Fine! I was now fulfilling a dream, caressing my precious, bitterly unhappy Angela - but all for the wrong reasons. Yet wasn't this precisely what I'd claimed I wanted - simply to be with her, to be allowed to love and comfort her? I mightn't be the kind of partner she craved, but at least she'd turned my way for consolation.
Betty's plastic patio chairs weren't ideal for this kind of treatment, so I helped Angela to her feet and led her indoors to a comfy couch where we sat together, her head cradled in my arms.
And what was her personal Samaritan supposed to say now? This time I considered each word very carefully.
"Does Betty know how you feel?" I whispered, conscious of the sleeping presence upstairs.
"Don't think so," murmured Angela, shaking her head.
"Well, you know her better than I do. How do you think she'd react?"
"Don't know. Reject me, I suppose. It's what I deserve. That's why she mustn't know. I couldn't bear rejection, not from her."
I agreed. "Perhaps it's better not to love anyone than to feel rejected. You don't mind me holding you like this?"
"No," she said, "it's nice."
"Good. Then we've got all day to try and sort things out for you. And even if we can't, at least I'll try to be an understanding friend. When did you first feel this way about Betty?"
"Oh, for years," she sighed. "But in the last few weeks, when things have brought us much closer together, I know for certain how I feel. Oh, Richard, I want her so much. I simply don't know what I'm going to do."
I asked if Betty was the only girl who'd ever attracted her.
"There were others," she said, "when I was younger - teenage crushes - they're considered quite normal, you know, whatever normal means. But nothing like this. Nothing at all like this."
"Well, I'm sure Betty's a very special person," I said. "I spent some time talking to her at your party - mainly about you, actually."
Angela gazed at me like a trusting infant about to be fed.
"Tell me what she said. Please."
"Oh, Betty made it very clear she never betrays confidences. Neither do I. But I asked what she thought of the set-up between you and Simon."
"And?"
"She said she hadn't heard you talking much about him, which seemed to imply he probably didn't mean much to you."
"Did she say anything else? Anything about me?"
"She said you shared lots of secrets. Though I guess you haven't shared this one."
Angela lay in silence, churning thoughts through her mind while I gently caressed her hair.
"Why are girls so much more interesting than boys?" she asked.
I felt like an uncle about to tell a bedtime story to a distressed five-year-old.
"All right," I began, "let me think. Speaking as a man, to me girls are soft. That doesn't mean weak or drippy - it means they're generally kinder, more gentle, perhaps more level-headed than the average male. Girls like to be told they're beautiful. They're usually more sensitive than boys, more vulnerable, more emotional, more sympathetic too if a chap needs love and understanding."
"What else?"
"To my mind, they're generally prettier to look at - they often wear more colourful clothes and perhaps a little make-up. Am I being any use?"
"More," she begged, "tell me more."
"Oh heavens, Angie! Women can have babies. They have things called periods which men aren't supposed to enquire about, certainly not where I come from. I was taught never to swear in front of ladies, though they sometimes can be catty with each other, so I'm told. Women seldom get top jobs, I'm not sure why."
Angela lay motionless, perhaps hypnotised by my voice.
"Why do you like girls?" she enquired dreamily.
"Me? Well, they excite me, naturally, because - well, that's the way men are made. Occasionally I meet a girl who sets my heart pounding like a pile-driver. And when I meet such a girl, I find myself bowled over by all kinds of irrational emotions - a desire to share everything with her, my time, my love, my money - my cooking."
Angela rose from my cradling embrace and stared back accusingly.
"You're making fun! I suppose now you find me repulsive."
"You?" I spluttered my disbelief. "Heavens, no - just the opposite."
"You mean you want to have sex with me?"
"Crumbs, Angie, steady on. At the right time, in the right place, and if we happened both to be in the right mood, I imagine I could cope, yes."
"Even though you know I love another female?"
"I think I'd rather know that, Angie, than be told you love someone else who's male. Can I ask you something?"
