The eagerly awaited Friday was one I'm not likely to forget. I'd already finished papering my wall and it looked immaculate. The whole flat was thoroughly dusted, with my carpets hoovered to showroom condition, the curtains freshly ironed, and the clutter of everyday living stowed neatly away.
By seven o'clock, everything was under way in the kitchen. Simmering in the oven was a beef and wine casserole. Croquette potatoes sat under the grill, and florets of raw cauliflower lay in a saucepan of cold water awaiting the girls' arrival. I believe in cooking food at the right time, not doing it hours beforehand and zapping it up in the microwave just prior to serving.
Knowing that Betty and Angela were old friends who could safely be left on their own for five minutes without fear of an awkward silence, my plan was to bow out from their company at around eight o'clock to prepare a white sauce and gravy. Apart from that, everything was ready to be switched into action at the appropriate moment.
I laid the table with my best china, leaving three dinner plates to warm in the kitchen. Flowers and decorative candles adorned the sideboard, white wine was in the fridge and the red in the decanter. In my cocktail cabinet I had most kinds of drink, including for Betty's private amusement a small bottle of gin relabelled: "Prussic Acid."
At twenty-five past seven I selected suitable soft background music. At twenty-eight minutes past I noticed a smear of birds' mess on the balcony window and hastily removed it with a J-cloth. At precisely seven-thirty I sat myself down and awaited the door bell.
Until eight o'clock I wasn't unduly worried. My two sisters had taught me that ladies sometimes encounter inexplicable delays. But by eight-thirty I was uneasy enough to pour myself a consoling gin and tonic.
By nine o'clock it was clear something had gone horribly wrong. Had we confused the dates? Had I stupidly said "next week", which they took to mean the following week? I doubted it. We'd made arrangements the previous Saturday, and the rendezvous for seven-thirty was surely clear to all.
I debated a dozen possible reasons for their non-appearance, and whittled them down to three.
One was a blatant brush-off, perhaps because my social standing wasn't sufficiently up-market. But this didn't equate with either Angela or Betty as I knew them.
Scenario Two featured the mislaying of my address and phone number. I found this more acceptable, if mildly insulting. But number three, the most likely, told me that some dreadful accident had occurred, preventing them not only from turning up but from letting me know.
I paced the room in frustration, but felt sure that a deliberate let-down was out of the question. Both ladies were well-mannered enough to provide at least a plausible excuse for their absence. It seemed unlikely either of them would still be at Angela's house, but since I had her phone number, I dug out my diary and dialled.
My heart leapt as Angela's voice answered, but sank again as I realised I was listening to the answering machine.
"This is the voice of a disconsolate Richard Bird," I confided to it. "I have dinner for three simmering in my oven and am about to propose a solitary toast to two absent friends."
I always find it awkward trying to talk naturally to an inanimate recorder. As humans, we instinctively want feedback which these wretched machines never provide. If only they'd make one that grunted an occasional reassuring "Uh-huh" like some mechanised Samaritan - but no, this beast had only a heart of silicon.
I rambled on, reaffirming my full address and phone number, and expressing a keen desire to hear from someone as soon as she could contact me. The stupid thing couldn't answer any of my burning questions, so I bade the ladies sweet dreams and hung up. It was now twenty past nine.
At ten o'clock I dined alone. I didn't bother with the cauliflower. The taped music had begun to annoy me, and I switched it off in disgust. But my imagination filled the ensuing silence with dozens of implausible scenarios that became more and more elaborate as the night wore on.
I was convinced that both ladies had been raped and murdered; they'd had a horrific car crash, they had been arrested as drug addicts, or they were held at gun point by the affronted Baron who had taken them bound and gagged to a cellar full of black water. The whirlpool of plots continued endlessly, totally beyond my control.
I didn't sleep at all well that night.
The following morning I stayed indoors hoping desperately for a phone call. In the afternoon, after doing my domestic shopping, I drove over to Angela's house. Peering through the windows, I saw that the house was not only unoccupied but devoid of furniture. If the place had been ransacked, her burglars had done a remarkably thorough job.
I stayed in my flat for the rest of the day, pining for any kind of news. No news may be good to some, but the saying soon runs hollow when you yearn for even the tiniest clue.
