‘Fancy a drink Carole? We thought we’d try that new wine-bar down the road.’
‘I’m … I’m sorry. ’Fraid I can’t.’
‘Why should she join us,’ Ruth taunted, peering over her spectacles from where she sat slumped at the adjoining desk, ‘when her precious Mike is waiting for his beloved to get home?’
Carole bit back a retort. Mike was history – as of yesterday – but, were she to admit that, Ruth’s look of gloating triumph would be more than she could bear. Ruth had met him on the sole occasion he had showed up at the office, but, since that time, her pointless, poisonous jealousy had expressed itself in constant jibes.
‘Oh, come on, Carole,’ Libby urged. ‘It is Friday, after all!’
She fiddled with a strand of her hair, twisting it round and round her fingers. Even at the best of times, she often felt distinctly spare when they all got together after work. As the youngest and by far the least experienced, she would sit very nearly tongue-tied amidst the raucous jollity – and today she might disgrace herself by actually bursting into tears. ‘No, honestly, I must get back.’
‘OK, please yourself.’
As Libby shrugged and turned away, Carole took her chance to escape, snatching up her jacket and sidling towards the door. It was already almost seven and they were meant to leave early on a Friday.
‘Have a good weekend!’ John called, as she scurried past his work-station.
‘Will do!’ Her breezy voice sounded false, even to her own ears. No weekend could ever be good, now that Mike had walked out.
‘And make sure you’re in on time on Monday,’ Averil barked, suddenly appearing from her office.
‘Of course,’ she muttered, again stifling her resentment. She had been late only once since she started in the job, yet Averil never let her forget it, nor the fact she was strictly here on trial. There was no certainty about promotion for any general assistant – or dogsbody, to use Ruth’s snide term. The girl prior to her had failed to make the grade and been unceremoniously given the boot, after a mere six months, as Averil enjoyed reminding her with depressing regularity. The intention, presumably, was to keep her up to the mark, although in point of fact it only increased her nervousness and made her more likely to fail, in her turn.
It was a relief to be out in the dark and shadowy street, surrounded by anonymous people who would neither nag her nor attack. But, as she trudged towards the tube, her footsteps slowed, until she finally stood indecisive outside the station entrance. The sleepless night, followed by a long, tough day at work, had left her tired and jittery at once, and in no mood for the journey home on a crowded rush-hour train. Anyway, it was only home if Mike was there. The sofa would seem unwelcoming without him sprawled beside her, sharing a pizza or a takeaway, and their large, lumpy double bed would mock a lonely singleton. And how could she leave for work in the morning without his coffee-flavoured kisses to speed her on her way?
Impulsively, she walked on past the tube and continued striding along the street, blindly turning left and left and left, just to give herself an action-plan. Action dulled the pain; provided tiny distractions, such as dodging passers-by, or squeezing past the crowds of drinkers gathered outside the pubs. Even non-smokers had flowed out onto the street, despite the November chill. She and Mike had signed the lease on their flat in March – a hopeful month, with everything in bud. Now, the leaves were falling, or lying brown and waterlogged. How could just one evening have kyboshed their nine months together? Enough time to make a baby….
No, she mustn’t think about kids – or about Mike, or marriage, or anything – or she’d spend another seven hours just staring out of the window at the dark, indifferent sky, as she’d already done last night. She was in need of more distraction, but her plan of turning left meant she kept going round in circles, so now she just walked blindly on, focusing instead on counting bars and cafés. Two, five, six, eight, eleven … Every other building appeared to offer food and drink, although she had lost her own appetite entirely. Each breath she took set off the pain – a pain spreading from the purple bruise branding her whole stomach. In any case, the bars and restaurants all reminded her of Mike: his weakness for a pint (or three) of Stella; his love of red-hot curry; his dislike of salad in any shape or form; the way he always ate chips with his fingers, cramming his mouth with three or four at a time….
Despite the weight of memories, her brisk walking-pace was helping, in that it acted like a drug and helped to calm her mind. So she decided to go further: across Waterloo Bridge and down Kennington Road – a road she knew, because Libby lived there and had once invited her to supper, after work. Libby was a decent type, but had always lived on her own, so she wouldn’t have the faintest idea how much a break-up hurt. She had even once remarked that she much preferred her single state to having to share her life with some useless, boring bloke; clearly unaware that men could be super-charged and super-skilled, like Mike.
The crowds were thinning as she turned into Lancaster Place and she began to feel horribly alone, especially when she crossed the river, with its dark expanse of water stretching on each side. Despite the lights reflected in its surface, it looked menacingly black and she imagined all the corpses rotting on the river-bed – girls like her, so desperate, they had plunged into its depths. Well, at least Mike would be consumed with guilt when he was forced to identify her bloated body, yanked out from the mud. Shit! Her mind was back on him again. But, now she had cut down Baylis Road, there were no more bars and cafés to count, so, instead, she tried to keep her concentration solely on her feet.
That proved easier in Kennington Road, which, being very long and straight, meant she could stride along, full-pelt. She had lost all track of time and, once she’d passed Libby’s flat, had no notion where she was. Not that she cared a toss. She was willing to walk anywhere – or nowhere – just so long as it stopped her brooding. She veered off to the right and went blundering on along a nondescript and treeless street, only panting to a sudden halt outside a yellow-brick church.
What had stopped her in her tracks was the sight of a small, elderly man actually kneeling on the pavement, in front of a large crucifix positioned outside the church. She watched, riveted, as he made the Sign of the Cross; his lips moving as he gazed with reverence at the naked, thorn-crowned figure. He must be praying – praying in public, despite the cold, and regardless of what passersby might think. He looked genuinely holy: his hands joined; his eyes intent; his lips forming silent words. Light from the adjacent lamp-posts merged his shadow and the Cross’s into one elongated, spooky shape. Then, finally, he eased up to his feet – the action stiff and slow and clearly causing pain – and, having brushed dirt from his trousers, he made a second Sign of the Cross and slowly shambled off.
Hardly thinking what she was doing, she darted in pursuit, overtook him and stood blocking his path. ‘Are you a priest?’ she demanded.
He looked startled at her question; grunted an emphatic ‘No!’
‘But you were … praying just then.’
‘Well, yes, I was, but that happens to be my church and I like to pay my respects to the crucified Christ.’
Her knowledge of prayer or churches was sketchy in the extreme. Her parents had no time for either, but, from what she’d gathered, prayer could be a force; might even work a miracle, so some believers said. ‘Could you pray for me?’ she blurted out, aghast at her own request. Had she gone insane? This guy was a total stranger – could be a perv, for all she knew.
He looked her up and down, as if harbouring similar doubts about her own credentials. ‘But … I don’t know who you are. All this is rather sudden, don’t you see? It’s hard to pray in a vacuum, so I’d need to know something about you – your name and—’
‘Carole,’ she interrupted. ‘Carole Gibbs. I need help.’
They were still standing in the middle of the pavement, causing an obstruction to people trying to get past. He steered her towards a doorway; continued gazing at her quizzically. ‘Are you a Catholic, Carole?’
