another set of calculations at the office wall, they’d bounced off and rolled under the desk. It was while she’d been bending down to retrieve them, that she’d heard the outer doors pulled open and someone step inside.
‘Sorry, won’t keep you a moment – oh, ouch! Shit!’ Merging from beneath the desk, rubbing her head, Billie looked up into the immaculately made-up face of Estelle rainbow.
She’d sat on the floor, her dungarees and fleece dusty, her hair haywire, and a million years of grime on her hands, Estelle, her hair smoothed into a chignon, and wearing a workmanlike set of overalls and still managing to look like Jodie Kidd on a Chanel shoot, had stared back disdainfully. ‘Am I disturbing you?’
‘No, no . . .’ Billie had scrambled up, banging her head again and wanting to cry. ‘I was – um – just doing some paperwork. Can I help you?’
Estelle had looked as though that was a definite impossibility. ‘I’ve got a couple of hours free. Jonah asked me to start on the rivets and check the prop.’
Billie had whimpered. The woman was not only stunningly gorgeous and secretarially brilliant, she was a damned engineer to boot. ‘Oh, right . . . yes, sure. I don’t think we’ll be in each other’s way.’
Estelle had wandered to the desk and was scanning the quarterly return. ‘This looks like a census. And you’ve filled that column in wrongly – oh, and that one – and if that’s right there then you’d already be bankrupt.’
Billie, fighting back a second whimper, had shrugged. ‘It’s my first attempt. I – er – I’ve left it to the last minute. I’d – um – forgotten all about it . . . We have to complete them every three months to show how trading is going, apparently.’
Estelle had pulled up the second of the wonky chairs. ‘You should always deal with these things as they come in. Jonah’s just the same. Leaves everything until zero hour and expects me to sort out the chaos. It’s the first rule of business – a clear desk means a clear head. Look, you go and put the kettle on while I get to grips here, otherwise you’ll be out of business and the Stearman will be out on the runway long before we’re ready.
And Billie, humiliated, had stomped into the kitchen and made coffee, while Estelle had made short work of the quarterly return, several final demands, two red bills, filed a mountain of invoices and dispatched a clutch of statements.
‘There,’ Estelle had sat back in the chair, ‘all organised. Now I’ve written you a check list for the future. Deal with them all in the order that I’ve written down here. Keep everything up to date – oh, and your computer system needs constantly upgrading. I’ve sorted out a game plan.’ She’d looked Billie up and down. ‘I don’t want to sound unkind, but don’t you think you’re a bit out of your depth here? Running this warehouse isn’t just storing other people’s belongings. It’s like every business – each transaction brings at least five sets of paperwork. You really need to be more organised . . . and I can’t see any business cards or up-to-date literature at all.’
Billie had squirmed and admitted that she’d actually got as far as ordering things from the printers, but hadn’t collected them yet, but it was in hand and she’d do it immediately. And then Estelle had risen from the chair, still looking as immaculate and unflustered as when she’d arrived, and Billie had had to emulate Uriah Heep and squeeze unctuousness and gratitude through clenched teeth. And then, to top it all, when Simon Maynard had arrived at five and snatched the damned quarterly return without even saying thank you, he’d ignored Billie and slavered all over Estelle and the Stearman and asked pertinent questions about horsepower and gravitational pull and velocity.
Billie had waited for him to leave, and then with reluctant admiration, had stood in the shadows, watching as Estelle, a professional toolbox lodged on a set of stepladders, fiddled with the mass of wiring looms, sank rivets, and replaced minute engine parts – all without the help of the I-Spy Book of build Your Own Aircraft – and still without a hair out of Place, or one slightly chipped fingernail.
Feeling completely inadequate, Billie had made her exit pretty sharpish then, and driven the Nova back to Amberley Hill in a cloud of despondency. The last thing she’d wanted after that had been one of Miranda’s fabled girls’ nights out, involving drinking up to the point of visual impairment in Mulligan’s, followed by dehydration and deafness in Bazooka’s.
‘Woo!’ Sally collapsed onto the banquette. ‘I’m shattered. Kitty, Debs and Anna are still hard at it –’ she indicated the dance floor – ‘but I had to do something about my feet.’
Billie stared at Sally’s dainty size four feet complete with delicate pearly toenails encased in strips of laced pink leather. To someone with the feet of a width indicative of a childhood spent in wellingtons, they looked fine. ‘What about Miranda?’
Sally giggled. ‘Oh, yeah – you’ll never guess! Miranda’s pulled! Pretty tasty too. Well, from the back at least. Dark hair. Nice bum. I didn’t see his face.’
‘Are you sure it’s not Keith?’ Billie knew Keith, despite Miranda’s misgivings, was still somewhere on the scene. ‘He’s got dark hair.’