Angela felt this called for a change in our seating arrangements. She moved along and allowed me to rest my head in the soft pillow of her bosom. I hadn't studied this part of Angela's anatomy closely before, but now that I had permission to nestle there it felt a good place to be.
"Go on then," she prompted, staring down at me like a mother. "Ask."
"Okay," I grinned self-consciously. "What's your opinion of me?"
"You?" she shrugged nervously. "Well - you - yes, you are kind of different. You seem to care. And you smell different too."
"Sorry," I said. "there wasn't time for a shower this morning."
"No, I like it. You've got a very soothing voice that tells me you want to be gentle - that's good too. You seem understanding and generous. Your hair's a bit greasy - how often do you wash it?"
I promised I'd see to it the moment I got home.
"And you're horribly whiskery!" She rubbed the ball of my chin with her forefinger as if selecting a suitable grade of sandpaper.
I apologised again. "Sorry, I had to use a portable razor in the car this morning. You've caught me on a bad day."
"That's our fault, not yours. No, I would honestly like to find men more ... you know ... but I guess I'm just different. As you said, it's the way we're each made."
When I asked what attracted her to Betty, she gazed up at the uneven ceiling as if wanting to peer through it.
"If you must know," she revealed, "I've been repelled and sickened by certain men. I don't feel safe. I can't relax with a man, not as a rule."
"I hope you don't find me repulsive, Angela. That would be hurtful."
She smoothed her fingers across my brow. "No, but there's something very different between you and Betty - I feel so much a part of her. That's why it hurts so much, having to hold back all the time."
"Because she can't respond in the same way?"
"Worse than that," she said. "I want something from her that's quite unattainable, unacceptable even ... I don't know. At least with you I've found a friend I can talk to, and you haven't said a word to condemn me."
"That's because I love you so much, Angie, I'll willingly accept you just as you are." Then I sat bolt upright. "Hell, no! Angela, I didn't mean to say that, I'm sorry."
She smiled peacefully. "If it's true, you needn't apologise."
"I don't condemn you at all," I said. "I admit I don't understand, but I'll listen. I'm ready to learn too, and share as much as you'll let me."
"Are you saying you want to share me with Betty, or share Betty with me?" she asked with a childish laugh.
"I'm saying, bless you, that I'll gladly share your problems and your troubles. Just keep a place in there for me, and I'll be happy."
I intended pointing straight to her heart, but I suspect the gesture was misinterpreted with her bosom blocking the way.
"How about another cup of coffee?" she smiled.
"Ought I to think before answering?"
Her response was to cup her hands around my face and to kiss my mouth with a gentle sisterly kiss, a clear sign that I was still considered an acceptable member of the human race.
Before long we were out on the patio again with hot mugs of coffee.
"I feel horribly embarrassed over what I've told you, Richard. Are you sure you're not disgusted?"
"Let me remain your friend, Angie, that's all I ask. Actually, I could divulge a few embarrassing tales myself - and maybe I will some day, just to get even with you. Meanwhile, we'd better start making ourselves useful - don't want to upset the nice lady upstairs."
"It's all right," she said, "Betty has the front room, so she can't hear us out here. Or see us."
Angela again flung her arms around my neck and planted a long hard kiss on my cheek. I gallantly allowed this, assuring her that if such therapy helped in any way, I had no objections to offering a lengthy course of treatment.
"I guess if I can't have Betty," she teased, "you make a reasonably pleasant substitute."
The merry twinkle in her eyes told me I'd probably prove an excellent substitute, even if I was of the wrong blasted sex.
Angela tiptoed upstairs to check that Betty was fast asleep, and after a quick visit to the bathroom, she reappeared looking much more cheerful.
As we set off in my car towards Dorking town centre, she chatted non-stop about the shops in America, the range of choice over there, and how some check-outs had computerised voices which not only recited the price of every item, but thanked you for shopping, and requested you to have a nice day! It seemed to me that this continuous outpouring of irrelevant information was simply her way of avoiding more difficult issues.