‘Yes,’ she said, on impulse. If she said no, he might refuse.
‘Well, in that case, you really ought to see your parish priest. He could help you far better than I can.’
‘I … haven’t got a priest. I’ve not been in London that long.’ At least both of those were true.
‘Do you live round here?’ he asked. ‘If so, I could have a word with our own priest, Father Patrick, and see if he might….’
‘No, I don’t.’ Should she have said ‘yes’ again? Yes’s seemed more hopeful.
‘Well, where?’ he persisted.
‘I’m … not sure. I mean, I’m going to have to move soon. I can’t afford the flat I’m in at present.’ Without Mike’s contribution, it would be impossible to pay the rent. Indeed, if it hadn’t been for Mike, she would never have come to London in the first place. Her own measly salary would barely cover the cost of even a small bedsit. So where would she go? What ever would she do? All at once, the full horror of her plight struck home with hideous force: she was completely on her own. Her parents hated Mike. If she turned up on their doorstep, they would only say, ‘I told you so!’ and might even send her packing. Her only sister lived in New Zealand, busy with her own life, and was miles older anyway. And, as for all her old friends back in Norwich, she’d been so absorbed with Mike, she had shamefully neglected them. Desperate now, she clutched the old guy’s arm. ‘You have to help,’ she sobbed. ‘There’s no one else.’
He seemed embarrassed by her tears and stood, shoulders hunched, shifting from foot to foot. ‘Look, you’d better come home,’ he said, at last, ‘and have a word with my wife. She’s better at these things than me.’
In uneasy silence, they walked on, side by side; she slowing her pace to his uneven, halting gait. What in God’s name was she doing, craving help from some weirdo in the street? Was she so dependent on Mike that, without him, she was lost?
Yes, was the pathetic truth. She had never been alone before; had gone straight from living at home to living with him in the flat. Without someone else around, she felt like tissue paper: flimsy, insubstantial, easily crumpled up.
‘I’m Arthur, by the way,’ he said, as he led her round the corner into a narrow road of shabby terraced houses. ‘And this is where I live.’
She muttered something inaudible, more concerned with scrubbing at her face before she met his wife. She must look a total fright; eyes red; mascara streaked.
Halfway down the street, he stopped and stood fumbling for his key outside a battered black front door. Old people were so slow, she thought, as, having found the key, he then struggled to insert it in the lock.
‘Eunice!’ he called, ushering her into a narrow, dim-lit hall. ‘We have a visitor.’
A small, dumpy woman emerged from the back room, bundled up in a capacious home-knit cardigan, the colour of mushy peas. Her straggly hair was scooped up on top; her eyes faded-blue but kind.
‘Carole’s new to London,’ Arthur explained. ‘She’s a Catholic, so she needs to find a church. And she’s in need of help in general, so maybe you could sort her out.’
With obvious relief, he escaped upstairs, while his wife showed her into the sitting-room – a stuffy, uncongenial place. The three-piece suite was so big and bulky, it seemed to push against the confines of the walls, while the scrum of knick-knacks, amassed on every surface, only added to the overcrowded effect. Things should be bare, uncluttered – Mike had taught her that.
Eunice, clearly flustered, was letting out a stream of words, without pausing for any answers. ‘Nice to meet you, dear, but do excuse the mess. If I’d known I was having company, I’d have had a thorough clear-up. Would you like a cup of tea, to warm you up? You look frozen in that jacket. It barely comes down to your waist! When I was young, people wore good, thick, winter coats, but now it’s all these lightweight things. Do you take milk and sugar in your tea? And how about a sandwich? I could make you….’
‘Well, do sit down. No – not that chair. It’s Arthur’s. Take this one, near the fire.’
Mike would dump the gas-fire – a hideous thing in a sickly shade of yellow, with an ugly metal grille. She hadn’t realized till this moment that he had turned her into a snob. Even her parents’ home seemed embarrassingly out-dated, seen through his appraising eyes. But, as far as Eunice was concerned, she should be grateful, for heaven’s sake, not criticizing every smallest thing. At least she was in the warm and not alone. Without this refuge, she might have walked the streets all night.
The woman was still fussing – clearly ill at ease, or perhaps unused to visitors. ‘Are you comfy there, or would you like a cushion behind you?’
‘I’m fine, thanks.’
With a worried sigh, Eunice arranged a cushion behind her own grey head. Then she smoothed her skirt, adjusted her glasses and sat rubbing at her chin, before finally she asked. ‘Well, what’s the trouble, dear?’
The popping of the gas-fire filled the silence. Where did she begin?
‘Have you run away from home?’
‘No.’
‘Well, what about your parents? Can’t they help?’
‘No.’
Eunice shifted her bulk on the sagging, chintzy chair. There was a second, unsettling pause, before she spoke again in her breathy tone. ‘Forgive me, dear, for suggesting such an indelicate thing, but you’re not … expecting, are you?’
If only. If she’d fallen pregnant, Mike might have stayed, simply for the kid’s sake. ‘No,’ she said, third time.
Eunice gave another sigh. The sighs seemed nervous, rather than impatient, as if she were running out of suggestions. ‘But Arthur said you needed help, so there must be something wrong.’
Carole clasped her arms across her chest; conscious of the pain in her ribs every time she moved. ‘It’s my boyfriend – Mike – he’s left. We share a flat, you see, but last night we had this really awful bust-up. He actually punched me in the stomach and….’
Eunice took in a sharp intake of breath.
‘Oh, he didn’t mean to. It was my fault, actually. You see, he’d sent this text to a girl called Kath and I happened to see it and got insanely jealous. He’d never mentioned a Kath to me, and I just couldn’t bear the thought of him having secrets or seeing someone else. So I went on and on about it, even though he kept warning me to cool it. But I refused to listen, and every time he tried to change the subject, I’d hark back to Kath and insist he told me who she was. And, in the end, he went berserk – said he didn’t want to live with someone so suspicious and unreasonable, quizzing him on every little thing. And, in any case, he hated the way I was so insecure and clingy and couldn’t stand on my own two feet, and, frankly, he’d had enough of me – full-stop. And then I lost it, too, and started screaming and shouting and went – you know – hysterical and that was when he hit me.’
‘But, Carole’ – Eunice sounded deeply shocked – ‘surely you’re much better off without a man like that?’
‘I’m not. I’m not! You don’t understand. I’m useless on my own. And, anyway, he’s never hit me before.’
‘I should jolly well think not!’
‘I drove him to it – don’t you see? He told me that himself.’
Eunice scooped up a stray wisp of hair and pushed it back into her bun. Neither of them spoke. In the silence, every sound seemed magnified: the snort of a car reverberating down the street; the insistent pop-pop-pop explosions of the gas-fire.
‘Have you tried to pray about this?’ Eunice asked, at last. ‘Called on the Blessed Virgin for help?’
‘I don’t know how to pray. I’m not religious.’
‘But Arthur said—’
‘I know. That’s my fault, too. I didn’t like to tell him that I’ve never been to church in my life – well, except for my sister’s wedding. My parents are atheists.’
