Walking on Air

by Christina Jones

  She’d forgotten just how dim Kieran really was. They’d always had such a good time together, and it had been so refreshing, after all the clever, breathless, dizzying days on the Devon Argus, to spend time with someone who didn’t want to discuss politics – national, international or office – or anything else that demanded more than a thirty-second attention span, that she’d always made allowances. Now, she simply couldn’t understand why.

  ‘He’s organising a Miss Wet Footieshirt contest for me to judge later,’ Kieran said happily. ‘He won’t be finished for ages.’

  God, why shouldn’t that surprise her? Well, at least it was something. With Reuben leeringly occupied, she’d be able to deal fully with the Kieran horrors first, then turn her attention to Slimeball.

  ‘So? Why did you come here? What the hell did you think you were going to achieve?’

  Kieran blinked, obviously trying to sort out the answers to two consecutive questions. Eventually, he managed it. ‘I came because I was booked to open the club. I didn’t think I was going to achieve anything, as such, except my fee, of course.’

  Billie sighed. She’d also forgotten the footballers’ programming machine. Only answer direct questions, son. Never volunteer information. That way they can’t misquote you in the tabloids.

  She tried a different tack. ‘And as it was in Amberley Hill, didn’t it occur to you that I’d be here? That Reuben might just have booked you to set me up?’

  This took even longer to work out. Kieran’s brow puckered. He shook his head. ‘I didn’t know this club was anything to do with Mr Wainwright. My agent took the booking. I do loads of public appearances.’

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘Yeah. Tons.’ He looked a bit hurt – as if he thought Billie should realise that he was greatly in demand. Then he brightened. ‘I only knew it was Amberley Hill when my agent told me a few weeks ago. It didn’t mean anything to me, to tell the truth. I thought it sounded like it was near Walsall. And then, when I remembered it was where – where you and me sort of parted company, well – I was speechless.’

  Billie took a deep breath. ‘But you still came?’

  ‘Well, yeah, of course. Personal appearances are important in my profession. But I didn’t know you were still here, Billie, honest. Well, not until recently, of course, when your – that is, not right up until I got here tonight . . .’

  ‘You cheated and lied and abandoned me in the middle of nowhere without ever checking to see if I’d survived –’

  ‘I couldn’t could I? I said – I didn’t know where you were.’ He smiled beguilingly. ‘I thought about you a lot though. We had some wild times, didn’t we?’

  Billie sighed. They had. The intellectual difference between them had hardly mattered – then.

  Billie shrugged. He was probably telling the truth about tonight’s appearance. He possibly wasn’t intelligent enough to lie convincingly anyway. ‘So, you’ve been taken for a mug too, have you? Reuben set us both up?’

  Kieran smiled. ‘Oh, no. I think you’ve got it wrong. I mean, I didn’t even remember who Mr Wainwright was until I got here tonight. And then not straight away. It took me ages to remember where I’d seen him before. After all, he was just the taxi-driver that night, wasn’t he?’

  ‘Did he remind you of that? Or did you actually recognise him?’

  ‘He told me. I was a bit shocked. I mean, most club owners aren’t taxi-drivers, are they?’

  Billie leaned more heavily against the desk. No, they weren’t. But then Reuben wasn’t just any old taxi-driver, was he? He may well have been ‘just the taxi-driver’ that night, but he’d been her tormentor ever since. It was fine for Kieran – he’d escaped. She’d had to live with the consequences of his adultery. Still, remembering again Granny Pascoe’s negativity adage, she decided to search for pluses instead. What good, if any, had come out of the night the relationship ended?

  Well, there was Miranda’s friendship for one, and Kitty, Debs, Sally and Anna, and Vee and the taxi-drivers had become good friends in her time at Reuben’s Cabs, and she loved living in Amberley Hill. Then, more recently, but still as a direct result, there was Whiteacres and Sylv and the other warehousers, and Jonah and Estelle and the Stearman. None of those would be part of her life now if she hadn’t been with Kieran that night.

  Speculating on cause and effect, she began to trace everything back. If she hadn’t worked on the Devon Argus she wouldn’t have gone to Rustique in the first place – but then if she hadn’t been born on the farm she wouldn’t have worked on the Devon Argus . . . She exhaled. It was all too complicated.

