Angela needed time to think over what I'd said, and requested carte blanche in my kitchen to prepare an evening meal for the two of us. This seemed an excellent idea, and after showing her where everything was I promised to keep out of her way for a full hour.
As I sat in the living-room with a new railway video, I began to wonder whether my suggestions hadn't sounded too presumptuous, perhaps even obscene. I'd known Angela barely a month, yet I'd taken it upon myself to pry into whatever private sexual favours she'd been obliged to provide for her father. My intention was innocent, to show that with a more appropriate partner, such behaviour wasn't as distasteful as it had been with him. But it now felt like a drastic error of judgment, and it was probably too late to turn back.
A delicious aroma came seeping from behind the closed kitchen door. Whatever turmoils were going on in her mind, Angela was still able to prepare a wonderfully tantalising meal.
My video ended just as the kitchen door opened and a smiling Angela emerged, her face depicting an inner radiance I hadn't seen before. She looked calm, contented and very cuddly.
"You're quiet in here," she whispered as if afraid to disturb me. "What's up?"
"Just sitting here watching trains go by," I replied. "What have you been up to?"
"Just standing watching vegetables boil," she countered with a cheeky smirk. "Wait and see. Didn't Mother Hen ever say that? Wait and see?"
"Many times. Do we need red wine or white with this?"
"It ought to be red, but I'd still prefer some of that white if there's any left."
I set the table while Angela brought in hot dishes and placed them on thick mats.
"No peeping," she ordered, evidently claiming this as a celebration dinner. I filled two glasses with the rest of the wine and had another bottle standing by. Angela announced she was ready, but instead of sitting down she came over and stood very close to me.
"Before we eat, Richard my dear friend, I owe you an apology."
"Have you broken one of my plates, or burnt a hole in a saucepan?"
With a mysterious shake of her head she said:
"Could we try again, please? Gently at first, if you don't mind."
She brought her lips to mine and we touched, her mouth delicately soft and warm. I played my role very passively, allowing myself no more than the mere pleasure of close contact. Slowly she eased back and smiled.
"That was nice," she whispered. "Sorry about the last time, I guess I wasn't ready. It's not always easy."
I assured her there was no hurry. "If that's the effect it has," I said, "you must come and cook more often."
We sat down. "Aren't you going to light the candle?" she asked.
I wasn't expecting further power cuts, but I reached for the matches. Angela waited until I'd lit the decorative blue candle, then one by one she ceremoniously lifted lids off the dishes. Amid rising clouds of steam I saw a casserole of beef cooked in beer, toasted croquette potatoes, broccoli in a piquant yellow sauce and a dish of crisply fried onions garnished with breaded mushrooms.
"Oh, Angie, my dear friend, you know what they say about the way to a man's heart?"
"Yes," she said, "it's paved with calories. I hope I haven't used anything you didn't want me to, but you did say carte blanche."
Considering the prestigious company and the quality of cooking, this seemed without doubt to be one of the finest dinners I had ever enjoyed. My sole concern lay in restraining my desire to reward the cook with unbridled affection.
When the main course was over Angela apologised that her frozen lemon dessert wasn't quite ready.
"That means I may have to stay later than I intended," she warned.
I couldn't help suggesting that if we were to pop it in a hot oven, we might contrive to extend her stay for a whole fortnight.
Meanwhile, we adjourned to the settee where we opened the second bottle of wine and began talking casually about the lighter side of our respective lives. The delicate subject of her father stayed well below the surface, and I knew better than to raise it before she did.
Shortly after ten o'clock Angela decided her special dessert was now fit to be served. We returned to the table and enjoyed a deliciously mouth-watering sorbet topped with a thick creamy sauce which she'd somehow made from plain evaporated milk. Long after this we were still at the table, exchanging further anecdotes from our formative years. I was finding it increasingly hard to accept that I had known Angela for so short a time. Our friendship and togetherness seemed so right, and on reflection I knew it had always been, from our very first meeting.
It was a neighbour's clock striking half past ten that prompted Angela to suggest perhaps she ought to go home. She quickly added that she wasn't keen on driving after dark, and that if she'd thought to bring a nightdress and a toothbrush she might have stayed longer.
"I have good news," I said, "and I have bad news. I'm afraid I don't keep a handy supply of ladies' nightdresses."
She grinned. "And the bad news?"
"In the bathroom cabinet," I said with feigned regret, "you'll find a brand new toothbrush in an unopened packet."
She begged for an hour's grace in which to make up her mind.
Meanwhile on the settee we enjoyed more wine, and by midnight, Angela was clearly in no fit state to venture onto a public highway.
"I suppose," she murmured drowsily, "I suppose a girl ought to think about going home."
"You're not getting into that car of yours until we both agree you're fit to drive," I said sternly.