‘Well, obviously, we must pray for them, as well, in the hope they see the error of their ways. God loves all His creation, Carole, whether they’re Catholics or not. And the Blessed Virgin Mary has a special concern for every single woman in the world, especially women in trouble, like yourself.’
Carole looked up impatiently. ‘But I know almost nothing about her, so how ever could she help?’
‘Because she has powers far greater than ours. She sits at the right hand of God.’
‘Maybe,’ Carole countered, with growing irritation, ‘but I’m no expert on God, either. I never learnt those things. We did a bit at school about all the world’s religions, but I never took much interest, to be honest.’
‘In that case, we’d better start with your Guardian Angel.’
‘My what?’
‘Your Guardian Angel. Angels are the link between our human world here below and the heavenly world above, so they’re very useful go-betweens. They bridge the gap between us poor sinners and the perfection of—’
‘I don’t have a Guardian Angel,’ she cut in.
‘Well, there you’re mistaken, Carole. Everybody has one, whether they’re aware of it or not. Your Guardian Angel was with you from the moment you were born and he’ll stay by your side until the very moment you die, when he’ll help you on your journey to the next life. He’s like your closest friend – always there for you and on your side, looking after you and protecting you from danger.’
The idea sounded blissful, but totally unlikely. No one was always there for you – not parents, sisters, workmates, boyfriends. ‘But how do you know all this?’ she demanded. ‘I mean, can you prove that angels exist?’
‘Of course I can! It’s part of the Church’s teaching and our Blessed Lord Himself often spoke about angels. An angel even came to comfort Him when He was suffering His terrible agony in the garden. So if someone as great as Christ was in need of an angel, how much more do we poor humans need one?’
‘Just because you need something doesn’t mean you get it,’ she muttered to herself.
Eunice didn’t appear to have heard and continued in her soft, wheezy voice. ‘Have you ever heard of St Gemma Galgani?’
Carole shook her head. She’d never heard of half these things.
‘She died of TB when she was only twenty-five, but all through her short life she was constantly talking to her Guardian Angel. She said he was her teacher and guide, and sometimes he even gave her special secret messages about politics and suchlike.’
‘Why do you say “he”? I thought angels were meant to be female?’
‘Well, actually, they’re spirits, so they’re not strictly male or female. But, when you see them in pictures, they’re usually shown as men and they also have male names. Take Michael – your boyfriend’s name. Michael was an archangel and—’
‘What’s an archangel?’
‘They’re angels of the highest rank. The name Michael means “He who is like God”.’
Well, that was true. Mike was like a god – tall and powerful and brilliant in every way. She knew he would go far in life; make loads of money, maybe even be famous….
‘If you’ll excuse me for a minute, dear, I’ll show you a picture of him.’
Eunice rose to her feet, with difficulty, and made her slow way to the door. While she was gone, Carole pulled up her jacket and sweater and studied the bruise again. It wasn’t as bad as she’d thought. OK, her parents would go mental, but only to get at Mike. They’d met him a mere twice, yet they were convinced he was a nasty piece of work, but that was just their prejudice.
Hastily, she pulled down her clothes as Eunice reappeared, carrying a small black book, which she opened at the very first page.
‘That’s the Archangel Michael,’ she explained, pointing to a picture of a tall, winged figure in a breastplate.
‘But he’s wearing armour.’
Eunice nodded. ‘Yes, he’s a great warrior – the commander-in-chief of the whole heavenly host, which, of course, means he’s extremely powerful. It’s unusual to have pictures in a missal, but this is a very old Italian one, which a dear aunt of mine – now sadly passed away – brought for me in Rome, when I was just a little girl.’
‘What’s a missal?’ Carole asked. Another word she didn’t know.
‘It’s our Catholic Mass-book, with all the different Masses for every day of the year.’
Although none the wiser, she gazed at the figure with interest. Michael was impressive – there was no denying that – with his athletic build and the huge feathered wings springing from his shoulders and rearing up behind him, like a shield. The expression on his face was determined and intense, and he was poised, as if for action, carrying a long, gleaming spear. The picture was in black and white, but, as she studied it, she could almost see the armour shining silver and Michael’s skin tanned a healthy bronze; his hair like burnished gold; his wings a dazzling white.
‘Carole, I’d like to make you a present of this missal. I never use it and it’s only gathering dust in a drawer.’
‘Oh, I couldn’t take it! It’s precious.’
But Eunice put the book firmly into her hands and plumped back on her chair, even managing a smile now.
Carole ran her fingers over the stiff black leather cover; tracing the gold-tooled letters on the spine: Missale Romano. The pages were all edged with gold and so gossamer-thin she was scared her nails might tear them. Certain pages were marked with coloured ribbons – five in all, in faded red, blue, yellow, green and purple. The typeface was a fancy one, set out in double columns on each page, although she couldn’t read a word of it, of course. ‘What language is that?’ she asked, pointing to the text.
‘Latin on the left of the page, and Italian on the right. And in an English missal, it would be—’
She broke off as the door opened and Arthur put his head round. ‘All finished now?’ he asked.
‘Not quite, dear. Could you give us a bit longer?’
‘Eunice, we need an early night. We have to be up at six tomorrow, don’t forget.’
Carole half-rose from her seat. ‘Look, I’m sorry, I’m in your way.’
‘Not at all.’ Eunice silenced her husband with a look. ‘Arthur, dear, you go on up. There are just one or two more things I need to say to Carole. I shan’t be long, I promise.’
With a compliant nod, Arthur disappeared again.
‘Now listen, dear,’ Eunice said, leaning forward in her chair. ‘Before you leave, I need to make sure that you’re going to be all right – you know, on your own, in the flat. So I want you to take this missal with you and sleep with it beside you, to remind you that you’re not alone, because your Guardian Angel is with you. He always has been and he always will be, so you’ll never feel lonely again. His job in life is to look after you and help you on life’s journey. And, I assure you, Carole, these things are not just a matter of belief, but a matter of experience, as well. In fact, you may have felt your Guardian Angel’s presence in the past, but just not realized who he was. Have you ever had the sense of a guiding hand on your shoulder, someone whispering to you, pointing out what’s right?’
Yes, she thought, intrigued. She’d had exactly that sense the first time she met Mike. She knew the very instant she laid eyes on him that he was completely and utterly right for her, which she’d never felt about the odd bods she had dated prior to him. ‘But what shall I do about Mike?’ she asked, suddenly realizing she had forgotten all about him for at least the last five minutes.
‘Arthur and I will need to pray about him. I must admit I’m not very happy about you being with a violent man.’
‘He’s not violent, I swear! It was just that one occasion and I more or less asked for it. He kept warning me to stop obsessing about Kath, and I didn’t take the slightest notice, so you can’t really blame him, can you? Besides, he doesn’t know his own strength, so I doubt he meant to hurt me in the first place. I’m the kind of person who bruises very easily, you see. With anybody else, it wouldn’t even have left a mark.’