Angela seemed to know precisely what groceries Betty needed, further evidence that she was now regarded as Betty's official housekeeper. I tried to imagine the despair of living each day with someone who couldn't accept and didn't even know the kind of love that Angela needed so much to give.
As we strolled among the aisles, gathering copious tins and packets from the shelves, I kept looking at Angela. Although my initial impression was of a diminutive figure, she was actually a good five-foot-nine, and with her mid-brown hair in its short neat style, and the modestly made-up face, she looked stunningly attractive for someone who'd been awake more than twenty-four hours.
She had neat legs too, well-proportioned in the snug fit of her jeans. Yet I knew this pleasant packaging concealed a much-troubled soul, the lonely voice in the dark that had sounded so appealing on the phone a month earlier. Troubled then, perhaps even more troubled now.
As Angela was passing her goods through the check-out my attention was drawn to a can of Coca-Cola with a small recycling symbol printed on its side - those three curved arrows pointing in a clockwise direction - and it struck me how aptly this depicted our circumstances. Here was I, attracted to Angela who in turn wanted only Betty who by all accounts was keen on me. Sadly I had no reciprocal feelings for Betty, who was presumably unaware of the effect she had on Angela, who herself denied having any heterosexual desires. This left all three of us with unfulfilled needs and aspirations, a sadly dissatisfied trio who surely should stick together as we tried to resolve our curiously intertwined relationships.
"We'd better visit the estate agent," Angela announced. "I want to see if there's been any news on the sale of my house."
Naturally I accompanied her.
"Nothing so far," the agent informed her. "There was one gentleman we took to the house on Monday. He hasn't called back, but it's early days yet. Has all your furniture been removed, do you know?"
I said I was sure it had, but Angela felt like checking for herself, so I drove her over to Little Bookham. As we neared Ovendell Road she became quite agitated.
"We don't have to do this," I said.
"We do. I need to see if the men left anything behind or took anything they shouldn't, such as the answerphone - in fact I can collect that while we're here. But I expect the house'll seem stark and hollow with all the furniture gone. I'm glad you're with me."
"So am I," I echoed, and I felt for her hand.
We approached the big house. It was already looking unloved and neglected, but I made no comment as she opened the front door. Inside it felt damp and chilly, with a strange lingering chemical odour I couldn't at first identify. Our voices echoed like ghosts from Angela's party as we wandered slowly down the empty hall towards the kitchen.
"Be a lamb and check the back door," she asked nervously. "There's a nasty draught blowing in from somewhere."
"Yes," I said. "And a peculiar smell too, have you noticed?"
I didn't get as far as the kitchen. Suddenly I heard this muffled cry from Angela, followed by a chilling scream as if she'd seen a snake.
"Richard!" she screamed. "Ugh, Richard!"
I had expected some minor emotional outburst, but this was pure fright. I ran to the sound of her voice and found her standing in what was formerly the drawing room. Dangerous splinters of jagged glass lay scattered all over the floor as if they'd been kicked around in a lethal game of football, and every pane in the massive bay window had been smashed. Worse, the carpet had been vandalised with streaks of blue and orange from aerosol paint cans, and vile words had been sprayed in red and green along each of the walls.
"Oh, God, no," she cried. She pressed her wildly shaking head into my chest. "No! I can't take this, not today."
"You go back to the car," I ordered. "I'll take a quick look round and see what else has been damaged. Then we'll call the police."
"No," she insisted, "no, I need to see this for myself."
"Okay, spunky. A lightning tour then, but try not to be too upset. I know this was once your home, but it isn't any more, so be as objective as you can be. Cling to me if it helps."
We found most of the downstairs carpets defiled not only with paint but stale urine, and there was no sign of the answering machine. The big question was whether the furniture had been safely removed beforehand or whether it had been taken out by the vandals.
The absence of the answerphone provided an important clue. As I pointed out, if the entire contents had been stolen, the break-in must have occurred after Angela's neighbour picked up my message on the Saturday morning.
"Besides," I comforted her, "when the agents brought a client here on Monday, they made no mention of broken windows or graffiti."