I became quite certain that I'd never hear from Angela or Betty again. Armed with a doubly-consoling gin and tonic, I was about to settle down for the evening and watch a railway video when the phone rang, and a faint but wonderfully familiar talcum-powder voice sounded in my ear.
"Richard, my dear, I'm so desperately sorry. It's Angela Partridge."
I was ecstatic. "You sound a long way away," I said.
"We are, Richard. We're in New Hampshire."
"Hampshire?" I echoed.
"No, dear, NEW Hampshire. It's in the U.S.A."
"America?" I laughed from sheer joy. "I don't believe it. I must say, you two drifted off course if you were trying to find my flat."
But my flippancy was inappropriate.
"I know," she said softly. "Listen, Richard, we had very bad news. Betty's little son Jonathan was hit by a car four days ago. He lived out here in Nashua with his father, and we both flew over as soon as we heard. I didn't want Betty to face whatever happened alone - she was so good to me when Daddy died. Anyway, sad to say, they couldn't save him. The poor little fellow died in her arms last night. Oh, Richard, it was so sad. I tried every way I could think of to let you know, but I didn't have your phone number. I must have left your card by the phone at Betty's. Anyway, a neighbour went over to my house this morning to supervise the removal men, and she heard your message on the answering machine. I'm so sorry we had to let you down like this."
"Don't worry about me," I said. "How's Betty?"
"She's coping, poor love. She hadn't seen Jonathan since Christmas and I guess it's different from losing someone you see every day. But he was her own flesh and blood, poor little mite. I'd never seen him before except in photos. He never regained consciousness, but still looked adorable. Alec - that's Betty's ex-husband - he talks of suing the driver for millions, but what's the good of that? Anyway Richard, the funeral's on Wednesday, then we'll be flying back on Thursday night. To add to our troubles, we'll be landing in Heathrow and we left the car at Gatwick."
"Then I'll come and meet you," I offered. "I'll be very pleased to do that."
"It's sweet of you, Richard. We might be very tired. I'll pass the thought on to Betty and we'll let you know. She's asleep right now, poor dear. You really are a good Samaritan."
"Just glad to be useful," I said lightly. "Keep your chin up, won't you, for Betty's sake."
"Wednesday will be different. This time I'm in the supportive role. I can handle that. What annoys me most is having to buy a second black outfit."
"Is there anything else I can do?" I asked.
"You don't happen to know whether all my furniture got collected?"
"Actually, yes," I said, "I drove over this afternoon hoping to find out what happened to you. Both your front rooms are empty, apart from the carpets."
"Good. I am sorry we couldn't let you know sooner, Richard."
"No problem, now that I know I wasn't given the almighty brush-off."
"Oh, Richard, we'd never do that. Not to you."
"I wish I could be out there with you," I said. "I'm longing to see you again. Maybe at the airport on Friday morning, I hope so."
"We'll get back to you," she promised. "God bless you, Richard. I must ring off. I can picture dollar bills flying out through the kitchen window."
Did I imagine the sound of a kiss as she put the phone down? It was a welcome thought. I consulted an atlas and realised there was a five-hour time difference between New Hampshire and England. Any further calls from Angela would doubtless come in the afternoon or evening.
It was midnight on Wednesday when the phone rang.
"At this hour," I began loudly, "you can only be Angela."
"Sorry to disappoint you. This time it's only Betty."
I tried to sound equally pleased. "Betty, my dear, how are you?"
"Not too bad, now it's finally over. The funeral was a simple affair and it rained very suitably to drown our sorrows. It affected Angie more than me, bless her heart. She's been strong all week, but her batteries ran down at the last minute. It's been a tough day, but it's the end of a heart-breaking era for me - that's how I must think of it. I've got nothing left to pine for here now, which in some ways is a great weight off my mind. Richard, my love, Angie says you've kindly offered to meet us off the plane. You're quite sure about that? It is seven-thirty we're talking about - early on Friday morning."
"Sure," I said. "Heathrow is no more than a half-hour's drive from here."
"It would certainly be a great help. Needless to say, Richard, we're shattered already, and after an eastbound Atlantic crossing - well, I've done many in my time, and I know what to expect. Angela doesn't, not yet. Do you want a quick word? She's right here."