Eunice frowned deeply, as if far from being convinced. ‘Well,’ she said, at last, ‘perhaps you can bring yourself to forgive him – give him one more chance, maybe. But I suggest you let him cool off first – say, for a couple of weeks, and only then get back in touch and see how you feel about things. Certainly, forgiveness is important. Our Blessed Lord taught us to forgive our enemies.’
‘Mike’s not my enemy! He’s the most fantastic person I’ve ever met.’
‘Well, that’s as may be, but it sounds to me as if he could do with some direction in his life. But, look you’d better set off home now. It’s getting late and I don’t like the thought of you travelling at this hour. Do you know your way back from here?’
‘Not really.’
‘At the end of our road, turn right and a hundred yards further down, you’ll see Stockwell Tube.’
‘Oh, Stockwell. So that’s where we are!’ Somehow, she’d imagined she was miles further out, as if she had walked to the ends of the earth. Yet Stockwell was only two stops on from Libby’s tube at Kennington.
Moving very stiffly, Eunice stood up again. ‘It’s on the Victoria Line and the Northern Line. Are either of those any good for you?’
‘The Northern Line is perfect.’ She wouldn’t even have to change. Was her Guardian Angel already looking after her?
‘And, once you get in, I’d like you to give me a ring, then I’ll know you’re safe.’ Eunice ushered her into the hall, took a Biro from the drawer of the small, rickety hall-table and wrote the number on a slip of paper.
‘But your husband said he wanted an early night.’
‘Don’t worry – you won’t disturb us. It takes us a while to get ready for bed and, anyway, Arthur always reads for a while, before he settles down.’ Eunice rummaged further in the drawer and withdrew a pair of gloves. ‘It’s probably really cold now and that coat of yours wouldn’t keep a sparrow warm, so why don’t you take these?’
‘No, honestly … I never wear gloves.’ Least of all such gruesome ones: woolly green and huge.
‘Well, I’m surprised you don’t get chilblains, then. But, look, take them anyway, in case you change your mind. And do that coat up properly!’
Carole moved towards the door, obediently buttoning her jacket and about to say goodbye, when Eunice called her back.
‘No – wait a minute, dear. I know Arthur would like to say goodbye, as well. Arthur!’ she shouted, moving to the foot of the stairs. ‘Carole’s on her way.’
The elderly pair stood side by side on the step, watching anxiously as she set off down the street. Every time she looked back, they were still there, waving and smiling, as if she were bound for Sydney Harbour, rather than Archway Tube. She felt protected and important. Her parents would never see her off with such concern about her safety, or fret about her getting cold. In fact, in all the years she had lived at home, her mother barely seemed to notice whether she was there or not.
She took the gloves from her pocket, where she had stuffed them, out of sight, turned round again, and began putting them on in a slow, elaborate dumb-show, so Eunice could see what she was doing. The gloves were surprisingly cosy and her hands felt protected, too, now.
With a final wave, she rounded the corner, slinging her bag across her shoulder, and feeling for the hard outline of the missal. It was the best present she had ever had, because it meant that Michael was with her – an archangel, no less – and, just as Eunice had promised, she no longer felt alone, or lost, or scared.
‘You’re late!’ Averil snapped, bearing down towards the door, as Carole rushed into the office.
Catching her breath, Carole stifled the apology that was almost second nature now, when speaking to her boss. Instead, she adopted a no-nonsense tone – one she had never dared to use before. ‘I’m only late with good reason,’ she said, coolly. ‘There was a broken-down train at Camden that delayed us for a good half-hour. I left home at eight o’clock sharp, so, in the ordinary way, I’d have been here in loads of time.’
‘Well, in that case….’
As Averil’s voice tailed off, Carole realized this was a first: her boss had actually accepted a legitimate excuse, without querying its honesty, or rudely interrupting with some venomous attack – all Michael’s doing, of course. Having an archangel in tow had hugely boosted her confidence. She wasn’t sure if archangels did act as Guardian Angels, but, since she needed a protector of the very highest rank, she’d simply opted for the best – exactly as she’d done with Mike.
In truth, her mind was reeling with angels, having spent much of the weekend Googling angel-sites. Extraordinary how many people believed in them: almost sixty-five per cent of the entire British population, which only went to show how out of touch her parents were – as in so many other ways. She herself was now part of that sixty-five per cent. It was a matter of experience, as Eunice had explained – something she had only really understood when she reached the end of their road and turned the corner to the tube. And, at the very moment she lost sight of the old pair, she was suddenly aware of some other sort of presence beside her. The effect was so empowering, she had lost all her usual fear of being accosted by a mugger in the dark, and made her way down the unfamiliar street without the slightest qualm. And, once she was in the carriage, she hadn’t started panicking about the only other passenger: a suspicious-looking bloke with a scar across his face. She was safe from any stranger or attacker – Michael would see to that. And even when she let herself into the flat and was confronted by Mike’s possessions – his favourite mug, still full of scummy tea; his blue toothbrush in the bathroom; his trainers lying tongue-to-tongue, as if chatting to each other – she hadn’t collapsed in a pathetic heap, but simply trusted he’d be back. His namesake had assured her of the fact and angels didn’t tell untruths. And, instead of having to face the void of an empty, lonely, boyfriend-less weekend, she’d had company and comfort, in the shape of her Guardian Angel. Indeed, with every hour that passed, he seemed to become more solid and substantial, until—
John’s voice cut across her thoughts. ‘Had a good weekend?’ he asked, as she hung her jacket on the coat-stand. All the other staff were busy on the phone, including Ruth – thank God.
‘Fantastic!’ She had spent Sunday afternoon venturing into churches, hesitant at first, but gradually growing bolder as she discovered angels everywhere – in windows, statues, paintings and stained glass. How could she have ignored them all her life? It was like Mike and motorbikes. Before she met him, motorbikes were just noisy nuisances, but, slowly, under his guidance, she had begun to learn the subtleties; the vital difference between one machine and another – just as now she knew the difference between an angel and an archangel, a Dominion and a Throne.
Humming to herself, she sauntered into the kitchen, to check the supplies of tea and coffee and ensure the cups were clean. She had washed most of them on Friday, just before she left, but more had been dumped into the sink since then. She scoured them thoroughly, wiped down all the surfaces, then made a shopping list. Coffee-creamer, biscuits, sugar, were all in short supply, so she would buy those when she went out for lunch. She was used to running errands in her lunch-hour, because the other staff were often too busy to leave their desks and just grabbed a quick sandwich between interviews. In any case, why should they want to hobnob with the ‘dogsbody’?
Once she’d finished in the kitchen, she darted out to the office, to check that the consultants had everything they needed: time-sheets, notebooks, terms-of-business forms. Libby’s phone was ringing, unanswered on the desk, so she picked it up, smiling as she spoke, as John had taught her when she first arrived. (‘You can hear a smile,’ he’d said.)
‘Alangate Agency. How can I help?’ Usually, her voice went shrill with nerves, but with Michael’s sheltering wings behind her, she managed to speak assertively. Indeed, Michael’s power was so great, she felt ready to deal with anyone, even the grouchy area-manager.