She shook her pretty head. "You weren't listening. I said she ought to THINK about it. Help this girl to think about going home, will you, Richard?"
We sat and thought about it for quite a while and agreed it wasn't a good idea. Again there seemed no point in phoning Betty to let her know that someone she'd deliberately sent my way wouldn't be returning home until morning.
Accordingly I went and changed into my pyjamas and lent a spare pair to Angela. They were far too big for her, but she looked adorable as she curled up beside me on the settee.
"Not sleepy, yet?" I asked.
"Yes," she yawned. "But it's so nice here."
I had to agree with her.
"Have you got a hairy back?" she enquired with a sudden shiver.
I smiled. "I'm as smooth as marble. Why do you need to know?"
She shuddered again. "No reason, really. My father used to like me rubbing suntan oil onto his back."
"It's not uncommon," I said.
"But not at home, at night, in the middle of winter. He even liked doing the same to me."
"It sounds fairly harmless. Why are you telling me this? Would you like me to rub suntan oil into your back?"
She remained hesitant. She evidently had something she wanted to share, yet seemed very reluctant to begin.
"Speak to me, Angie. What's on your mind?"
Her reply was a long time coming. "I was remembering his hot fingers working their way round my sides so they could touch me in front," she shivered. "It was all so creepy. Would that be a kind of thing you'd like someone do to you?"
I said she could do to me whatever she liked. I didn't yet understand why it seemed important, but I was willing to let her try anything. I didn't have any suntan lotion but I did find some hand cream which I felt would serve as a substitute.
"Should I slip off my pyjama jacket?" I asked.
She nodded. "Provided you're not all hairy. But can we please do this with the lights out?"
"Of course, as long as you don't start imagining nasty things in the dark."
I turned off the light and stood by the window where there was enough glow from street lamps. I unbuttoned my pyjama jacket and waited for Angie to lift it away from my shoulders.
"Your skin's as smooth as Betty's," she said.
I felt myself being scrutinized as an artist might assess a modern painting or a statue. She stood behind me, where I could neither see nor hear any reactions. Then I felt a cold moist palm touching my shoulder, and slowly a dab of cream was applied and gently rubbed over a wide area.
"Is this how it used to be?" I asked carefully.
"No," she said. "He used to lie face down."
"Probably more sensible," I said.
At her behest I lay face down in the middle of the floor and Angie poured a large pool of lotion into the centre of my back. Then with both hands she began working it in all around my body with a strong kneading action that felt immensely soothing.
"Talk to me, Angie," I said. "I need to know what you're thinking."
"I'm thinking this feels okay. For one thing, Richard, you're not fat. And you don't have all that horrid ..."
The circling hands halted for a moment. Poor Miss Muffet, I thought, though for my part I found nothing but pleasure in what was going on. I was aware of her leaning over me, and felt warm breath as her face pressed down against my skin.
"I don't know what that's doing for you up there, Angie, but this sure beats the heck out of watching trains."
"With Daddy this was only a prelude," she continued slowly. "Later he'd want me to put on certain weird items he'd bought. I didn't like that."
My imagination began painting a scene I found quite distasteful.
"But here we'll do nothing that you don't want, Angie. Let's both keep our dignity intact, okay?"
The treatment ceased, and for a while she simply rested her hands on my shoulders as if waiting for something.
"Is it a good moment for me to put my jacket on?" I asked.
"Leave it off if you like," she said at once. "I don't mind, as long as you're warm enough."
I rolled over and looked at her. She was kneeling beside me, wrapped in my over-sized pyjamas and looking more sexy than ever. I was longing for her to bend over and kiss me, even to come and lie in my arms, but I knew such a proposal would have to come spontaneously from her, and not at my invitation.
"Are you okay?" I asked.
She nodded. "It wasn't as bad as I feared."
"Good. Do you want to talk about anything else?"
She leaned back against the settee to consider. "I didn't like it when he kept trying to look up my skirt. That was horrid."
"Sweetheart, I have to be honest and say that most men would feel excited if they caught a glimpse of a girl's thighs or undies - and I have no powers to alter the world in that respect. There are all sorts of clothes you might wear that would get me excited, but I'd never deny you your dignity. May I tell you, you're an immensely appealing sight in those adorable pyjamas? We all need to be admired, Angie, even me."
"Would you want to look up my skirt?" The voice sounded so utterly childlike.
"You are sweet. No, I wouldn't want to, though if it happened by chance, I'd probably remember it, even if you wore old-fashioned knee-length drawers."
Her response was a look of rekindled interest.
"You haven't done me any harm yet," she grinned coyly, standing over me and pulling on my arms. "But I don't want to try everything Daddy did."
"I only want to help," I said. "I certainly don't want to strip you naked and gawp at your naked body."
She seemed to doubt my sincerity, and eyed me with some curiosity.