"Richard," came Angela's voice, softer and much more feminine. "Sorry, I still feel very fragile. Listen carefully, it's the British Airways flight from Boston. I don't know the number, but it gets to Heathrow just after seven. Betty reckons we should be through customs by seven-thirty if we're lucky. Sorry we're phoning so late, but we realised you'd need to arrange things with your office tomorrow if you wanted time off. God knows which terminal, Richard - four, I guess. Can you manage?"
"Don't worry, my love, I'll be there, I promise."
All went quiet for a moment. The next voice I heard was Betty's.
"Angela's a bit overcome, Richard. It must be your good-natured heart or your good-hearted nature, one of the two. Ah, that brought the sunshine back. She's okay. Delayed reaction, I guess. Oh God, Richard - we're a right pair between us. Never mind. See you Friday morning, bless you. Seven-thirty a.m. 'Bye."
As I put down the phone, I felt very noble, far more so than Baron Simon. Would he have volunteered his services? Did he even know where they were? What was his true role in Angela's life? Did he love her? Was he simply after her money? Why was I asking myself all these questions?
My boss was full of compassion when I told him of Betty's bereavement, and he granted me the whole of Friday off. Accordingly I went to bed early on Thursday night, setting my electric alarm for six, with every intention of reaching Heathrow before seven in case they arrived early.
But we all suffer from days - nights too - when things go wrong. This time it was a power cut, the first of several during the next few days. I woke in a sudden panic, aware of bright sunlight streaming through my bedroom window. The bedside clock stood at a quarter to four, but my wrist-watch claimed it was twenty past seven. How in the name of all that's legal could I reach Heathrow by seven-thirty? Yet to let my two friends down would be unforgivable.
A frantic scramble into clothes, and I ran down to the car. By twenty to eight I was on the congested M25, where every slowing of traffic ahead brought more frustration and panic. I bellowed my annoyance, urging all other road-users to drive elsewhere - or words to that effect. By ten to eight, I knew my two ladies would be stranded at the airport, interpreting my absence as a cruel revenge for a spoiled dinner party.
I left the motorway at three minutes past eight, raced along a seemingly endless road to the airport, shot into the car park, and ran like fury to the concourse where arriving passengers were streaming wearily out from the Customs Hall.
As I tried to regain my breath and slow the pumping adrenalin, I scanned the arrivals board for details of incoming flights from Boston. Flight BA214 - that was it - landed nearly an hour ago. Hell and blast!
With a sense of utter futility and mortification I took my place at the barrier, just in time to see two familiar figures trudging towards me. Oh, beautiful sight! I waved, ran forward and hugged them both. Angela responded with a light touch on my cheek, while I received a full-blown lip-kiss from her friend.
"Sorry about the delay," Angela said at once. "You must have been waiting simply ages."
I had to laugh. How could I lie to these good people?
"We were delayed taking off," Betty explained. "Then here it took forever for our luggage to come through."
"Yours, you mean," added Angela. "If it hadn't been for that one silly bag, we'd have been out half an hour ago."
"I'm very glad you weren't," I confessed. "I got severely delayed this morning. In fact, the reason I'm still breathless is - I've only just got here."
I panted extra hard to prove it, and Angela gave me a rewarding smile.
"Never mind, Richard, you timed it to perfection - what more could we ask? It's so sweet of you to come at this ungodly hour."
"Yes," Betty agreed. "We're quite touched, aren't we, Angela."
"I know you are," Angela threw in. "Geez, it's a lot colder here this morning." She gave a little shiver and I wanted to put my arms around her.
"Follow me," I said. "We'll soon have you sitting in a nice warm traffic jam."
I took charge of their luggage and led the weary couple back to my car. The hold-ups on the return journey were worse than on the way in, and Angela was full of sympathy. While her friend slept in the back, she sat wide awake beside me, full of effervescent chatter.
"Aren't you at all sleepy?" I asked.
"It's all been too exciting to sleep. Betty was the one who managed to get a few hours kip on the flight. Damned if I could, there's not enough room. They pack economy passengers in like sardines."
"You mean neck to tail, with their heads chopped off?"
"Yes," she laughed, "and floating in olive oil."
It was good to hear Angela laugh, and even better to see it. Hers was a young, delicate, genuinely innocent laugh, light as a soufflé and very refreshing. A lovely girl indeed, as I reaffirmed each time I glanced at the graceful profile beside me.
"I have one question," I said later. "I'm very happy to drive you anywhere you like, but you've got no furniture at home. Where are we heading for?"