‘I’m sorry, Mr Tucker, she’s away from her desk just at present. I’ll ask her to ring you as soon as – no, hold on, she’s here.’
As Libby emerged from the toilet, Carole handed her the phone. ‘It’s Rory Tucker – it’s urgent, he says.’
A moment later, she was summoned by Sandra. “Carole, get a cup of tea for Mrs Preston. Milk and two sugars, please.’
She scurried back to the kitchen, Michael in attendance, of course. Only now did she realize – and only because of Michael – that her role was vital here. Without her, the others would be lost. They relied on her to keep things running smoothly; to cover for them when they were on the phone or otherwise engaged; to buy their lunchtime sandwiches, and – most important – to greet the clients and the applicants, if no one else happened to be free. All that was crucial work, so they should treat her with respect. From this moment on, she intended to defend herself. If Averil was vicious, Ruth sarcastic, or Sandra patronizing, she would make it very clear that she didn’t intend to be insulted or exploited.
Her archangel wouldn’t stand for it, for one thing.
She sat back on the bench, gazing up at the stained-glass window, which showed a plumpish angel with a shock of yellow curls, weird blue wings and beseeching, big, brown eyes. He wasn’t in the same class as Michael, but she liked him, nonetheless. She also enjoyed this new experience of sitting quietly in a church, which she now did every lunch-hour, if only for five minutes. What it made her realize was how starved she’d been of peace – something completely lacking in her chaotic childhood home, and impossible in a busy office, with four consultants on the phone at once, and applicants coming and going all day long. But here in the church, she was cut off from both people-noise and traffic-noise and, because she had the place to herself, she could pretend it was her own new home – somewhere worthy of Michael, who was standing beside her, of course. (Angels never sat, she’d found.) He must feel in his element in such an awesome setting, with its brilliant windows glowing in the dim, dramatic gloom, and the stone arches soaring up so high, and those fancy golden candlesticks gleaming on the altar.
To her surprise, she’d discovered quite a number of churches, all within easy reach of work. Her favourite was St Cecilia and St Anselm, partly on account of its name. No one she knew was called Cecilia or Anselm – nor, for that matter, Rafael, Gabriel, or Uriel: the names of the other archangels. She wished her mother had called her Cecilia, instead of boring Carole, or even Uriel, which was definitely exotic.
She glanced at her watch – 1.30 – which meant she still had half an hour before she needed to be back. She’d completed all her errands – taken in Ruth’s dry-cleaning; collected Sandra’s theatre tickets; bought the Scotch for Averil’s VIP client – so there was just one thing left to do: make the call to Mike.
The very thought of speaking to him made her jerk up from the bench and start pacing along the aisle in an agitated state. He hadn’t called or texted her even once, which meant he might be mad still – or even have shacked up with the hateful Kath.
No, she couldn’t ring. Such devastating news would be almost like he’d died.
‘Take courage, Carole. I’m with you now, so you can rest assured that things will turn out well.’
Michael’s solemn voice seemed to be sounding in her ears and she could almost feel his protective wings brushing against her cheek. Had she forgotten he was there to fight her battles; lift her mood when she lost heart? And, in any case, she couldn’t break her word to Eunice. They had discussed Mike on the phone, last night, and she’d promised to get in touch with him – today, if possible. Nearly a fortnight had passed since the bust-up, so the old lady thought it was time to make a move. It still seemed quite extraordinary that a couple she had met through a chance encounter in the street should have become so involved in her life. Eunice was almost like a grandmother; someone who truly cared about her and was always on her side; someone who even prayed for her each day. She herself still hadn’t learned to pray. Frankly, she found it embarrassing – so much so, she gave a nervous glance behind her before falling to her knees in front of the statue of the Virgin. Ruth and Averil were safely in the office, so there was no way they could see her, yet she imagined their derisive laughter, as she clasped her hands, like Arthur had, and moved her lips in prayer.
‘Please, God,’ she began, uncertainly, but, as Michael nodded his approval, she continued with more confidence. Not only did he stop her feeling self-conscious, he even helped her find the words. And, once she’d said ‘Amen’, he led her from the church to a secluded spot behind it, where she could make the call in private. Best to try now, in the lunch-hour, rather than leave it till the evening, when Mike would probably be out drinking with his mates.
She slung her bag firmly over her shoulder, so that no one would nick the Scotch – not that there was anyone about; just her dazzling archangel, giving her the strength to dial. He even preventing her from losing her cool when she actually heard Mike’s voice, the first time in thirteen days. Those days had seemed like thirteen years and, without Michael’s constant presence, she doubted if she could have coped.
‘Hi, Mike,’ she said, impressed by her casual tone of voice – belied, in actuality, by the pounding of her heart. ‘It’s Carole.’
Even in the awkward pause that followed, she refused to be deterred. ‘I was wondering how you are.’
‘Er, fine.’
‘I’ve had time to think about what you said and, yes, you do have a point. I have been too clingy and I can see now how it might annoy you. On the other hand …’ She faltered. It was much harder to reprove him than admit to her own faults.
‘Don’t stop,’ Michael urged. She felt him move still closer; his wings a feathered firewall, shielding her whole body.
Before she spoke, she took in a deep breath, pausing, so that the words would come out calmly and not in a feverish rush. ‘On the other hand,’ she repeated, determined to make her point, ‘what you did was loads worse. Hitting me like that was—’ She was about to say ‘unforgivable’, but quickly changed it into ‘downright disgraceful’. Eunice claimed that nothing was unforgivable and had also supplied the phrase ‘downright disgraceful’ – one she would never have used herself because it sounded so extreme. Mike always resented criticism and might well explode with rage.
In the silence, she almost lost her nerve. Should she backtrack; tell him it hadn’t hurt that much?
But Michael shook his head in warning, so she waited, cowering, for the expected furious outburst. None came.
‘I … I’m sorry, darling,’ Mike muttered, at last, sounding genuinely ashamed.
Her relief was like a tidal wave. Both words were clearly Michael’s doing. ‘Darling’ meant the relationship was on still; ‘sorry’ meant that Mike admitted blame.
‘It was wrong,’ he grunted, ‘yes. And, to be honest, I feel rotten about it. Look, why don’t we meet, so I can make it up to you.’
Even more fantastic. But before she could shout, ‘Yes!’ Michael put a restraining hand on her shoulder. ‘Keep your composure,’ he advised.
So, when Mike said, ‘How about tonight?’, she bit back her instinctive ‘Great!’ and replied, with deliberate reserve, ‘Next week would suit me better.’
‘Monday, then?’
‘Wednesday.’
‘Brilliant! Wednesday. I’ll come round to the flat.’
Again, she took her cue from Michael, who was frowning at the suggestion. ‘No, I’d rather go out for a meal. How about that Italian place in Camden – you know, where we went for our first date? Shall we say eight o’clock?’
It felt extraordinary to be taking the lead, instead of letting Mike make the decisions, regardless of whether they suited her or not. But, when she’d admitted to Eunice that he rarely took her out to eat these days, as he’d done when they first met, the old lady seemed indignant.