We went upstairs. Luckily the upper part of the house had escaped the intruders' attention. Angela didn't need to tell me which of the five bedrooms was hers. I knew immediately from the way she stood silently in the doorway as if paying a final tribute to an old friend.
"Are you okay?" I asked as we returned to the hall.
She nodded bravely, but didn't speak.
"Come on, precious," I said, "we've got a couple more jobs to do - inform the police and then check the whereabouts of your furniture."
We drove first to the police station, where I acted as spokesman, explaining Angela's circumstances and current address, and describing what we had just found. I assured them we hadn't touched anything, but added that the house was bound to be covered in fingerprints from Angela's farewell party. As we left the police station Angela gave me a sad but brave smile.
"Cheer up," I said, "things can only get better."
A small smooth hand sought mine and held on gratefully.
Back at the cottage we found Betty in a casual bath robe, preparing some kind of meal with no specific plans for eating it.
"We might call it American style brunch," she said, "or perhaps it's an early dinner - who cares anyway? I just need food. Glad you're still here, Richard, I've got several important questions to ask you."
I broke the news of Angela's break-in, doing my best to soft-pedal the story as Angela looked distinctly tearful.
"I'll fetch the rest of the shopping," she mumbled suddenly as if to escape. I moved to follow but Betty caught my arm.
"Glad you were there," she whispered. "How did she take it?"
"Very distressed at first. Luckily the blighters didn't venture beyond the ground floor."
"Probably too dumb to figure out how the stairs worked," Betty quipped gaily. "Poor Angie! If it's not one thing, it's another."
"It's good that she's among friends," I said. "I think perhaps I'll give her a hand with the shopping - which reminds me, would you like me to look at that gate of yours? It's becoming a two-man job to get it open."
"Richard, bless you," she exclaimed, instantly wrapping her arms around me.
I enjoy being hugged by almost any woman, but only Angela could arouse those special intimate feelings. Betty seemed destined to remain no more than a good female pal. Since from our initial tête-à-tête at the party, this was the first time she and I had talked on our own - and I knew it wasn't words this girl needed now.
"That's okay," Angela declared stiffly as she struggled in with the shopping. "Don't mind about me."
"He says he'll fix the gate," Betty said. "Isn't that kind?"
I reminded them that my offer was only to LOOK at the gate, and that a successful repair might cost a fortune in cuddles. Betty suggested I should get started right away.
"We all need affection," I confided to the pair of them. "But like those Nantucket cookies, it can become addictive."
I went outside to inspect the gate. As I fumbled around in the hedge, trying to see how the post had originally been secured, I revelled in a glow of unaccustomed well-being. Despite the traumas of the day, it was a welcome bonus to have two distressed ladies both needing my support.
Having worked out how to repair the gate, I returned to my friends who were engaged in friendly conversation over the price of cauliflowers.
"Ladies," I announced. "To fix the gate I'll need to borrow a hammer and some stout nails. But for payment I require tender loving kindness - and like all cowboy repairmen, I'd first like to check the colour of your money."
"Hammer and nails are kept in the shed," Betty replied eagerly. "But the loving's right here and available any time." She turned to Angela. "You wait your turn, dear - it's my gate."
Betty immediately placed her arms around my waist, and nestled her head comfortably against my shoulder, saying:
"Keep your eye on the vegetables, Angie, this might take some time."
When I eventually suggested starting on the gate, she murmured:
"Damn the bloody gate, Richard. Oh God, I need this."
I reminded Betty she wasn't the only one who sometimes felt lonely, but she misunderstood. "Angie can wait. How are the vegetables back there?"
"Overdone," came the sullen reply, "like everything else."
"Perhaps she's envious," I commented, catching Angela's eye with what I intended as a private joke. With a barely perceptible nod she turned away and expressed a sudden interest in examining the gate for herself.
"Could be a two-man job," said Betty, as her friend darted out through to the front door. "You'd better go and show her what's to be done."
She offered to fetch me the hammer, but I declined.
"I don't think that's the weapon I'll be needing right now."