"I'm staying with Betty till I find somewhere," she revealed. "It's awfully sweet of her, but as things turned out it'll be good for both of us. I was ordered to get all of Daddy's furniture cleared out and put in storage. There's a buyer interested - a man from America, would you believe?"
Oh God, I thought, that's me! What do I tell her? I'd dearly love to have bought the house for her, but I couldn't have raised even one percent of the asking price.
"Are you quite sure about that?" I asked.
"Oh, quite," she said before I could confess. "The agents took him to view the house on Monday. He seemed very impressed."
"So they actually accompanied him?"
"Of course. The agents would never let strangers wander around on their own. They might wreck the place."
"As long as they have a genuine customer," I said, "then my conscience is clear. But I have a confession to make. Do you want to hear it now?"
Angela glanced at Betty, still sound asleep in the back.
"As long as you can confess and drive safely at the same time."
"Okay. When you invited me to the party two weeks ago, you didn't tell me your address. Previously I got there by following someone on a mystery tour of Surrey. And your phone number's not in the book. Then when I happened to be in Leatherhead, I saw your house in the estate agent's window. In order to get details I needed to sound like a plausible customer - so I invented a rich uncle from Texas."
"No kidding? And you thought I might be pursuing a red herring with this American buyer? How sweet! But I'm curious about something else now. If you didn't know my phone number, how is it you got through to my answering machine last Friday?"
"I saw it at the party," I said, "and jotted down the number. I hoped it might be useful."
Angela remained silent for so long, I feared I was in for a reprimand.
"You're a very honest person," she said suddenly. "You confessed openly how you only just made it this morning. You could have wallowed in the remorse of two adoring ladies who kept you waiting over an hour, but instead you came out with the truth. And you're being frank now about this bogus uncle. So be equally candid about something else for me." It was virtually a command. "I want your honest opinion of Simon. Truthful answer, please - no strings, no come-backs."
I could see her watching me intently.
"Okay," I said, "since you ask, I didn't happen to like the guy."
"Care to elaborate?"
"Okay, I found him patronising, condescending - lofty, that's the word. I didn't like the way he spoke to you, and if you want the full works, I wasn't overjoyed to hear that you intend to marry him."
"Ah! Well, maybe I don't."
"Then that's the best news I've heard all day, apart from discovering your flight was delayed. I couldn't bear to have let you down, either of you."
I glanced in my mirror at the dormant passenger behind, and added softly:
"Especially you."
Angela laid her hand over mine, squeezing great comfort into my soul.
"Well, you haven't, have you?" she responded.
"Not in any of our three encounters?"
"Four. You're forgetting the first, the one in the dark. That was the best of all."
"Implying tat Richard Bird is a disappointment in daylight?"
"No, but you did more for me that night than you've been able to do since. Okay?"
"Well," I observed, "we were on our own then. Just the two of us."
She didn't reply, and seemed strangely pre-occupied till I revived her earlier topic.
"So, you're not keen to become a baroness?"
"Advise me, Richard, you're good at that. What should I do?"
"Don't you think my advice might be biassed?"
"The fact is, it was Daddy who encouraged Simon to crawl under the wire, as you put it. Maybe he thought a titled daughter would be good for business - and Simon's not that repulsive once you can persuade him to act like a normal human being. But poor dear, he was so keen to get his hands on Daddy's millions." She chuckled to herself. "And now they don't exist. The house is real enough, but so are the debts. I'll be lucky to come out of this with enough money to buy myself a new hat."
"Oh dear. Does Lord Simon know this?"
"He soon will," she nodded. "I wonder what he'll do?"
"Great test of a man, that!" I observed. "Now with me, a girl's bank balance is the least of my concerns. I look for other virtues. I like a girl who's frank without being vulgar, who's inspiring to look at, who needs me at any hour of the day or night - someone who can be persuaded to come and sample my cooking ..."
"Oh, don't!" Angela placed hands over her face. "Oh, Richard, if you knew how we both agonised over that, not being able to get a message to you. Was the meal ruined?"
She looked at me with big searching eyes, a serious distraction for any motorist. I tried to convince her that three plates were still in my microwave going round and round like a ghostly carousel.
She grinned. "I do hope we're forgiven."
"My main regret is that you still haven't sampled my cuisine."