‘Why should you settle for TV dinners every night, or a pizza on your lap? You say he spends hours in the pub – well, he ought to devote at least some of that time to spoiling you a bit. Arthur and I still go out several times a month, and we’ve been married nearly fifty years, so I reckon your Mike needs to buck up his ideas a bit.’
‘OK, darling,’ he was saying. ‘I’ll book a table at Antonio’s.’
She all but hugged herself in glee. Not only a second ‘darling’, but no objection to the expense. Antonio’s wasn’t cheap. And, when she glanced up at her angel, she was gratified to see that his normal grave expression had softened into a smile.
She slipped off her grubby office clothes and flung them on the bed, barely able to contain her excitement. Mike would be back tonight – back in this very bed. And, once he saw how self-reliant she was, their relationship would go from strength to strength. It wasn’t just in character she’d changed – she was in better shape, as well. Studying her reflection in the mirror, she was relieved to see that she could now fit into her skinny jeans, having lost a good half-stone. And they would go perfectly with the new sparkly top she’d bought yesterday at Top Shop. Michael had even helped her there. She’d had no idea that Guardian Angels would concern themselves with trivial things like clothes, until she had slowly come to understand that nothing which involved their charges could be classed as trivial. If it mattered to her, then it mattered to Michael, too; be it her body-shape, a new brand of blusher, or the latest bargain in the shops. Nor did she have to be shamefaced – as she had been at the outset – at the thought of him seeing her naked. Angels didn’t do embarrassment.
Indeed, Michael accompanied her to the bathroom while she showered and washed her hair; instinctively aware that she needed a non-stop confidence-boost this evening. He could pick up on her mood, even when she hadn’t said a word, so she didn’t need to tell him that, without his steadying presence, excitement might spill over into panic. He’d already had to persuade her to stop dashing around like a dervish, as there was plenty of time to get ready. He had planned that from the start, of course; insisting she made it clear to Averil that she wished to leave the office dead on six. And, miracle of miracles, Averil just said ‘Fine’, without the usual argument, or even the slightest objection. Since the advent of Michael, they all treated her with new respect. Sandra had actually paid her a compliment this morning, and even Ruth was less sarcastic and sharp-tongued.
Darting from the bathroom as she heard her mobile ringing, she picked it up with a sudden sense of dread. Suppose it was Mike, about to cancel? The very thought was—
‘Eunice here. I just wanted to wish you luck, dear. I know how much this evening means, so Arthur and I will both be praying for you.’
As she thanked her new ‘grandma’, she wondered how she had ever managed without the kindly pair. This coming Sunday, they had invited her to accompany them to Mass and then go back with them for lunch. It would be her very first Mass – the first of many, she hoped – and would also give her a chance to tell them, in person, all about tonight. And Sunday was perfect timing, since Mike was going to Tottenham to watch the match with Fulham.
‘Hey, Eunice, listen – Averil said I’m definitely in line for a pay-rise, after my yearly review. Apparently, they all think I’m doing well … No, it won’t be a fortune, but every little helps. In fact, I’d like to buy you a present, so can you think of something you’d like? … No, sorry – I insist. But, look, I’d better go. I’ve just stepped out of the shower and my hair’s dripping down my back!’
Once she’d dried it and removed any hint of frizz, she rifled through her drawer to find some sexy underwear. She had to admit she did feel distinctly awkward putting on her black-lace knickers and matching Wonder-bra, with Michael only yards away. But, with his usual tact and good breeding, he simply glided to the window, only turning back to face her again, once she was sitting at the mirror, about to do her make-up.
Even her complexion had improved since his arrival, and he’d undoubtedly made her worry less about the tiny hairline scar above her eyebrow. Friends had been assuring her for years that it didn’t really show, but only now did she believe them. In fact, she felt more attractive in general, as well as loads more confident. After all, if she was important enough to have the highest rank of angel as her personal attendant, she must be special, surely. Nor had it failed to impress her that a commander-in-chief like Michael was willing to ignore his warrior duties, in order to devote himself solely to her – an even greater sacrifice than when Mike gave up his ticket for the Tottenham/Man United match, to come shopping with her in Oxford Street, the first Saturday they’d met. Admittedly, it hadn’t happened since, but it would again – she knew. Michael had taught her two really vital things: first, you had to believe you were worthy of good fortune, and then trust that life would provide it.
She applied her blusher with careful concentration, glad she’d invested in a decent brand, since her healthy glow looked natural now, not falsely pink, like the Tesco one. Lipstick, next, which she blotted several times, to prevent it coming off on Mike. She still missed him terribly: his wild, insistent kisses; the way he gripped her body so tightly, his nails left deep red marks – marks she prized, as a reminder of their love-making.
Angels didn’t make love, she’d now found out; nor did they eat or drink and, if they needed to move from one country to another, on some angelic mission, or streak up to heaven and back, they could cover such vast distances in micro-seconds. Not only had she learned much more about them, she had also come to realize that it was extremely common for ordinary folk to experience their intervention, just as she was doing. Some of the stories were incredible: one woman, weighing a scant seven stone, had overturned a car with her bare hands, to free the child trapped underneath – all with the help of an angel. And a lonely old man, in the last stage of prostate cancer, had been comforted by an angel in the form of his long-dead mother, who sat holding his hand in the hospice. And angels didn’t balk at doing much more mundane things, such as finding their charges a parking-space, or a free seat on a crowded train.
What she didn’t like were the commercial angel-sites, which sold such low-grade tat, they seemed an offence to Michael. Why should she want an angel fridge-magnet when she had a real-life angel – an angel who was part best friend, part an older, English version of Zac Efron, and almost a god in his own right.
Shit – her mobile again! Each time it rang, she was terrified it might be Mike: he’d gone down with some bug; had a ghastly motor-cycle accident; or been knifed by a drunken yob.
‘Hi, Carole! It’s Tracy. Sorry to ring you out of the blue, but—’
‘Tracy! Great to hear you! It’s ages since we spoke.’
This call was Michael’s doing. He must have realized, instinctively, that, however mad she was for Mike, she did truly miss her old Norwich life: the girly talk, the shopping expeditions, the sense of female solidarity. And now here was Tracy on the phone!
‘Why I’m ringing, Carole, is to let you know that me and Sue have decided to follow your example.’
‘What do you mean?’ she asked, lolling back on the bed.
‘We’re moving to London … Yes, honestly, it’s true! We’ve found this flat-share in East Finchley that needs two extra girls.’
‘Brilliant! We’ll be neighbours, more or less. East Finchley’s on the same tube-line as me, just a couple of stops further out. So when do you plan on coming?’
‘Quite soon, with any luck. We have to wait for Sue to find a job, but that shouldn’t take too long. I’m OK, because I can just transfer to the London office, which they’ve been wanting me to do for yonks. Anyway, it would be great to meet and everything, and we’re hoping you might fill us in on the best shops and bars and night-spots and all that sort of stuff.’