  ‘. . . so Mr Wainwright’s got on ever so well, and you must have done really well for yourself too.’ Kieran assessed her expectantly. ‘You look smashing. Are you still working on a newspaper?’

  Billie shook her head. Throughout her introspection, Kieran must have been talking. She hadn’t heard a word. She doubted that he’d noticed.

  ‘No, I run a warehousing company. It’s doing very nicely, thank you.’ She stopped. There was nothing left to say to him. There never had been much. She’d changed, because of him, and grown up, and she didn’t need to punish herself any more.

  ‘I’m going home now.’ She pushed herself away from the desk. ‘I won’t say it was lovely seeing you again, because it wasn’t. You were, and probably still are, a cheating, spineless bastard. And I’m glad I slapped your face. I’ve been waiting a long time to do that. Good night . . .’

  ‘Oh, right . . . Good night.’ Kieran beamed. ‘It’s been lovely to see you again, though, honest – and we did have some good times, didn’t we?’

  She shrugged. She wished they hadn’t.

  He gestured towards the door, waving his hands ‘I don’t suppose you’d like a drink or something before you go? Just for old times’ sake?’

  ‘No I bloody wouldn’t.’

  ‘Oh, OK. I just thought it’d show that I’m not taking offence at what you said – the cheating, spineless bit, I mean. Like I said to your, I mean, I was a total arse . . .’

  ‘Yes, you were. You probably still are.’

  He grinned suddenly, looking relieved. Yeah, maybe so, changing the subject, did you watch the Cup Final?’

  ‘No. Look, I just want to go home now, OK?’

  ‘Oh, right. Um – do you still watch Match of the Day?’

  ‘Sometimes.’

  ‘Oh, good. I’d like to think that you hadn’t gone off football because of me.’

  Jesus! Billie pushed past him and headed for the door. His suit was expensive, probably Paul Smith, his cologne must have cost more than her annual takings. He was still lovely to look at, still guileless, and she’d probably now be able to watch his long muscular thighs loping across Putney’s hallowed turf on telly and feel nothing.

  ‘Bye, then, Billie.’

  She looked at him for a long time. ‘Goodbye, Kieran. I do hope we never meet again.’

  Grabbing her coat from the cloakroom, she walked outside into the still balmy warmth of a May early morning. She felt shell-shocked, but oddly liberated. Where to go? Not home just in case Miranda came looking for her. She couldn’t face Miranda yet. So if it couldn’t be the flat, then her second home seemed the best bet – the only bet . . .

  Ignoring all her own advice about not walking home in the darkness, she hurried through the Centre and into Amberley Hill’s deserted streets. She didn’t even feel afraid, just emancipated and fizzing with energy. She’d laid Kieran’s ghost – and later today she’d face Reuben and shove his spectre from her shoulder too.

  Her Pascoe’s Warehousing van was outside the flat and, unlocking it and kicking off her high-heeled shoes, she started the engine and headed for the bypass.

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Billie woke, feeling stiff and woolly-headed, to the sound of someone hammering on the shed’s double doors. God, please, not a customer already . . . She eased herself up from the chair behind her desk and stumbled out of the office, stagger
ed round the Stearman and the accumulated warehouse contents, and pulled open half an inch of door.

  Half an inch of sunlight immediately rushed in and jabbed her in the eyes.

  ‘Good morning! I’ve got something to tell – My word, dear.’ Sylvia looked concerned. ‘A bit “after the Lord Mayor’s Show", if you don’t mind me saying.’

  Billie squinted down at the rumpled Joseph dress which she’d never, ever, wear again, and at her bare feet, which were dusty from the warehouse floor, and could only guess that the bits of her that she couldn’t see were equally as disgusting. She pushed her hands up to her hair. Her fingers stuck fast in the residue of the previous night’s gel spray. Her hairdo would probably rival Don King’s now, and she knew that her eyelashes had clogged together. Her mouth tasted furry and foul.

  ‘Er – I worked late . . .’

  Sylvia nodded. ‘I heard your van arrive in the early hours. I guessed it was work – or an assignation.

  ‘Oh God, it wasn’t either. Actually, I’ve made a bit of a fool of myself . . .’

  ‘Who hasn’t, my dear? And I don’t want to hear about it unless you want to tell me.’ Sylvia squeezed through the gap and embraced Billie in a motherly hug. ‘Look, you come along to mine, get yourself all washed and prettied up in the bathroom while I put on the coffee and cook you some breakfast. What do you say?’