Sally was scathing. ‘Keith’s having a breakdown in Winchester.’
‘Don’t you mean Keith’s out on a –’ Billie stopped, remembering the goulash, and Miranda’s more recent mantrap experiment with a civet body scrub and two loofas. �
��No, on second thoughts maybe you’re right. So, what’s he like? Mr Dark Hair and Nice Bum?’
‘I said, I didn’t see his face – Ooh, look! They’re at the bar now. Tell you what,’ Sally stood up and flexed her toes, ‘I’ll give my feet a bit of a workout and report back, shall I? G and T?’
‘Just the T, please. I’m practically comatose as it is. My sight was blurred early on.’
‘Poor old you. I’m so glad I’m just an office prisoner, Sally said happily. ‘I’d hate to work for myself. Think of the disadvantages. You’ll never be able to skive a day off again, will you?’
Billie watched Sally swing her way expertly through the throng. The bar area was shadowy and packed so she couldn’t see any sign of Miranda. Not that it mattered. She’d hear all about her conquest soon enough. She’d seen Keith’s nondescript stubbled face sloping out of the bathroom in the mornings very rarely lately. He wasn’t, according to Miranda, anywhere near being Husband Number Two. Maybe this one – dark hair, nice bum – might be a better bet.
Maybe she should shake off her lethargy and join the hunt. Now that she’d got rid of the mythical Damon, there was no reason why she couldn’t meet a man. She stared at the sea of half-handsome male faces with their uniform trendy gelled hair and their uniform trendy logo’d shirts and their laddish drunken grins, and knew it was futile. Here, at least. That was the problem: falling in love with Kieran so early had spoiled the game. Despite turning out to be a grade-one Ward, he really had been a pretty class act: certainly one with whom the Daves and Kevs and Andys – however nice – of Amberley Hill were going to be unable to compete.
Pathetic. Billie shook her head. Pre-Kieran, she’d have been head over heels if someone stocky and monosyllabic from the Newton Abbot Young Farmers had asked her to go to the cinema. Now she’d joined the ranks of the cynical: searching, like Miranda, for a follow -on substitute that simply didn’t exist.
Sally returned then with the drinks and pulled a face. Miranda and the man – they’ve disappeared. My guess is that Miranda has taken him home. You’ll have to be very discreet when you get in, won’t you?’
Billie nodded, groaning inwardly. She only hoped Miranda would be test-driving Mr Dark Hair and Nice Bum in the privacy of her bedroom – and wouldn’t be writhing on the sofa. It had happened several times before, and Billie had always felt so gauche, caught in mid-tiptoe and exchanging pleasantries with a naked stranger while Miranda made angry piss-off jerking motions with her head.
She poured the tonic into her glass and swirled it about with the piece of lemon rind. Her eyelids itched with tiredness and the drum’n’bass was beginning to set her teeth on edge. Sally had taken one sip from her glass then, with obviously revived feet, flown back to the dance floor. Billie felt like an interloper. If you weren’t in the mood, then clubbing was a nightmare. And she definitely wasn’t in the mood. Anyway, clubs still reminded her of Kieran.
Oh, not Bazooka’s, of course. But Kieran had been a member of some pretty hot places all over the country, where discretion was guaranteed for famous faces, and they’d danced energetically and drunk for England and then staggered out to the nearest taxi rank and gone back to their hotel room, and it had all been absolutely blissful.
And all the time, in those early days before London, her parents had thought she was away on Willowbridge expats assignments for the Devon Argus, and sadly the Devon Argus thought the same, and if her expenses claims didn’t quite tally with the paucity of her copy, then mercifully no one said anything, and she was convinced that this was It. Love. For ever and ever.
Feeling utterly wiped out, Billie stood up. She couldn’t think about it any more. It was over. She’d lived through it and survived. She looked at her watch. Nearly two o’clock. She’d be able to call one of Reuben’s Cabs for the journey home without any danger. Reuben rarely drove and certainly never did the nightshift these days.
Waving goodbye to Kitty, Debs, Anna and Sally, she fought her way through Bazooka’s merriment, collected her coat, and headed for the all-night neon brightness of the Spicer Centre.
The driver who dropped her outside the flat was a stranger. Probably her replacement. Fortunately he hadn’t talked at all, and Billie had slumped on the back seat, desperately trying not to fall asleep in the drowsy warmth.
‘Please, oh, please,’ she prayed quietly, sliding her key into the lock, ‘let Miranda be in bed. Please let me be able to go to the loo and brush my teeth and fall into bed without having to avert my eyes from The Good Sex Guide.’
The living room was in darkness. And silence. Not switching on the lights, and making the briefest of detours to the bathroom, Billie struggled into a Piglet and Tigger nightshirt – it was slightly depressing to think that her brothers all assumed that button-to-the-neck A. A. Milne winceyette was an appropriate gift each year – and setting the alarm clock for seven, wearily clambered beneath the duvet.