I found Angela in the garden, staring straight up into the blue sky. A jet plane was passing overhead, leaving a thin white trail as it moved slowly west.
"There could be three hundred people up there," I said, "all packed in tightly, sliding to and fro in their olive oil."
Angela gave a silent shudder and continued to watch the vapour trail.
"Want to talk about something?" I asked.
She shook her head, still gazing skywards. "It's all too much."
"For one little lady on her own, maybe. But there are three of us here all weathering the same kind of storm, each ready to share the others' burdens. Want to come and see what's wrong with the gate?"
She nodded. "We're not all sharing my biggest burden, the one Betty mustn't know about."
"Are you quite sure she doesn't?" I asked. "After all, she could be churned up in just the same way, thinking you don't care for her."
Angela shook her head. "She doesn't feel that way. I can tell from the way she holds me. What a messy rotten tangle!"
"It may seem that way, but remember - it's much harder to untangle a ball of string in the dark. Betty's such a good friend, are you sure she wouldn't understand if you told her the truth?"
Angela looked at me full of sad reproach. "How would you react if one of your masculine railway buddies wanted to kiss and fondle you?"
"I'd buy him a doll and tell him to go and play with it," I said, "but it's different with boys. Most men detest being pawed by other men. Women don't seem to mind. Makes me quite envious sometimes."
"Betty embraced you a long time, didn't she."
"Yes, poor dear, but she didn't manage to fire the old sparking plugs. It's all a question of chemistry, I guess. Look, you concentrate on what it is you love so much about Betty, then try putting it into words for me. Is she a mother figure? An elder sister? You've never really known either, have you - that might be part of your problem."
"Who knows?" she said. "But it's very strong and very real, Richard. It still hurts."
"I know, my love, but we'll work on it together if you'll let me. Here's a wild suggestion - would you like to come one weekend and meet my mother? She can be the most frightful old bat at times but I still love her in an odd sort of way, because she is my mother. She's okay as long as you take her in small doses."
"Like an airline doughnut?" Angela suggested with a welcome smile.
"Similar shape," I grinned knowingly. "Come on, Angie, let's give this gate post the fright of its life. In that hedge are the remains of a wire fence - utterly useless, of course, and a danger to shipping - but if we tighten these bolts and pull the fence from the other end, we could lash it onto that tree in the corner. That should fix it nicely, then it'll be hugs all round. What time's lunch, or whatever we're calling it?"
"Oh, maybe fifteen minutes - I don't really know."
"Then let's work a minor miracle before we eat. I'll get the hammer from Betty. We also need some oil and two spanners."
"The oil's in the garage. Why two spanners?"
"One holds the patient down while the other applies the agony."
"I'll get the oil and spanners. You go and get the hammer from Mrs. Wonderful."
I found Betty putting together a chocolate sponge cake.
"I need twenty minutes," I advised her. "Ten for the gate and ten for another little problem."
"Fine. How is the other little problem?"
"Bruised and sore. I've come to get the hammer."
"For use on Angie or the gate?"
"By the time I've finished," I said, "one will be swinging playfully and the other won't even groan when pushed."
"Glad to have you aboard, Richard," Betty said, her electric beater poised at the ready. "We must have another cosy chat some time. Much longer than before, eh?"
I left her whipping a bowl of chocolate while I tackled my tasks in the garden. As I stepped outside, a low-slung black sports car came roaring up the lane and screeched to a halt outside the house. Its driver was Simon the Baron, an anachronism from the twenties, dressed in a green and white college scarf and matching blazer.
"Angela?" he called angrily as she emerged from the garage. "What the devil are you playing at?"
"Simon?" she exclaimed. "Whatever's wrong?"
"That's what I'd like to know. I've had to drive all the way over here, just because you refuse to answer your damned phone. Good of you to reply so promptly to my call a week ago. What the hell are you doing here anyway? It's nearly half past two."
Angela replied with tired politeness. "Simon, I don't know what you're talking about. What's so special about half past two?"
"My message was abundantly clear. We're due in Henley by three."
"Henley? Whatever for?"
