‘There’s a difference between professional and amateur,’ said Una to Angel in the Whitehall offices, ‘especially if you’re working for me. You must put the client first, not yourself.’
‘I always do,’ said Angel.
‘It’s the “I” you need to forget,’ said Una. ‘My clients pay you to be what they want, so they can discover who they are. What you are is neither here nor there, and the point is you must never try to know. The minute you have categorised yourself, you’re in trouble.’
‘It suits me,’ said Angel, and it seemed to her to do so, though she couldn’t be sure why.
‘Angel,’ begged Angelica. ‘Don’t do it. This is not for us.’
Angel didn’t seem to hear: Angelica, angry, managed to walk her into a door when she was leaving the room. It was a sharp and sudden blow to the temporal lobes. Angel felt quite dizzy. She put her hand to her head and discovered a bump and a graze; but fortunately no blood.
‘Do you have trouble with your physical co-ordination?’ asked Una, puzzled, when Angel had recovered.
‘Not that I know of,’ said Angel. ‘I just didn’t notice that the door wasn’t open.’
‘It’s one of her other selves,’ said Maria, who was sitting in on the interview. ‘She’s angry. That’s not so good. She might be destructive.’
‘Maria,’ said Una, ‘you are a better judge of the dead than the living. Anyone could walk into a door. Find a plaster for the poor girl, do.’
Maria fetched a plaster.
‘Oh, hooray!’ said Una. ‘Here he is; our favourite architect!’
Susan’s one-time husband had walked into the room: his beard, once black, was grey. He wore a baseball cap. He seemed furtive; a melancholy but friendly man in disguise, expecting a bailiff under every table, a Revenue man every time a telephone bleeped.
‘I told you!’ said Angelica. ‘You need me! Now shut up and let me do the talking.’
‘Humphrey,’ said Una, ‘I’ve done this completely mad thing: I’ve taken over the house where I was born. It’s totally derelict. Maria tells me it’s haunted, but she would, wouldn’t she? I want you to do it over for me. Or are you up to your eyes in work?’
‘I haven’t exactly been up to my eyes in work,’ said Humphrey, eyes fixed on the blonde girl leaning against the wall while Maria fixed a plaster to her temple, ‘since my ex-wife put the evil eye on me, and I had to have electric shock treatment. What sort of conversion? Domestic or working? House of shame and sin or pleasant family home? I don’t make moral judgements. What you see is what you get; I am a defeated man. Who’s this? Haven’t I seen her before?’
Una said she was new on the team so she doubted it. But then, you never knew; it was a small world.
‘What’s your name?’ asked Humphrey.
‘Angela,’ said Angel. ‘Angela Maize.’
And it was true.
Una raised her eyebrows but entered this into her computer. ‘Angela Maize, approx 120 lbs; approx 5′6″; approx blonde; good appearance, regular features, good-natured, poor co-ordination, no distinguishing marks, possible split personality.’
‘Have I met you before?’ asked Humphrey.
‘No,’ said Angel.
‘My misfortune,’ said Humphrey, putting her on hold, as it were.
‘But I can’t take on any work,’ said Humphrey to Una. ‘It’s impossible. Because I’m bankrupt; I have no offices and no secretarial staff. You know that. You’re playing with me, the way powerful women play with helpless men. Cat and mouse.’
‘Nonsense,’ said Una briskly. ‘Payment in cash. You can use Angela for staff. I know she has secretarial skills, because I once saw her in action. I’ll deduct her wages from your fee. You can work from Lodestar House. Then you won’t hang about; you’ll have to make it habitable.’
It was an offer Humphrey couldn’t refuse. His kindly, morose face broke into what was almost a smile.
‘Suits me,’ he said. ‘Since the real world despises my talents, I must descend into the underworld. Like Orpheus.’
Angela just nodded and smiled.
‘Angel,’ said Angelica urgently, ‘who is this woman? What have you done?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Angel, pathetically. ‘She’s nothing to do with me.’
‘Nor me,’ said Angelica. ‘She doesn’t hear a thing I say. She just does what other people expect. She’s a straw in the wind. She’s what others want. It’s my fault. I made you hit your head. I’m sorry.’
‘I’ve never heard you say sorry before,’ said Angel. ‘I’m confused. I want to go to sleep. It’s all such a battle.’
‘Yes, isn’t it?’ agreed Angelica. ‘We deserve a rest. She can’t do any harm. Let’s leave it to her.’
And, concurring for once, they drifted away.
Ajax said, ‘Is no one at all listening? You can’t do this. You will lose your narrator, your history. We’ll vanish altogether… Angel, I relied on you. You are my vigour, my permanence through the ages –’
But he was talking to thin air.