‘Yeah. ’Course. No problem. And we could even have a party, once you’ve settled in – maybe persuade a few of the others to come down for it, as well, if only for a night. But, listen, Tracy, I’m a bit pushed for time right now. I’m dying for a chat, so I’ll give you a ring tomorrow and we can gossip for hours, OK?’
As she snapped the mobile shut, she wondered how Tracy would react to the idea of an angel sharing her flat. As yet, she hadn’t told a soul, mainly because the crowd at work were such total cynics, they would regard her as insane. Yet, in point of fact, they were in the minority, by far. An online poll showed eighty-two per cent of respondents believed they had a Guardian Angel, while only a mere one per cent thought no such things existed.
She rose slowly to her feet, feeling rather apprehensive about having to give her friends the lowdown on trendy night-spots. As yet, she hadn’t been out clubbing even once and, as for bars, the only ones she knew were those she went to after work with John and Ruth and co, and Mike’s favourite pub, The Antelope.
The whooshing sound of Michael’s wings roused her from her thoughts. ‘It’s time to finish dressing,’ he prompted, moving from the mirror to the wardrobe. ‘We ought to leave in fifteen minutes.’
She didn’t need an alarm clock. Michael got her up in the morning; reminded her of every engagement and gently intervened if she happened to be running late – and all without owning a watch. (Angels didn’t have possessions, despite the pictures showing them with harps and spears or whatever, which were simply artist’s licence.) It was undoubtedly convenient to have an in-house time-keeper, but that was a minor matter compared with the overwhelming fact that Michael had transformed her world entirely. She was no longer forced to cling to other people, because she believed she wasn’t good enough in and by herself. And all her usual dread about things going horribly wrong had been banished at a stroke.
Indeed, when she finally left the flat – looking as good as she had ever done – she had total faith that the evening would be an unqualified success. And, as she set off down the street, with all-powerful Michael shadowing her steps, she knew, deep down, that she was worthy of all the good fortune in the world.
‘My boyfriend booked a table – name of Cartwright.’
The waiter checked his list. ‘Ah, yes. Come this way.’
He led her to a table in the corner – an empty table.
‘Don’t worry,’ Michael soothed, folding down his wings to fit the crowded restaurant. ‘He’s probably been delayed.’
Having drawn out her chair with a flourish, the waiter offered her a drink. Her first instinct was to wait for Mike and let him choose the wine, but, with Michael’s blessing, she went right ahead and ordered a glass of Chardonnay. Normally, she drank Diet-Coke, but Chardonnay was Averil’s favourite tipple, so presumably it must be cool.
While she waited for the wine to come, she surveyed her fellow diners, most of them in couples, of course. In the ordinary way, she would feel distinctly awkward sitting on her own, or even imagine people pitied her because they assumed she had no friends. Tonight, it didn’t bother her at all. If they only had the eyes to see, they would realize that a superior Being was hovering in attendance.
When the waiter brought her wine, she was tempted to offer Michael a sip, or at least pass him the bowl of olives, or a piece of crusty bread. It still seemed rather strange to her that he should have no appetites; had never experienced a sexual urge, or enjoyed the smell of garlicky prawns – now wafting in her nostrils as a waiter scurried past – or the taste of hot buttered toast. But perhaps her own enjoyment of such things only proved how far she was from being spiritual. She hoped, with the old couple’s help, to remedy that lack, and she was certainly looking forward to seeing their local church. All her life, she had regarded churches as dreary, even dismal places, but now she was keen to add some new ones to those she’d already discovered near the office.
Despite Michael’s presence, it required an effort not to keep glancing at her watch. Her glass was already half-empty, yet there was still no sign of Mike. Instantly, however, Michael tuned in to her thoughts.
‘Remember that broken-down train at Camden? Well, it’s probably something similar. Just trust that all will be well.’
‘Trust’ was a word she distrusted, mainly because of her mother, who was always saying ‘Trust me, Carole’, only to betray that trust. Her childhood would have been easier altogether had she been aware of her Guardian Angel from the moment she was born – as Eunice and Arthur had. But at least now she had her beloved Michael for the whole of her adult life, and angels, unlike parents, were free of all human frailties. Dishonesty, unkindness, selfishness and unreliability were simply foreign to their nature. So, if her angel told her to trust, then trust she would, despite the fact that Mike was now eighteen minutes late.
She stretched out her legs, glancing down at her knee-length, mock-croc boots. They pinched at the toes and the heels were crazily high, but Mike adored high heels and that alone made them worth the pain.
‘Try to relax,’ Michael advised, aware how fidgety she was. So she leaned back in her chair and made a deliberate effort to stop fretting; focusing instead on the thrill of her first date. They had sat at a corner table and she’d noticed several women eyeing Mike with interest. They envied her – that was obvious – and the waiters had all treated her with incredible respect, because they could tell he was somebody exceptional. Every detail of the restaurant had remained imprinted on her mind since then: the terracotta floor-tiles and rustic glass carafes; the posters on the walls depicting fabulous places like Venice and Verona; the romantic music and air of happy bustle; the blackboard with the daily specials chalked up in looping script. And, this evening, it was just as lively; a buzz of conversation competing with the Italian crooner pouring out his heart and soul on the sound-system; wild bursts of laughter exploding from the customers, and waiters darting to and fro, with trays of steaming pasta and exotic coloured ice-creams. Maybe she and Mike could come here once or twice a month, as Eunice had advised. After all, he earned a lot – far more than she did, anyway – and, once she got her pay-rise, she could even treat him, sometimes, if she saved up long enough. She could see their future stretching ahead in a glorious golden glow – the only problem being that he hadn’t actually arrived. Had something hideous happened? A fatal stabbing? A terrorist attack?
Just as she began to panic, Michael bent his majestic frame a little closer to her ear. ‘Turn round towards the door,’ he whispered.
Swivelling round obediently, she gave a cry of delight to see Mike hurtling into the restaurant, out of breath and clearly in a state – a very different Mike from the one who’d kept her waiting in the past and usually sauntered blithely in, without a twinge of guilt.
‘I’m terribly sorry,’ he panted, rushing up to the table and all but colliding with a waiter. ‘There was a signal-failure at Moorgate and it buggered up all the bloody trains.’
‘Don’t worry,’ Carole said, registering Michael’s impassive face. Angels never said ‘I told you so!’, but hers had every right to do so. How could she have doubted that her boyfriend would turn up, when Michael had assured her of the fact? But, mixed with the relief, was a sense of almost … shock. His changed behaviour was a blessing, but not the change in his appearance. However weird it sounded, he just didn’t seem the same – not as tall and nothing like as gorgeous. And he’d obviously shaved in a rush, because there were tiny spots of blood on his face and even a few stubbly bits he’d missed. Angels didn’t need to shave, which meant Michael’s chin was as soft as a fluffy summer cloud and, of course, he wouldn’t dream of swearing, whereas Mike was still ranting on about ‘the sodding underground’. His voice struck her as almost coarse, to be frank, compared with Michael’s hushed, celestial tones, which resembled the sweet pluckings of a harp. And she was so used to her angel’s lustrous eyes, with their piercing, otherworldly gaze, Mike’s eyes seemed plain insipid – blue, maybe, but the blue of faded denim, not the blue of heaven.