"Invite us again and we will, I promise. You can write your phone number on my back next time in indelible ink."
"That could be fun," I conceded, "but you'd have a job reading it."
"Then write it on Betty's back."
Whether or not Betty was conscious of our repartee, the mention of her name evidently broke through the haze.
"I hope you two aren't quarrelling?" she grunted. "What time is it and where are we?"
"Nearly half past nine - on the M25, between junctions 10 and 11."
"You're a great help. It's four in the morning, Richard, have a heart. What's that in English?"
"Won't be long now," I said. "We'll be in Leatherhead in ten minutes, if that's where we're going?"
"Not entirely, but you're doing a grand job. Take us as far as Betchworth and we'll dance naked in the streets for you."
"If that's a promise," I said, "Betchworth it is. When does the dancing begin?"
"Entertainment is Angela's department. Seriously, Richard, we do appreciate this. What time do you have to be back at work?"
"I have the day off," I announced. "But frankly I'd feel I was cheating the firm if I did no more than the morning milk run. You have my services for the whole day, if you care to take advantage of this rare opportunity."
Betty gave a long and infectious yawn. "To be honest, Richard, I just want to collapse into my bed. But Angela seems bright as a firefly this morning. Why don't you two go off and get some domestic shopping?"
"Suits me," I agreed, "but Angela may fizzle out once she's done her dancing act. I'll gladly do the shopping on my own if you give me a list."
"I'm okay," Angela said, offering her own attractive yawn like a fluffy forest animal emerging from a long and restful hibernation.
"First port of call - my house, coffee and doughnuts," Betty insisted. "Weren't those things yukky on the plane,"
"Wrong time of night, that's why," said Angela. "Who in her right mind wants breakfast at one in the morning? What's today? Friday? I'm totally lost this week. I guess this is how you felt a month ago, Richard, after I ruined your night's sleep."
"I'll need some guidance from here on," I said as we approached the Leatherhead exit. Betty leaned forward and patted my shoulder.
"Okay," she sighed, "my bones know the way even if the brain doesn't."
After rounding the outskirts of Leatherhead, I was guided south-east towards Headley.
"You certainly get some great views up here," I remarked as we began the descent into Betchworth.
"Angela has a favourite spot up there," said Betty, pointing east into the hills. "She calls it her thinking place, but don't spread it around. She likes to keep it a secret in case it gets swamped by tourists."
Within minutes we were through the village and had stopped outside a charming white-walled cottage, a perfect picture-postcard setting. It was very compact, with four tiny windows looking out onto the road, and it seemed to bulge in unexpected places like a cardboard box containing more than it was meant to. A weed-filled brick path led to a studded wooden front door.
"What a lovely cottage," I said. "It's perfect."
"Don't know about perfect," Betty sighed, "but it is my home. That's what counts. Doesn't it feel strange? Fourteen hours ago we were driving through sunny Massachusetts. Oh, God," she wailed, "I'm being a complete ass again ... sorry."
Angela leapt out at once and joined her friend on the back seat. While she sat there I couldn't help noticing the degree of tenderness and caring as she whispered:
"Let it all come, my love, it's okay, you've earned a good cry. You've been so brave but you're home now. No need for any more pretence."
I tried not to watch, but the mutual support these girls were giving each other was a touching sight. I felt superfluous, unwanted, yet I had a longing to comfort both of them. I found it doubly upsetting that someone as generous and good-natured as Betty should be overcome with grief. But what could I say or do? If only the world weren't so cruel to its most sensitive of creatures.
"Sorry," Betty smiled as she climbed out of the car. "Those were Yankee tears, Richard - they don't belong over here, not any more."
She gave me a watery grin, and I touched her lightly on the shoulder, careful to avoid upsetting her further by being too kind.
We humped the luggage out of the boot and Betty led the way, opening a little wooden gate that needed mending, and picking her way through the overgrown garden to her front door. Angela had a key at the ready and we filed inside.
Like a well-trained servant who knew the house as intimately as her own, Angela went straight to the kitchen and filled the kettle. The two friends seemed so well organised, I could only stand and contemplate the pair of them, each girl with a kind of San Andreas fault running through her soul, a latent flaw that might at any moment snap in response to the most innocent remark.