"You're a very passive person - I wonder what really turns you on? And what did your mother mean when she said you used to do strange things up in your railway room?"
All at once, my imagination pictured several large rats leaping into a keg of beer.
"Ah! So that's it! All right, settle down, Angie, this may take some time. You want to know the secret of the attic skeleton?"
She nodded like a child waiting for her bed-time story.
"All right," I said as we nestled close. "I hope you won't despise me for this, Angie. As I said, most men experience strange fascinations for the opposite sex, though it's generally frowned on when the male starts reacting too early. I mean, if monkeys get the urge to mate, they mate. And boys find girls interesting from quite a tender age - certainly I did. But we're not encouraged to do anything about it till we're adults. In my case I was intrigued by girls ever since I was about ten, though not by sex, I hastened to add - I didn't even know what that meant - no, simply by girls as I saw them every day. Eventually I was told the facts of life, but it didn't make a lot of sense and I certainly wasn't allowed to discuss it with other members of the family. Can you imagine Mother Hen admitting to having performed such an act? As a result, I spent years trying to piece together the various clues I'd gathered on my own. And then, when I was eighteen, and had still never been with a girl, I discovered something..."
Angela leaned back against the edge of the settee, regarding me with amused interest, urging me to continue.
"I do hope this doesn't sound depraved, Angie, and I ask you to cling to two mitigating facts. I never physically harmed another living soul, and I was only eighteen. Anyway, I happened to acquire, would you believe, a life-size window-dresser's dummy, a female form with an adorable face, but rock-hard and made entirely of unfeeling pink plastic. Builders had been refurbishing a ladies' dress shop somewhere in Cheltenham, and this fascinating creature was lying naked in a demolition skip with two slender legs sticking straight up into the air. It was late at night when I spotted her, and there wasn't a soul about. She was obviously intended to be thrown away, so I lifted her carefully out and shoved her into the back of my car. At home I waited till everyone was out, then smuggled Dolores - that's what I called her - up into the attic. I mended her as best I could and kept her hidden away among my railway bits and pieces."
Angela's face was alive with fascination. "I think that's sweet! Why Dolores?"
"She was a full-sized doll, you see. At first she became Dolly Bird, then Dolores."
Angela nodded, her eyes revealing a smirk of amusement, though I knew she wasn't laughing at me.
"Later," I went on "I acquired some clothes for her - proper girls' clothes such as any normal female might wear, and I used to dress her up. She was incorruptible, you see, so I felt free to take liberties I'd never dream of taking with a real person. I saw it simply as a harmless outlet - a kind of do-it-yourself biology lesson - until someone downstairs sought to question my motives. Dolores never rejected me, you see, and that was comforting. I used to sit and talk to her. Sometimes I bought new clothes for her. She needed assistance to put them on, of course, which I gladly provided. So you see, I got to know her pretty well in our time together. It was a happy friendship."
Angela fondled my cheek. "I can imagine. What happened to her?"
"Ah! Sadly I grew up, and she was confined to a cardboard box until my father died. Then came the big clearout. My sisters believed Dad had important papers in the attic, and felt the need to go hunting - hence the discovery of Dolores, which caused one hell of a row, I can tell you. At first I considered denying all knowledge, but it didn't work. My sisters branded me a pervert, and as for Mother Hen - well, she refused to believe anything I tried to say. For years it remained a tiresome family joke."
"So what became of the clothes?"
"They were all quite clean, never worn by another human being. But my sisters claimed they were tainted, and threw them out for the dustman. One or two items survived, including a certain dress that Mother Hen offered Betty last Sunday. I'm sure she did that quite deliberately."
Angela regarded me with a tolerant grin. "I assume you've grown out of such needs? After all, you're a big boy now."
"I haven't grown out of the need to love someone, Angie. But you won't find Dolores here or anywhere else - she was a helpful outlet at the time, and taught me some valuable lessons, such as how to dress a lady who can't manage for herself. I also learned not to confide in my sisters, who still regard me as a contemptible reptile. It's hard, Angie, giving your heart to a real live person when you know there's a risk of it being trampled on. Dolores was my faithful friend until the day she was disposed of. Her face always carried a friendly smile for me, and her eyes bore a soft contented gaze that never varied. She was simply my silent, trusting, adorable friend, never critical, never unkind."
"And now instead you want someone like me."
"Angie, my sweet, you're different. Far more precious in many ways."
"But not so exciting maybe?"
"More of a challenge. I made Dolores mine from the moment I placed her naked body into my car. You're not nearly so stiff, you're delicate and far more sensitive - less approachable, maybe, but much more fun."
"Why am I less approachable?"
"If I wanted to change your underwear I'd have to approach you with a lot more tact than I did Dolores. I took a lot of liberties with her - necessary ones, maybe - but she never slapped my face."