Half an hour later she was punched awake from a dream where she was having sand shovelled into her mouth by Estelle Rainbow, who then buried her beneath a mountain of paperwork. Gagging with thirst, she groped about on the bedside table for a glass of water. Bugger. She’d washed the glass up the previous day and not replaced it. There was no way on earth that she could be bothered to pull her exhaustion out of bed and trek to the kitchen. Oh well, all she had to do was close her eyes and go back to sleep. Easy to say – impossible to accomplish. Her tongue had congealed to the roof of her mouth. Her brain was full of images of tumbling waterfalls and ice cubes clinking in tall glasses . . . With a sigh of resignation, she pushed back the duck down and staggered to the kitchen.
The first glass of water was orgiastic; the second almost as good. She was just wondering whether a third would mean what was left of the night being spent trailing to the loo, when the front door opened.
Christ! No wonder Miranda had been quiet. She and Mr Dark Hair and Nice Bum hadn’t even made it home yet! Tugging down Piglet and Tigger to at least cover the tops of her thighs, Billie made a dash towards the living-room door.
Too late.
‘Hiya, doll.’ Miranda swayed into the kitchen. ‘Great timing. I’m so glad you’re still up. I’ve brought you a visitor.’
Caught in mid-yawn, Billie blinked sleep from her eyes. ‘No you haven’t. You’re drunk. Sally said you’d met someone in Bazooka’s and –’
‘Oh, I did! And we’ve been for a meal at the Dij Raj. Absolutely scrummy. Chicken pasanda and aloo palak and tarka dall and –’ Miranda clutched at the draining board for support. ‘And now we’ve come back with some brilliant news.’
‘Well, great. But I don’t think it involves me, does it, so I’ll just go back to bed and –’
‘Oh, but it does involve you, doll. Believe me. It wasn’t a cop-off, more’s the pity. And if you don’t mind me saying, I think you ought to do something with your hair. You look like you’ve just got out of bed.’
‘I have just got out of bed!’ Billie hissed. ‘And I’m just going back there because it’s the middle of the night and I don’t want to meet anyone right now. I expect I’ll see him when our paths cross to the bathroom in the morning.
Miranda leaned heavily against the fridge. ‘God, yes, I wish! And if I had my way – but, no, honest, Billie, he really wants to talk to you. Sadly, he doesn’t fancy me at all.
‘Then why the hell did he take you for a meal? Billie snapped. ‘I’m wrecked. Just go and seduce him for God’s sake and let me get some sleep.’
She pushed past Miranda and stumbled into the living room.
The dream about Estelle was heaven compared to the nightmare sitting on the sofa.
‘Billie!’ Reuben Wainwright gave a lip-service smile. ‘So glad we’ve caught you. Miranda said you’d probably still be awake. No, don’t try to hide yourself – there’s absolutely no need. I’ve seen you scantily dressed before, remember?’
Billie remembered. She was bitingly angry. ‘What the hell are you doing? You have no right to be h
ere. It’s – it’s stalking, that’s what it is! For God’s sake –’
‘It’s not stalking and it’s not harassment so stop twitching. Or is it the fact that I’ve just spent a few hours with your best friend that scares you? Worried that I might just blow the whistle on your fabricated fantasy past, are you?’
‘No, I’m not! Of course I’m not! You tried that weeks ago – Miranda told me. She just thought you were confused. I know exactly what you’re doing. You’re trying to intimidate me into driving for you again, aren’t you?’
‘Don’t flatter yourself.’ Reuben stretched himself comfortably on the sofa. ‘I wanted to talk to you, that’s all. I was in Bazooka’s for business, not pleasure, and Miranda kindly offered to buy me a drink. I didn’t even know you were there.’
‘Crap.’
Miranda poked pink pigtails out of the kitchen. ‘No, honest. That’s how it happened. We just bumped into each other and got talking, and Reuben told me his exciting news and I said you’d be dead interested, and then we had Mother dance and after that we couldn’t find you and Sally said you’d pooped, and we went to the Dil Raj and talked some more, and here we are. Coffees all round?’
Reuben nodded. Billie shook her head. It was a nightmare. Reuben never went near nightclubs.
‘Come and sit down.’ Reuben patted the sofa. ‘I want to suggest something.’
‘I bet you do.’ Billie stayed resolutely put, wishing Piglet and Tigger would scamper down to her ankles. She wasn’t at all happy with the way Reuben was eyeing her legs. ‘But I don’t want to listen. I’ve got work to go to in the morning and I don’t want you within a hundred miles of me. And don’t,’ she glared at him, ‘think you can trap me with that old rubbish about knowing my darkest secrets. No one will be in the slightest bit interested now.’
Walking on Air Page 13