Was I truly welcome here, or seen as more of an intruder during these intimate moments of grief? I was well aware of my inbred knack for saying the wrong thing, time and again, despite the best of intentions.
The kettle boiled and we enjoyed a welcome cup of coffee, enhanced by a surprise pack of Nantucket cookies brought all the way from America.
"I warn you," cautioned Betty as she took a man-sized bite, "these things are highly addictive, and there are only five left."
"Does anyone fancy a more elaborate breakfast?" I volunteered.
"Richard's longing to demonstrate how well he can cook," said Angela. "Did you eat before you came to collect us?"
I told them about the power cut.
"You're right," Betty confirmed, "I see we've had one here too. The clock on the microwave needs resetting. Can you fix that, Richard?"
Another chance to bask in undeserved praise! I promised I'd try, and eventually figured it out by trial and error. My success was rewarded with another cookie, which I didn't really need, and a double dose of hero worship which I found very acceptable.
"Now, if you two will excuse me," Betty announced. "This over-weary traveller is retiring to her bed for an indefinite period. If you guys feel able to shop, please shop. If you feel like doing other things, it's a free house, but don't do anything I wouldn't. And if I've not already made it abundantly clear, Richard, how grateful we are ..."
She advanced towards me and coiled her arms around my neck. An onlooker might have seen this as a mere token of gratitude, but from the way Betty attached herself I knew it was an empassioned plea for something she wasn't getting - such as the comfort of a loving husband.
I held her firmly until Angela came to join the huddle, putting her arms around both of us. As I told them at the time, the day wouldn't have been half as much fun if I'd gone to my office.
"Richard," Betty said as she finally broke away. "If you need to eat, my love, please say so. I'm sure we can persuade Angie to throw something together for you. But I'm afraid I must toddle away to bed. If you're still here later in the day, I promise I'll be more sociable. I just need my overnight bag, Angie. We can unpack the rest later."
"Okay," said a faraway voice.
"Can I give you a hand?" I volunteered as Betty picked out what she needed.
"Oh, he is a sweet boy, Angela. Don't let him get away, will you. No need, Richard, I can manage. Pleasant dreams all!"
Betty staggered like a drunk to the narrow wooden staircase and disappeared.
"Shall we investigate breakfast?" I asked Angela. "Or am I the only one who's hungry?"
"Keep it light and I may join you," she agreed. "But half of me knows it isn't time for breakfast yet."
"What about the other half?"
"Still travelling."
"Then how about a mid-air poached egg on toast?"
"Perhaps just one. You fix the toast, and I'll do the eggs."
Angela still sounded very preoccupied. As we worked in the kitchen I was conscious of an awkward, suspended silence. It could have been an ideal moment for wrapping my arms around Angela and giving her a loving kiss. But this was the first time we'd been alone together. She was clearly very tired, and I wasn't about to ruin the relationship by behaving like an animal.
"Do you like your eggs well done or runny?" she asked.
"Not too runny," I said, "but I like a yolk I can dip my toast into. I may look grown up to some, but I'm still a little boy inside. Toast medium brown for you?"
"Medium brown's fine. And I like runny eggs too."
Her conversation remained superficial, as if she shared my misgivings. The time and place weren't right. The bell hadn't yet rung. We were still in our corners waiting for Round One to begin. As if to illustrate my unspoken metaphor, the toaster suddenly went ping and two crisp slices shot up.
"Shall I do more?" I asked.
"Why not?" she agreed. "If that leaves Betty short, we'll go and buy more bread after we've eaten."
The eggs were pronounced ready just as I had the first batch of toast nicely buttered. Good teamwork, I thought.
"Good teamwork," said Angela with a smile as she carried plates out onto the back patio, and I followed with more slices of buttered toast.
It was a pleasant morning, crisp and bright, with sunlight playing through the branches of a huge tree that shaded the rear of the cottage.
"Was that your first trip to America?"
Angela's mouth was so full, she simply nodded and looked at me with warm girlish eyes, whereupon somewhere deep within me another little toaster went ping. My desire to hold Angela rose three points.
"I'd like to go there myself one day," I said. "I love travelling, but it's so damned expensive. Did you both stay in a hotel?"
"No, we were with Alec," she mumbled. "Betty's ex-husband."
"Ah, yes. What's he like?"
"Fine," she replied, which surprised me. I quite expected Betty's closest ally to vilify the man, but she didn't.