"Oh, come, Angela, don't play the dumb child. You know very well. I told you on the phone."
"Told me what on the phone when, Simon? And for goodness' sake, switch off that bloody engine before I scream."
Reluctantly Simon turned off the ignition, and allowed the silence to make its own statement.
"Am I to understand," Angela asked quietly, "that you left a message on my answering machine?"
"You know damned well I did. Why the devil do you own one if you don't bother check it? I phoned last Saturday and again on Tuesday, and I think it's damned rude of you not to reply after six days. And what's he doing here, might one ask?"
An accusing finger was levelled in my direction, proof that I hadn't become invisible.
"Sorry," I intervened. "Am I in your way?"
"Why are you here with Angela? She's supposed to be with me."
"Well, I'm sorry, but today she's here instead with Betty and me. Does this present some kind of problem?"
"Look, whatever your name is, I don't like your tone. Angela's my fiancée, and she's got no business fooling around here with the likes of you. Are you ready, Angela?"
Angela looked to me for moral support.
"I'm afraid Angela's unable to come out to play today," I explained. "She and Betty only just got back this morning from America. She's thoroughly jet-lagged and they're both about to go to bed."
"Jet-lagged?" he scoffed. "She doesn't look it. And by what right does she go scooting off to the States without first having the good grace to let me know?"
Now that I'd become Angela's spokesman, Simon was venting his anger directly at me.
"Angela didn't let any of her friends know," I said pleasantly. "But most of the gang seem to have coped without turning hostile or becoming offensive on her return. Look at me. I'm perfectly relaxed about the whole business."
"I'm going to look a prize idiot, turning up without an escort."
I couldn't help commenting it was a handicap Simon should be used to by now.
"I've a good mind to teach you a lesson," he said, leaping out of the car and peeling off his blazer.
"Oh, how puerile!" I exclaimed. "Violence? To clarify a minor misunderstanding?" Not wanting to appear intimidated, I calmly removed my own jacket, handed it to Angela, and stood with my arms folded.
Simon stopped in his tracks. "I could lick you," he declared from a safe distance. "I can lick you any time I choose."
"Fine!" I retorted. "When I need to impersonate a green iced lolly, I'll let you know."
This quip could have led to my downfall, but luckily Betty appeared in the doorway.
"Hallo, Simon," she called cheerily. "Fancy seeing you!"
The baron pointed a long bony finger. "What's she doing here?"
"Betty lives here," I explained, "provided you don't mind, of course. Otherwise we'll ask her to move house at once. Just give us the order and we'll obey."
With a snort of contempt, Simon returned to his car, restarted the engine and barked over the noise: "Well, Angela? Are you coming?"
"Sorry, Simon," she yelled back. "It's the first I've heard of it. I can't possibly come. Right now I'm dying to get to bed."
"With him, I suppose," Simon bellowed scornfully. "Well, that settles it, Angela." He revved the engine hard, sending a plume of acrid black smoke drifting across the garden. "That finally settles it."
I recommended urgent repairs before his silencer fell off, but he didn't heed my advice as he backed down the lane, allowing his exhaust pipe to express whatever additional sentiments he needed to impart.
I turned to the ladies. "You know, it never fails to amaze me how the English aristocracy have that innate sense of breeding, that je ne sais quoi that sets them apart from us common folks. Envious, that's what I am, downright envious."
Angela rushed over at once, giving me an adoring look of affection and a most unsisterly kiss as we went indoors for a meal. Afterwards, it took the three of us nearly an hour to fix the gate post, but we finally had it working perfectly. My two friends then announced that after they had retrieved Betty's car from the airport, they were both ready to retire for a well-earned rest.
My own offer of transport to Gatwick was firmly declined, so I duly bade them goodnight and drove home to a lonely evening on my own. I made a point of washing my hair, and was in bed by nine. Not only had it been an exhausting day. I had to prepare myself for an equally exhausting weekend as I paid another duty visit to my mother in the Cotswolds.
I settled down and closed my eyes. But someone in Betchworth was still wide awake.
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