I laughed to make sure Angela realised I was joking.
"Knowing you," she said, "I doubt if you ever gave her cause."
"Yes, and I'll tell you something else which makes no sense. Laugh at me if you must, but I always asked permission before I touched Dolores or changed her clothes. I felt I ought to. I expect you think that's crazy."
"I think it's sweet that you cared. In fact I feel a bit envious - and that's crazy too."
"Please understand, Angie, I simply wanted to treat her with respect, to reward her for being my silent friend."
"I'm sure you were very kind to her, and you'd be just as kind to me."
"Angie, I could no more be cruel or unfeeling towards you than I could fling a new-born baby off Tower Bridge. Remember, I really do love you."
Angie leaned over and clasped my bare frame firmly in her arms. We kissed, and I became convinced that ours was about to blossom into much more than a simple platonic friendship.
"Your back's all sticky," she said with a gleam in her eyes. "You need a shower." Then she tilted her head as another curious thought crossed her mind. "Did you ever take Dolores into the shower?"
I laughed. "No. She might have gone all rusty."
"Not if she was plastic. I don't think I'd get rusty. How about pretending I'm Dolores? I mean it," she said earnestly. "You just reminded me of a film where a man and a woman took a shower together. There was something about the way they held each other that made me think it must have felt good. People must love one another a lot to do something like that."
"I'm sure they did - the characters, I mean. I imagine the actors may have enjoyed it too."
"I used to have this fantasy about cuddling close to Betty in the shower. It'll never happen of course, I'm not daft. But I used to dream about it. It's not a thing I ever did with anyone. But I just wondered, that's all."
"Wondered what, Angie?"
"Forget it. Could I have a shower when you've finished?"
"Of course. But since you raised the subject, if you feel it'd be a waste using two lots of hot water, you are welcome to share mine. Is that what you were suggesting?"
"Ah, but then you'd see me naked."
"There's no window in the bathroom, Angie. If the light isn't on, you can't see a thing. Besides, that's what life and love are all about, sharing and giving to one another. If you want to pretend in the dark that I'm Betty," I smiled, "I doubt if I can fully live up to your expectations. But if you feel you'd like join Richard Bird in the dark, well, I'd like that. That's how we first met, remember, in the dark?"
I got up and went to the bathroom, closing but not locking the door. I ran the water, kicked off my pyjama trousers and stepped into the shower, revelling in the soothing cascade of warm water. Not as soothing as Angie's hands, I maintain, but blissful none the less.
Suddenly the light went out. I was about to express my annoyance with the electricity board when I heard a soft voice close by.
"That was no power cut," it whispered.
A moment later Angela was right beside me, smiling and looking not down at my nakedness but up into my eyes. A narrow chink of light was still visible because Angela hadn't completely shut the door.
"You have to give the door a gentle shove to close it fully," I said.
"I felt it was better to be sure whom I was with," she replied.
"I'm not Betty, you know."
She giggled. "I know. I can tell."
"Last time we stood together in a shower," I said, "you shivered. You're not shivering this time."
"That's because last time it was cold. This water's nice and warm."
"Last time when you started shivering, Angie, I wanted so much to put my arm around you and hold you close. And I would probably have told you then how much I love you - so very, very much. Are you okay?"
I saw her blink as water splashed into her face - a lovely beautiful face, a garland of smiles and happiness - a face I might have enjoyed seeing time and time again for the rest of our lives together. It was a pleasant enough dream - while it lasted.
We emerged from the shower laughing and giggling like carefee toddlers, each swathed in a large bath towel. Angela danced towards the balcony where she began cavorting so frivolously I felt she was in danger of losing all her modesty.
When I tried gently to pull her away from the window, all of a sudden her mood changed. She turned on me, glaring angrily.
"Oh, stop it," she shouted. "For goodness' sake, Richard, you're behaving like an animal."
Was she pretending? Was this was still part of some elaborate game, a demonstration of her new-found freedom, or had she snapped? I backed off at once and apologised, but I felt I had the right to defend my actions.
"Cool it, Angie. We were only larking about."
"Father's very words! Have you any idea how that man humiliated me? Do you really want to know what he made me do, made me wear, made me say, just to satisfy his animal lust? How would you like it if I came up to you and suddenly yanked away your towel in so-called fun? Like THIS?"
Before I could take evasive action, I found myself standing totally naked in front of Angela, every inch as nature made me. I snatched the towel back again, thrust it where it was most needed and fled to my room.
I put on a dressing gown, combed my hair, and when I felt sufficiently composed I returned to the living room. I found it empty. And the door to the spare bedroom was firmly closed.
I called "Goodnight" in a voice that felt strange and formal, but I heard no response from the other side. Reluctantly I retired to my room acutely aware that in one unwitting, frivolous moment I had somehow managed to destroy everything I most wanted to achieve.
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