"After all," she pointed out, "he was nice enough once for Betty to want to marry him. The trouble was, Betty used to get very homesick, and if a marriage isn't strong enough to cope with that, it can't last. I know Betty and Alec tried several times to patch things up, and it was during one of those patch and mend periods they produced little Jonathan. But then Alec met someone else. It wasn't his fault - I don't think he set out to be unfaithful - I guess these things just happen. After the divorce Betty thought she could bring Jonathan back to England, since she was hardly the guilty party. But she overlooked one vital point - her son was an American, so the law decreed America was where he belonged. They allowed her to visit him once a month, but Betty couldn't afford Atlantic crossings that often, could she, poor darling? Oh, Richard, it's such a rotten world."
She broke off to finish her poached egg.
"I think she's found a very fine friend in you," I said.
"No. It's the other way round. If Betty hadn't offered me a room I don't know where I'd be. My father wasn't the rich man everyone thought. Oh, he was worth a million two months ago, and he might have been worth five in two months' time. That's how things were in his business. But he took a nasty tumble recently - something went horribly wrong, but instead of baling out quickly he hung on, and things went down and down. I'm afraid he'll be remembered now for the debts he's left behind. At least I don't have to clear them for him, but it means I get no house, no furniture, and no money. So, thank God for dear generous Betty, but as I said, Richard, it's a rotten world."
"It might be if you hadn't got lots of friends to support you," I pointed out. "But you have, Angela. I've met them."
She shook her head sadly. "Don't confuse friends with acquaintances. Any girl with more money than sense can delude herself into thinking she has lots of friends. But how many still hang around once the party's over?"
Poor Angela! She needed comforting, yet I was determined to show I had more respect than to start mauling her the moment we were on our own. I asked what her definition of true friendship was, and her reply came without hesitation.
"A girl who gives up half her house and doesn't ask for rent? A guy who comes to the airport at the crack of dawn and doesn't expect favours in return? One's true friends should like one for what they can give, not what they can get. I know some chaps who do things for a girl merely to gain sexual favours, but that's not my idea of proper friendship."
"But Angela," I felt bound to argue, "there's surely something wrong with a man who doesn't harbour occasional sexy thoughts. Of course I like helping people, and I love being with you right now. But I'm also a healthy human male, and you must admit you're an extremely attractive girl."
Remembering how she'd encouraged frankness, I went on to admit how my heart sank at the thought of her becoming a baroness.
"Which reminds me," I added, "wasn't there still something you wanted to explain?"
"About Simon," she nodded. "When you saw us together the day of the funeral, the expression on your face was something I'll never forget. I don't want to forget it either. It brought me to my senses, and not before time."
I said I wasn't aware my thoughts were so transparent.
"Maybe I was the only one who noticed. But poor Richard, you looked like a little boy who'd wanted chocolate cake for tea, only to see the last piece snatched away before the plate reached him. I felt so sorry about that, because Simon doesn't mean a thing to me. What I mean to him I've no idea, and to be honest I don't care. Simon was Daddy's idea of a suitable consort, not mine. I just wanted to make that clear, that's all."
Was this news intended as my green signal?
"I won't deny I was envious," I said, "and it has a bearing on the way I feel about you now - though I'm not sure I should be talking so freely to someone who's been robbed of a good night's sleep."
She didn't smile at this. Instead she grabbed a slice of toast, covered it with a generous layer of marmalade, and munched thoughtfully. Her next words were to ask me what I thought of Betty.
"She's great," I replied without hesitation. "I was struck by her instant friendliness, right from our very first meeting."
"You made a good first impression yourself," Angela said. I thanked her, but she added quickly: "With her, I mean."
Again I felt a twinge of disappointment, as if more chocolate cake had been snatched from my grasp. After all, it was Angela who fascinated me, not Betty.
"Ours was certainly an unusual first meeting," she smiled.
I said I'd love to wind back the clock and do it again. I assured her next time I'd be more tactful.
"I really must learn," I added, "to think what I'm saying, and not say what I'm thinking."
"But isn't that what they call honesty?"
"If so," I said, "it's honesty with two left feet. In my heart I long to be a close friend saying all the right things at the right time, but with me it seldom turns out that way. I wanted to comfort Betty just now, but instead I stood like a useless lemon while you made a superb job of it yourself."
