‘So,’ Quentin said once they’d had their starters, ‘we are agreed. That just because something is posh, it doesn’t make it right?’
‘We are,’ said Angie, looking at Quentin and thinking that he looked very posh in his suit and tie but very right indeed.
‘And that there’s nothing to say that the way you talk is wrong, and the way I talk is right.’
‘That neither is right or wrong. That’s just how we are. Different,’ Angie said, taking a sip of her wine.
‘Exactly,’ said Quentin.
After chatting and chuckling their way through the main course and listening to a very beautiful rendition of ‘Silent Night’ by carol singers from the local amateur dramatics group, they both agreed to skip dessert. After Quentin had paid the bill and given the waiter a generous tip, the pair made their way from the restaurant, through the main foyer and out into the eve of Christmas.
Again, Quentin took hold of Angie’s hand. This time she pulled away.
‘I can’t, Quentin,’ she said simply, her face suddenly serious. ‘I’d love to, but I can’t.’
They both waited for a tram to pass and Quentin looked at the woman with whom he was completely and utterly in love.
‘I’m not going to ask you why you can’t because I know,’ Quentin said.
Angie looked at him.
‘What do you mean, you know?’
‘I know you think you can’t because I’m posh and you’re not – and that I’ll just cast you aside like some used rag and then walk down the aisle with someone my “mummy and daddy” think is suitable.’ Quentin grimaced just thinking about any girl his parents would have him marry.
‘Bloody Dor ’n her big gob!’ Angie said.
‘Actually,’ Quentin said, ‘for once it wasn’t Dorothy.’
Angie looked askance at Quentin.
‘Not Mrs Kwiatkowski?’
Quentin nodded. Not only had Mrs Kwiatkowski told him, she had also given him the Spanish Inquisition as to whether or not his intentions towards Angie were honourable.
They turned right up Foyle Street. Quentin slowed down and took Angie’s hand.
He took heart from the fact that this time she didn’t pull away.
They both stopped.
‘I want to be with you, Angie. Court you, date you, whatever you want to call it. I just want to be with you.’
Angie was staring at Quentin. ‘I want to believe you, Quentin, I really, really want to.’
‘Then do,’ he said, his voice imploring. ‘I want to be with you. And if you also wanted to be with me, then my expectations would be for us to get married. To have a family.’
Angie had gone pale.
‘Oh, God! Now … I’m scaring you … I’ve barely even held your hand and I’m talking about marriage.’
He looked at Angie and saw it in her eyes.
Saw that she felt the same.
He bent his head and kissed her.
Gently at first, and then with a passion he had been forced to hold back for so long.
And she kissed him back with an ardour that she, too, had been forced to hold back for so very long.
Watching Angie and Quentin stop and then kiss, Dorothy sucked in air and grabbed Mrs Kwiatkowski’s arm.
‘Oh. My. God. How romantic is that?’ she said, not taking her eyes off her friend and the man she could now officially call Angie’s ‘beau’.
‘Don’t look, it’s rude,’ Mrs Kwiatkowski said, freeing herself of Dorothy’s grip and stepping away from the window.
They had both been peeking through the blackout curtains in Mrs Kwiatkowski’s living room. They were in complete darkness, out of fear that a glimpse of light would make it through any small gaps while they spied on the two lovebirds. They had been standing there for a quarter of an hour, afraid they would miss them coming home, and had only just been able to make the pair out in the darkness as other Christmas revellers hurried past them.
Dorothy sighed and reluctantly relinquished her viewing point as Quentin and Angie began to stroll, their arms wrapped around each other, towards the flat.
‘You know, Mrs Kwiatkowski,’ Dorothy looked at the dark outline of her neighbour as she felt her way across the room towards the light switch, ‘I don’t think we could have hoped for a better result.’
Mrs Kwiatkowski switched on the light. She was smiling.
‘For once, Dorothy, I agree with you.’