‘You look fantastic, darling!’ He stooped to kiss her – a full-on tongue-kiss that lasted so embarrassedly long, she tried to pull away. People at the adjoining tables might be offended by such public snogging and, anyway, she was distinctly worried about how Michael would react.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Can’t I kiss you, for God’s sake?’
‘Later, Mike, OK?’
He pulled out a chair and plonked himself down. ‘Christ! I could murder for a drink!’
She frowned in disapproval. Eunice had taught her not to say ‘Christ’ or ‘God’, unless she was actually talking about the Deity. Using such words in ordinary conversation was called ‘taking the Lord’s name in vain’, and was blasphemous, apparently. Even ‘bloody’ was wrong, so Eunice said, because it literally meant ‘By Our Lady’ and thus was just as disrespectful.
Mike snapped his fingers at the waiter and, again, she was tempted to protest. The staff were rushed off their feet. Couldn’t he show a bit of patience; copy Michael’s graciousness and forbearance? Besides, he hadn’t even asked her how she was, but was still complaining about his ‘fucking awful journey’.
‘Mike,’ she said, more sharply than she intended, ‘let’s change the subject, shall we? You’re here now and that’s the important thing.’
‘OK, keep your hair on. I need a drink, that’s all.’
‘Fine. Shall we have that wine we had before?’ She knew nothing about wine, so she couldn’t remember its name, but what she did remember was how gloriously fizzy and bubbly it had been – a true celebration drink.
‘Which one do you mean?’
‘You know – the one we had on our first date. The waiter brought it in an ice-bucket and—’
‘No way!’ he interrupted. ‘That was a sparkling white and it won’t go well with steak.’
‘Who said we were eating steak?’
‘I did. I fancy a nice, thick sirloin.’
She stole a glance at Michael, needing guidance in this matter – and immediately received it.
‘You can let the small things go, Carole, so long as you don’t compromise on more important matters.’
‘OK,’ she smiled, ‘red’s fine, Mike. But, before we order anything, I think we need to talk. It’s ages since we’ve seen each other and, on that last occasion, you behaved extremely badly.’
He had the grace to look shame-faced; even reached across to grip her hand. ‘Yeah, as I’ve said already, darling, I feel gutted about that. I lost my rag – I admit it. But can’t we – you know – start again? I’ve missed you terribly – missed our shags especially.’
Did he have to use words like ‘shags’, which must seem dreadfully vulgar to an angel? Besides, she hated the thought that it was just the sex he had missed.
His hand strayed down her thigh; moved lower, to her crotch. ‘In fact, why don’t we skip dinner and go back to the flat right now? I’m dying for you, Carole, so let’s not waste precious time.’
‘No,’ she said, firmly pushing off his hand. ‘We need to discuss things first.’
‘What things?’
‘Our whole relationship – is it going to work or not?’
‘’Course it is. Don’t be stupid! We’ve always hit it off in bed. You’re the best lay I’ve ever had.’
‘I’m not stupid, and I’m not a lay. And, in any case, sex isn’t the only thing that counts.’ How had she ever found the courage to take so bold a line? That question didn’t need an answer – not with Michael standing by.
‘Oh, come on, darling, you know what I mean. Don’t be difficult.’
‘You keep accusing me of being this or that, when all I want is to get a few things straight.’
He raked an impatient hand through his hair. ‘I don’t know what’s got into you. You never used to be so bossy.’
‘It’s not a matter of being bossy. What I’ve come to realize—’ She broke off as she saw a waiter making for their table.
‘Can I get you a drink, sir?’
‘Mike, I thought we were drinking wine.’
‘You can, if you want.’ He gestured to her glass. ‘Fancy another of those?’
Again, she looked to Michael for advice.
‘As I said,’ her angel whispered, ‘let the small things go. If a man prefers beer to wine, that’s hardly cause for a quarrel.’
‘Thanks,’ she murmured, gratefully, then thanked Mike, as well, telling him that, yes, she’d love a top-up.
‘And let’s order, shall we? I’m famished. Hold on!’ he yelled at the waiter’s departing back. ‘I’ll have a sirloin steak – medium-rare, with chips.’
‘And what for the signorina?’
Shouldn’t he have asked the ‘signorina’ what she wanted, before putting in his own order? And said ‘please’ to the waiter, rather than sounded so high-handed? ‘I haven’t looked at the menu yet,’ she pointed out, tight-lipped.
‘Well, buck up! I’m ravenous.’
‘I thought this was meant to be a nice, romantic dinner. Do we have to rush?’
‘Stop jumping down my throat, will you? Frankly, it’s beginning to piss me off.’
‘I’ll come back in a few minutes,’ the waiter said, making a tactful getaway as Mike’s voice rose in irritation.
Once he was out of earshot, she said with deliberate calmness, imitating Michael’s tranquil tones, ‘Well, if you’re so pissed off, as you call it, why don’t we ditch dinner altogether?’
‘For Christ’s sake, Carole, you’re the one who wanted to go out. I said all along it would be best to meet in the flat.’
‘Best for you, maybe, but not for me.’
‘And what’s that supposed to mean?’
‘Well, to be honest, I’m not sure I want you in the flat.’
‘Bloody cheek! It’s my pad, more or less.’
‘In actual fact, we share it.’
‘In which case, I’m perfectly entitled to return to my own place.’
‘Fair enough. But I’m not coming with you.’
Kicking back his chair, he slammed his fist on the table. ‘What the hell are you talking about?’
‘If you listened for a moment, you might find out.’
He sprang to his feet, all but knocking into Michael. ‘You’ve met someone else, I bet! That’s the reason for all this shit! I don’t see you for two fucking weeks and you sneak off behind my back and shack up with some other bloke!’
She was in desperate need of Michael, to help her keep control. And, as always, he was there for her; his soft, melodious voice reminding her that any sort of altercation would demean her and gain nothing and that, whatever happened, she must refrain from shouting abuse. Yet her silence seemed to rile Mike even more; clearly increasing his suspicions.
‘So I’m right! You can’t deny it. You’ve been lying all this time, you two-faced cow! You soft-talk me into coming here; persuade me to wine and dine you on completely false pretences, because all you plan to do is give me the push.’
It would be so easy to retaliate; call him names, in turn; tell him he was wrong – had always been wrong, in fact. But recrimination was pointless and undignified. Instead, she kept her gaze on Michael; breathing in his majesty and power. Only in an archangel would such sublime authority be combined with such true gentleness and grace. How refined he seemed; how distinguished; how effortlessly superior to all mere mortal men.
‘Go on – admit it!’ Mike was standing over her, fists clenched; his whole stance threatening. But beyond him there was Michael – Michael with his peaceable expression, his shimmering gold halo and luminous white wings; Michael in all his supernatural splendour.
‘Yes,’ she said, shifting her gaze reluctantly to Mike’s flushed and furious face. ‘There is someone else in my life – someone truly awesome who’ll be with me for ever.’