I desperately wanted to comfort Angela too, and began to feel quite sorry for myself. My emotions were in a turmoil, my head full of thoughts it wasn't yet wise to share.
"I guess by now," I said, "you and Betty both know what it's like to be alone and tearful. It's rotten, unless you've got a good friend to help you through the rough moments. And I haven't."
She studied my face with genuine concern as I went on to describe how I'd left home when I was twenty-one. I told her about going back to live with Mother for a while after my father died, since it seemed I had a duty to support her, till I could no longer stand being treated like a twelve-year-old. It was then with feelings of relief and guilt that I changed my job, and used it as an excuse to leave home again.
"I like being on my own," I told her. "I love the freedom and the solitude. But sometimes your precious solitude turns round and bites you, and you end up feeling unprotected and alone. I need something more out of life, Angela, I need to be useful, I need to be needed, not as Mother needed me, but as - say - you or Betty might need me. And I'm gabbling away without thinking again, so I'd better shut up."
"No regular girl-friends, eh? Any boy-friends?"
"I've got a few friends who share my interests."
"Which are ...?"
"Oh, music and railways mainly."
She eyed me curiously. "What is it about railways with you men? The erotic notion of long stiff trains thrusting themselves into tight narrow tunnels?"
Her comment took me completely by surprise.
"They do come out the other side," I grinned with embarrassment. "No, I don't know what it is. The feats of engineering, perhaps - all the ups and downs neatly taken care of, the speed on a long smooth track, the pulsing rhythm of the valve motion ..."
"Piston rods thrusting in and out of tight cylinders? It's all very erotic, Richard."
"Angela!" I exclaimed. "I never expected you to have thoughts like that."
"I don't," she said. "I was just curious to know what's in it for you, that's all. Railways don't do a thing for me, Richard, I'm sorry. So have we established you're not one of these guys who chases after girls with only one aim in mind?"
I replied that my clean-living image seemed to have no effect on girls.
"What nonsense!" she said, almost biting my head off. "Do you know Betty's gone potty over you? And that's a subject you don't wag your tongue about, please, not without thinking first. I shouldn't have said anything, but I'm tired. So now you know. Betty talked practically non-stop about you while we were over in the States."
"That must have got very boring," I said.
"Well, at least it kept her mind off other memories."
"Betty's a great girl," I admitted, "but she doesn't create that magic spark which..."
"Are you trying to say you find me more desirable than Betty?"
"Desirable?" The word seemed a monumental understatement.
"Thinking first?" she teased. "That last slice of chocolate cake?"
"Look," I said rather crossly, "chocolate cake I can buy any time in Sainsbury's. But frankly I've never come across anyone quite like you."
"Oh dear! Poor Richard, how can I help?"
"I'd say there is only one way you can help, Angela, and if you need to be told, then presumably you can't, or don't want to."
"I don't need to be told. But thanks to Daddy's possessiveness and his appalling dirty habits, I'm relatively new to the outside world. And if what creates that metaphoric spark happens to be - you know ..."
She ended with a gesture that frankly surprised me.
"Thrusting piston rods?" I said it for her. "No, it's you, silly. It's that voice in the dark crying out for a good friend; it's the brave little girl in black, standing in the rain; it's the lively, chirpy, laughing young woman who holds happy parties ..."
"All relics of my past."
I paused and tried to think rationally. "What will you do now?"
Angela shook her head silently and stared at the ground. I took hold of her hand.
"I simply want to be with you," I said quietly. "I enjoy being with you. That's all I ask."
"Oh dear. Richard, you make me feel I'm a rotten friend."
"I guess you don't like the idea of hanging around with me?"
She looked at me earnestly yet sadly, and gave a heartfelt sigh.
"I'm sorry, Richard. I'm so tired, I'm just going to put it bluntly, there's no other way. There are three simple facts you have to face, my friend. Betty clearly wants you. You say you want me, and I ... I just ..."
She paused, her lips quivering, her eyes alive with fresh tears.
"My poor lamb," I whispered, longing to hold her in my arms. "What's wrong? How can I help?"
"I want someone so much it hurts, Richard, it bloody well hurts, and the hurting never stops. I want what it seems I can never have - I want the one who's asleep upstairs."
And with this final unburdening of her soul, Angela flung herself into my arms and began sobbing like a lost child.
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