  Thank you, Mum, was top of the list. Billie bit back tears of gratitude. Oh God – she hoped she wasn’t going to spend the rest of her life snivelling and becoming over emotional at every tiny act of kindness. ‘That would be lovely, Sylv. You’re lovely . . . Thanks – but didn’t you want to tell me something?’

  ‘It’ll keep. Now, have you got any clothes to change into, or shall I have a rummage through my wardrobe?’ Luckily Billie had a spare pair of jeans and a sweat shirt in the unit. Somehow, wonderful as Sylvia was, she couldn’t see herself working in David Attenborough shorts and swaddled in a voluminous pashmina like a child with a degenerative chest complaint. Clean underwear, however, was a bit of a problem.

  ‘Not to worry,’ Sylvia said breezily as they erupted into the palm trees and tropical splendour. ‘I’ve got some frillies I’ll never squeeze into. Brought them from the house the last time I visited.’ She sighed. ‘Sadly, they never saw the light of day. Douglas didn’t approve of that sort of frippery.’ Billie could quite believe it. As she showered, she could hear Sylvia singing to Bob Marley, could smell coffee and bacon, and began to feel human again. Her stupidity over Kieran was a thing of the past – he’d probably forgotten most of it – and she would never make it public, so – she stopped in mid-soap – so it really, really meant that Reuben had no hold over her, didn’t it?

  He’d brought them together again – and neither of them cared. Both she and Kieran had pushed the past where it belonged and – she turned the shower up and let the thrumming water wash away the very last vestiges of shame – today Reuben was going to do the same . . .

  She had eggs and bacon and toast and coffee, wrapped in a bath sheet and sitting beside the turquoise waterfall. The sun through the doors dappled between the branches of the palm trees, and Sylvia, in preparation for her treasure hunt, had liberally smothered the surrounding floor with silver sand. If it hadn’t been for the drone of the planes, the rush of the bypass traffic, and Fred ’n’ Dick loudly cursing the recalcitrant fork-lift, Billie could have believed herself to be in the Seychelles.

  ‘That was wonderful. I feel much better.’ She stretched her feet out towards the pool. ‘Thank you so much.’

  ‘The least I could do.’ Sylvia bustled through with an armful of lace. ‘After all, you changed my life, my dear. You gave me courage when I had none. Now, is there anything here that takes your fancy?’

  The underwear was exquisite. Delicate brand-new knickers and bras, slips and camisoles, made in Austrian and Swiss silk and lace, still wrapped in layers of tissue paper; every piece in fragile, soft, colours – and all in a size that surely Sylvia could never have been . . .

  ‘Oh, yes. I was slender once, dear. I bought these regularly, hoarded them away, for years . . . waiting to take a lover and leave Douglas . . . Waiting to wear them for someone who would appreciate them. Sadly, he never arrived. I’d really like you to have them.’

  ‘But I couldn’t!’

  ‘Yes, dear, you could. And make good use of them. Please. For me. I married the wrong man. You won’t.’

  The tears were stinging Billie’s eyes again. She leaped up and hugged Sylvia, unable to speak. Then selecting a bra and pants set in lilac silk edged with pale jade-green lace, Billie headed for the bathroom again. The underwear, beneath the workmanlike jeans and sweat shirt, completely transformed the way she felt: like the real her for the first time in ages.

  ‘Much better,’ Sylvia approved on her re-emergence. ‘Now, let me pour some more coffee and tell you my bit of news. I’ve had a letter from your nice Mr Wainwright.’

  Billie almost dropped her beaker.

  Sylvia was grinning. ‘Love him! What a nice man. Here – let me show you . . .’

  Billie scanned the typewritten sheet. Reuben, it seemed, was determined to be a caring landlord. Informed, as he had been, that Sylvia was – for whatever reason – living in her unit, he would, at his own expense, make sure that her accommodation was secure, comfortable, and suitable for domestic purposes. Sylvia, he added, must have no worries about her safety or long-term tenure. He would inspect her unit himself, and if anything needed to be added to make it suitable for both home and work use, she was to let him know. He signed himself off, with all best wishes.

  ‘Wonderful, isn’t it?’ Sylvia beamed. ‘No more worries at all. Not that I think I’ll need much titivating, I’ve got it fairly cosy here, but what a lovely man to be so concerned!’

  Billie handed back the letter. She didn’t know quite what to think. Reuben was so bloody snaky – but surely even he wouldn’t say this to Sylv and then evict her or anything, would he? Christ – that must mean he was genuine, then. Was the man totally schizophrenic? Last night, setting up that awful meeting with Kieran; this morning, suddenly turning into the biggest benefactor since Abel Magwitch? Something, somewhere was very wrong.

  ‘Billie! Thank God – I thought you’d done a runner.’ Jonah, in a crumpled flying suit and carrying helmet, gloves and goggles, stood in the gap between the parrots and monkeys, and Sylvia’s latest acquisition – a quite unpleasant life-sized plastic crocodile. ‘The whole world’s gone crazy so I thought I’d come down here and grab a bit of sanity – and then I couldn’t find you in your shed and – What’s up?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Billie shook her head and handed the letter back to Sylvia, who started carrying the breakfast dishes away to the kitchenette. ‘Sylv and I were just finishing breakfast.’

  ‘You’ve eaten?’

  ‘Yes, why?’

  ‘Because I wanted to do a bit more pootling. I don’t know if it’s a good idea on a full stomach.’

  Billie, who felt that pootling was going to be a piece of cake after the events of the last few hours, shrugged. ‘I’m up for it. I’ve been practising for days, anyway: getting from the cockpit on to the rig in the shed, and I’ve done all my arm and leg exercises with the baked bean tins and . . . Why did you say the whole world’s gone mad?’

  ‘Barnaby’s asked Miranda to marry him.’

  ‘Wow.’ Billie blinked. ‘And?’

  ‘And she’s refused him. So he’s spectacularly down in the dumps and is threatening to commit hara-kiri in the in the Slingsbury.’

  ‘Poor Barnaby. And Miranda must be mad.’ Billie exhaled. Why did she –’

  ‘Because she’s in love with your unpleasant Mr Wainwright, apparently. God help me, I’ll never understand women.’

  Billie wasn’t sure she would either. I mean, Barnaby and Reuben? No contest . . . ‘But I saw Miranda last night. She certainly didn’t mention that Barnaby had proposed then.’ She stopped, not wanting to go into any f
urther details. ‘At least, I only saw her for a little while. I – um – didn’t go home to the flat, because I – er – wanted to get on with some work.’

  ‘Yes, she’d said you’d left. That was just before I had a Bobby Charlton Slammer.’

  Jesus! ‘You were at Caught Offside? Last night?’

  ‘We didn’t make the opening because we’d had a couple of Guinnesses in Mulligan’s. They were saying in the bar there’d been some sort of Jarvis Cocker-type protest – but we missed it. Still, we got there just in time for the wet T-shirt contest. Not of course,’ he added quickly, ‘that it interested me in the slightest. Apparently one of Miranda’s friends – Kitty? – won it, and was last seen necking with the footballer who did the judging.’

  Billie’s head reeled. There were far too many complexities to continue the conversation, and Jonah looked about as dodgy as she’d felt earlier. ‘Guinness and the Bobby Charlton Slammer? God, are you fit to pootle?’

  ‘I got rid of most of it practically straight away.’ Jonah looked shame-faced. ‘And I’m now filled to the brim with caffeine and Alka-Seltzer, so don’t worry.’

  She wasn’t. Not about his sobriety. There were far more important things to worry about. A terrifying blast in the Stearman might just be the solution.

  With the help of the Guspers and Fred ’n’ Dick, Jonah had got the Stearman onto the grass strip. The sun was spiralling in a cloudless sky, and Billie, snuggled into the sweat shirt, felt that this time she was better prepared. For half an hour she practised getting out of the seat, hauling herself onto the wing, strapping herself into the rig, and then reversing the process while the plane was stationary.

  ‘OK, absolutely brilliant.’ Jonah pulled on his flying jacket and climbed into the cockpit behind her. ‘Now let’s try it on the move.’

  ‘On the ground on the move?’ Billie looked nervously at Jonah over her shoulder from the depths of the seat.

  ‘Of course. And don’t forget, if at any time you’re not happy, just thumbs down. OK?’

  She nodded, then clutched onto the sides of the plane as it roared into life. To be honest, she thought, as they bounded across the grass, throwing herself onto the top of a plane which was being driven by a hung-over pilot was probably quite sensible compared to her past misdemeanours.